Maya Iliniza Blodgett, Two Homes

Two Homes

Maya Iliniza Blodgett

Cities and Memories

In Tokyo, each memory tastes like steamy sweet bean paste between soft taiyaki dough and iced sour 9% lemon chuhais in the karaoke room. Like sharp pickled ginger and sweet eel that melts in your mouth, like my mom’s warm vegetable minestrone and lemony quinoa salad.

Each memory sounds like crows echoing through Nogawa park and the 10 second songs at every train station and distinct voices talking over each other in the BLR. Like the air hissing as it squeezes out of my tires before my dad pumps them up with air and my mom’s singsong voice trying to pronounce our neighbor’s last name.

Each memory feels like the warmth of the heated carpet that I study on in winter and the popping of tobiko under my teeth and the chill that fills my lungs as I exhale a cloud of winter air. Like the smooth stone floors at the bottom of a steaming onsen and the gentle brushes against passengers in the crowd of a rush hour train.

Each memory looks like the squared green logo of the yamanote line and the beady eyes of huge black ravens and the 108° symbol on sushi labels as they traverse through the conveyor belt, like the purple-hued shrubs of hair on the heads of Japanese grandmas and the dotted-textured backs of stink bugs and boxy cars entering narrow streets.

In Abu Dhabi, each memory tastes like strawberry watermelon vape and daily bagels with cream cheese and sprinkles of cinnamon. Like free

programming board banana pudding and passionfruit russian bear vodka and D2 plantains that remind me of home.

Each memory sounds like knocks on doors at dorm parties followed by nervous silence, absurdly inappropriate music resonating through D2 and Maram’s mini cooper roof compacting before a drive. Like my speaker welcoming me to “Geepas music world” and the repetitive playing of High School and P Power.

Each memory looks like grandiose skyscrapers and new ROR posts with every refresh and white sand beaches. Like revolving Al Hosn QR codes and climbing taxi meters and billowing abayas.

Each memory feels like the instinctual muscle movement of folding my mask, and biweekly PCR swabs, and sweat accumulating within minutes of encountering the May sun.

Cities and Regions

In Tokyo, regions are separated by train stations.

Shibuya is where we go when we know we may not make the last train home, where we will sing karaoke until we’re out of song suggestions, get warm-happy at Nomihoudai, dance with new Japanese friends during a quick stop to TK, and feed ourselves an oreo mcflurry and fries to power through the night.

Kichijoji is where we go to see the best quality establishments crammed into the smallest area, like the freshest tapioca bubble tea, the spiciest Thai food, the hippest tattoo parlor, and the prettiest park.

Shimokitazawa is where we go to feel like hippies, to wander through thrift stores and browse pipes and woven bags and incense, and leave with fingers full of rings.

Roppongi is where we go to experience expat life, to admire the view from our friends’ apartments, to question how we entered clubs underage, to chat with foreign men in Irish pubs, and to watch other foreigners get offered spice outside of Don Quijote.

Tama is where we go when we are prepared to forget we are in Tokyo, where we congregate in a bubble of an American school and run into our history teachers and principals walking their dogs. It’s where we sit in the park and watch tiny airplanes take off from the smallest airport and where we race our bikes at night to stop envying those who live downtown.

In Abu Dhabi, regions are separated by islands.

Saadiyat Island is our home, where we go to swim when we want the best beaches and where we come back to every night through the prolonged U-turn that makes our head spin every time. It’s where we gather every night in our friends’ dorms and where we know we won’t be disturbed by the traffic and crowd of the city.

Yas Island is for special occasions, when we have energy to cycle around the Formula 1 track, when we have saved up enough money to visit Ferrari World, and when we want to celebrate a birthday at a lounge in Yas Bay Waterfront.

Al Maryah Island is looped in with Al Reem Island, where we go to experience the city without discomfort, where we walk through the ritziest

mall, attempt to make it through a movie at the cinema, embarrass ourselves at bowling, buy frog balloons at Reem Central park, and hire a professional to pierce our noses in our best friend’s apartment.

Abu Dhabi’s main island, which we just refer to as “the city,” is where we are apprehensive to go but explore for culture, to watch the flocks of families wandering down Corniche, to eat at hole-in-the-wall restaurants with workers coming back from their shifts, to glance in awe at Emirates Palace on the way to Al Maya, and to fidget with nerves at Medeor Hospital before our first MRI.

Cities and Time

In Tokyo, time is separated by seasons.

In the summer, when the hum of cicadas is always a distant melody and the humidity loosens my hair, when the nights are sprinkled with thunderstorms and the morning starts with the smell of sunscreen, I know it’s a time where I’ll go on bike rides at night, where my camp counselor lanyard will fill up with stickers, and where I’ll cut up Japanese pears every afternoon and still not get sick of them.

In the fall, when the breeze picks up and everyone chooses paths based on which has the most crunchy leaves to step on, I know it’s a time where I’ll form my first impressions of new classes, I’ll think too much about Halloween, I’ll check the “going” list of the first Afters party too many times, and I’ll create a detailed spreadsheet of my plans that I convince myself I won’t abandon halfway through the semester.

In the winter, when my windows fog up and my hands freeze and I pray for a snow day before every exam, I know it’s a time where I’ll be

swimming every afternoon and every weekend accompanied with unusual excitement over having pasta for dinner. I’ll write out an insane amount of new year’s resolutions but swear by them, I’ll run on adrenaline for the entire January and February and I’ll undoubtedly cry the day before my birthday out of stress.

In the spring, when the pollen begins to activate everyone’s allergies and bugs begin to reemerge and jackets get abandoned and resume their places in the back of the closet, I know it’s a time when I’ll try to figure out why I’m burnt out and I’ll somehow have less energy than I did when I swam everyday. Most people love the spring, but I’d much rather take January and February over March and April.

In Abu Dhabi, where there are no seasons and each day is as sunny and warm as the previous one, where going to the beach in February is perfectly acceptable, time revolves around school—time is separated by semesters.

Freshman “spring” was a period of adjusting to Abu Dhabi, watching Mexicans split open watermelons with their fists, crying in the amphitheater, spending more time in the fitness center than the library, changing my major and spending the rest of the afternoon making drinking game cards. This was when I learned to meet new people by forcing myself not to say no for a month, to value routine, to be authentic, to trust myself, and to get comfortable surprising myself.

Sophomore “fall” was a period of meeting my best friends, projecting movies in their rooms every night while passing around coca cola gummies, identifying as a rock climber, playing “durag activity” on the way to Galleria, spontaneously driving to Oman to camp at an allegedly

haunted fort, and experiencing the warmest combination of relief and nerves after being diagnosed with bipolar 2. This was when I learned to prioritize quality time with people I care about, to push myself, to accept people as they are and not attempt to change them, to open up when hurting instead of pushing people away, and to let myself know that I am loved.

Sophomore “spring” was exploring Rome alone during a canceled J-term, becoming a nightly runner to expel inexhaustible energy, recording parts of my life to work towards stability and getting better, taking a huge risk and feeling like everything is finally coming together. This was when I learned to do everything fully, to trust others, to write my heart out, to prioritize living, to finally install the printing software, to stay in the moment, to be delusionally optimistic.

In my brain, time is separated by episodes, phases, and swings.

Cities and People

In Tokyo, the city is made up of the faces that raised me.

My dad’s intelligence answered my non-stop flow of questions, his fairness taught me to stick to my principles, his adventurousness taught me that challenges are the greatest part of life, his wittiness taught me how to make people laugh, and his encouragement taught me to make myself proud.

My mom’s passion taught me to stand up for myself, her lovingness taught me to try to be selfless even when difficult, her bubbliness taught me to not take life too seriously, her spontaneousness taught me to take chances, and her affection taught me to love and be loved.

My brother’s relatability taught me that I’m not alone, his humor taught me to cheer people up, and his easy-goingness taught me to live at my own pace and take time to breathe.

Xian’s ability to read my mind taught me that anyone can become family, her shamelessness taught me to be resistant, and her spirit taught me to never stand still. Miyuki’s thoughtfulness taught me to appreciate the details, her endurance taught me to respect the stories of others, and her kindness taught me how to make Korean pancakes.

Sarah’s loyalty taught me to stick by my friends and help them change when necessary, her pranks taught me to be strategic, her schemes taught me to think creatively and critically, and her perseverance taught me anything is possible. Elise’s warmth taught me to want the best for others, her competitiveness taught me to motivate myself, her letters reminded me to tell people exactly what they mean to me, and her excitement taught me to appreciate everything that life can be.

In Abu Dhabi, the city is made up of the faces that changed me.

Maram’s vocality motivates me to speak my mind, the way she pushes others causes me to not tolerate disrespect, the way she encourages “not deep-ening it” prevents me from overthinking, the way she cares for her family encourages me to do the same, the way she defends her thoughts and her friends leads me to be passionate about what matters to me, her ability to understand me stops me from hiding my feelings, the way she truly wants the best for me encourages me to seek advice, and her french-fry-arm dance moves make me feel less embarrassed about mine.

Yerk’s eccentricity shows me how people can be surprising in the most strange, beautiful ways, our love and support for each other helps us both

keep fighting when worn down, his incomparable passion leads me to build on what matters to me, his brilliance is a reminder of how special people can be, his opinions keep me open-minded, and the way he can speak makes me want to write down and hold on to every word he says. Every familiar face on the highline shows me how similar I am to people raised so differently from me, from countries I haven’t been to and in languages I can’t speak.

Cities and Language

In Tokyo, Japanese slang is used around you so often that you begin reverting to it in your head.

You begin describing clueless people as “KY,” which means they can’t read air. If you are able to read air, then you have an awareness of what is happening around you—common sense. Not all of us have it. When surprised you hear “maji” and when enthusiastic you say “meccha,” when impressing someone you receive “suge” and when unimpressed you give a “dasai.”

In an Ecuadorian household, the Spanglish becomes so familiar you don’t notice the transition from one language to the next. English requests are paired with “porfa.” You hear the word “remojar” so often that you forget the English equivalent of soak when washing the dishes.

In Abu Dhabi you collect phrases from different languages.

You get your friends to stop their daily debates with “khalas” and to head to the basement parking lot with “yallah.” You hear “wallah” when you are skeptical and are called “haram” when you pierce your nose. You go to

“suhoor” at 3 am for waffles and notice the distinct difference in who is there because they’re “halal” and who will be hungover the next day. Your friends toss you a “mashallah” when you look good and accompany their plans with “inshallah.”

Your playlists become filled with “callaíta” and “dakiti” and “mía” after endless Latino aux hijackings. You collect the names of the cuisine as you order Georgian “khachapuri” and try Polish “soplica” and cook Ukrainian “syrniki” and dip your bread in cold eggplant “moutabbal.”

You joke about different pronunciations of “onion” and the unique way people phrase things: “in parallel” and “mind you.” You listen to the same argument over whether Egyptian or Jordanian Arabic is less harsh and are asked which particular words you prefer. You and your friends have your own variations of words: “dumplings” “momos” “gyoza” “varenyky.”

Cities and Comparison

Sometimes, when you get used to the city you live in, you have to buy plane tickets and fly 5600 km away the week before your final exams. And each time you visit somewhere new, your perspective on the cities you know change completely. You can’t really understand where you live until you can compare it to what it is not.

In Venice, the paint peels off building walls, the alleys are narrow enough for people but not for cars, and the houses are the color of different shades of sand with green-painted windows and brick-colored tile roofs. Old palaces and churches are the main attractions and tourists line up to cross the famous bridge.

Venice makes Abu Dhabi’s sports cars and futuristic skyscrapers become a lot more noticeable. Abu Dhabi’s population split of migrant workers and sales executives becomes a novel phenomenon after seeing a population split by tourists and people who make their money from them. Abu Dhabi selling itself from modernity is perplexing when you consider how Venice sells itself from ancientness.

In Florence, you could expect every street to have at least one gelato shop, a few bars, old statues, buildings that had been renovated at least three times, and a handful of young adults going on aimless walks through the classical city.

You don’t find that on the streets of Abu Dhabi. The streets here are known for luxury hotels, corner shops that sell watermelon juice or kebabs, floods of orange talabat and blue deliveroo motorcyclists, drivethru vape shops and large English and Arabic signs announcing hospitals or resorts. It’s rare to see people walk without reason—Abu Dhabi isn’t built for that. Abu Dhabi is built for convenience and cars and fancy pool and spa staycations to forget about the pollution.

In Portofino, everywhere you look you’ll make eye contact with a tourist: usually English-speaking, middle-aged, dressed in colorful windbreakers and ready to flip through a menu to spend twelve euros on an aperol spritz and an aperitivo.

In Abu Dhabi, everywhere you look you see someone from a different background who is here for a different reason–to be someone’s maid, to run a company, to stand in the sun doing construction, to make a business deal, to inherit money and shop for perfume. Customers have their phones out to scan an electronic menu and spend 200 dhs on a cheeto-covered burger and lotus milkshake.

Cities and Culture

In Tokyo there is only Japanese culture.

There is only salarymen passing out drunk on the last train, there is only hanabi festivals to sit in a park and watch the sky light up in colors, there is only izakayas serving edamame and fries and oolong highballs. There is only Kanji and Hiragana and Katakana characters on menus, there is only the Chuo and the Yamanote and the Keio train lines to get around, there is only straight black hair and platform boots. In Tokyo there is one culture.

In Tokyo there are two positions. There is the position where you are Japanese and it’s easy to blend into the culture, to be undisturbed if not invisible on the train and to be respected by the older generation. It’s easy to go to a local ramen shop and read the calligraphy on the wall to know what to order. You know the right tenses of sonkeigo and kenjougo to make your phrases sound extra humble when necessary.

There is also the position where you are not Japanese and you do everything you can to blend in the culture but you are stared at on the train and you are cursed at by the older generation. You are stopped in the park by people who want to take pictures with you. You are let into any bar at fourteen years old because foreigners are assumed to be older. You are stopped by the police and asked for your residence card in your own neighborhood. You are conscious of how loud you are being at all times to not contribute to the stereotypes of obnoxious outsiders. You are yelled at outside of your house by a neighbor for drawing with chalk, and scolded for splashing water on the street in the hot summer. You hear the word Gaijin over and over and over.

In Abu Dhabi there is every culture.

There are Emiratis and their opulent perfumes and silky abayas and iftar dinners. There are Egyptians and Americans and Ukrainians and Australians and at least one Nicaraguan. There are imported products in every supermarket so that no one misses home. There are labels in several languages. Every cab driver speaks English. No one stands out.

In Abu Dhabi there are two positions. There are students and consultants and doctors who can enjoy the novelty of Abu Dhabi’s hotels and bars and the serenity of its beaches and the exoticness of the desert. And there are migrant workers who are left with the hot sun and loud traffic as they work on the side of the highway and the clustered bunk beds in their shared rooms as they rest at night.