Bolsa Avenue
I remember sitting in the backseat of my mom’s old light blue Dodge Caravan as a young kid. It was the older version of what my mom has now. The fact the older van had 3 doors, my siblings often would race to the sliding door whenever we got to our destination. My dad would often drive during our trips to Orange County. The stereos blaring either old Cambodian tape cassettes that my parents purchased from Long Beach or the Vietnamese radio station. It was always one or the other. On rare occasions, my parents would turn on the American radio.
That’s when I remember humming to the Selena song, “Dreaming of You.” Even at a young age, I was a hopeless romantic imagining what my ideal mate would be like. I had no idea what it meant to be in a relationship and the actual commitment necessary to make this dream a reality. In my mind, I was thinking of NSYNC or Backstreet Boys, but not a real mate. I am getting a little caught up here.
Continuing..
We would first stop at the Asian Garden Mall to visit my dad’s jeweler friends on the second level on the mall. The cubicle that housed their financial wealth was way too narrow to fit 4 adults, and 3 rowdy kids. I remember trying to climb onto my mother’s lap so I can sit and watch them pick out jewels. It was so fascinating until I was forced off because of my long dangly legs.
As we got older, our visits were no longer every weekend but rather twice a year.Instead of window shopping at jewelers, we would stroll around the mall as though we’ve already completed our shopping for the day. We would stop by the herbal store for my dad’s rubbing oils adjacent to the overrated arcade. My dad would barter with the store owner and end up buying 5 boxes of his prized possessions for 3 dollars less than retail.
Then, we would march towards the old staircase pass the ladies selling knock off bags and to the top level where we would pass by the security booth guarding the jewelers. Sometimes my dad would stop by to say hi to his friends but towards the end, we just walked on by the jewelry stores and towards the stationary shops where my dad would purchase air fresheners for his car, lemon seemed to be his favorite.
My dad would walk along ahead of us, with his hands crossed behind his back and look towards the glass windows that overlook Bolsa Ave. That was the street that he saw when he first came to America and the very place where he established himself.
He would look out towards the scenes of cars traveling along the roadway that paved his whole existence, but not utter a single word. He seemed to be in a transfixed by it all, until one of us would brush against his side.
