June 2012 

The field behind the Warren library is quiet on 364 days out of the year, but tonight the lawn has been transformed into a wonderland of thrilling rides, carnival games, and dazzling rainbow lights. Middle schoolers hurl darts at balloons, young parents hoist grinning toddlers, and teenagers come just “for the vibes” to eat nostalgic fried Oreos. Thick barbecue smoke entwines with chatter and shrieking laughter. It’s as if all the residents from my sleepy town have emerged from hibernation to enjoy the Warren Expo: the herald of summer break and the epitome of suburban fun.

“Come on, Katie!” Vivian laughs. “Let’s try that scary Gravitron ride next.” She bounds ahead, weaving in and out of wandering parents and towering teenagers.

“Wait up!” I gasp, stumbling behind her. My stomach still lurches from the Scrambled Eggs ride we’d just ridden five minutes before, but even so, I’m grinning like a madman because our parents have allowed us to roam unsupervised. This year, the Expo is our oyster. It’s also a celebration for Vivian and I getting through fourth grade.

Vivian and I met at the start of the school year and shared an instant bond, seizing every free moment to busy ourselves with some odd project only fourth graders would come up with. We vandalized school property by digging holes in the field and leaving lunch leftovers for ants — these were our “anthouses.” When we weren’t outside, we found relief in doodling, creating our own universe of sprightly round characters with sticks for arms. These we called “emoticons.” By June, we’d built over 10 different anthouses and created our first book called “My Little Collection of Emoticons,” and our friendship was sealed.

***

Vivian and I emerge victoriously from the Gravitron, though our heads still whirl from being spun one hundred miles a minute. We decide the best way to combat our symptoms is to eat funnel cake.

I buy the funnel cake all by myself using $5 of the $10 my mother gave me. Feeling very independent, I bring the oily plate over to Vivian, who happily pops some in her mouth.

As we stand in the middle of the flurry of the Expo chewing sugary dough, I notice people of all stages of life: babies, college students, parents, grandparents. And here I am, having only lived for nine years, sharing funnel cake with my friend who I just met ten months ago. Somehow I feel like we’ve known each other our whole lives.

Suddenly I am overcome with an emotion I can’t quite explain. I turn to Vivian. “Do you think we’ll come back to the Expo together every year?” I ask.

For a moment, Vivian looks confused. But as she gazes out across the Expo, I know she sees what I see. She chews the last bits of funnel cake, swallows, looks at me determinedly and says: “Every year.”

***

At our fifth grade Expo, Vivian bought the funnel cake for us to share. At our sixth grade Expo, I stopped feeling woozy from the Scrambled Eggs. And at our seventh and eighth grade Expo, Vivian and I braved The Screamer —  a lethal contraption that swings you upside down while you hang one hundred feet in the air.

But in ninth grade, Vivian had a national swim meet the same week the Expo came to town. In tenth and eleventh grade, my orchestra concerts occupied the entirety of Expo weekend. And although we specifically cleared our schedules to go to the Expo in twelfth grade, the COVID-19 pandemic canceled that, along with graduation, prom, and all our senior plans.

Before we knew it, Vivian and I found ourselves separated across the country, her at a small college in southern California, me at a larger university in North Carolina. We called periodically to share stories from our brand new lives — Vivian was living with housemates for the first time, and I had just joined my school’s newspaper. We lamented that due to our clashing college schedules, we wouldn’t be able to go to the Expo for at least another five years. And we reminisced about our anthouse and emoticon days, laughing at our childhood antics.

But mostly, we wondered how we ended up 2500 miles away from each other as college freshmen in the middle of the global pandemic.

June 2022

It’s not quite 5 p.m., but already I sense rush hour approaching at New York Penn Station as people are sucked into its 33rd street entrance. Businesspeople brush past me in their all-important suits and tourists lug their suitcases while flashing loud “I HEART NY” t-shirts. Fruit sellers patrol the gates, urging the travelers to buy their last slices of watermelon.

To all these people, I’m just another faceless speck in the crowd — I’ve disguised myself in shades and a baseball cap — but I can hardly contain my excitement. Vivian has flown all the way from California to visit home in New Jersey for a few days, but she’s made a detour to New York City to see me too. 

Just a few moments later, I see her running towards me with her arms outstretched. And just a few seconds after that, we’re in the middle of the sidewalk hugging and laughing, and we do not care that people are throwing us dirty glances because they have to walk around us.

Vivian’s donned a punk band t-shirt and blue trucker shorts and her hair is now cropped up to her chin. She’s also added a streak of purple highlights behind her left ear. Her smile is the same as ever, though — toothy and wide and brilliant.

“Ok, Miss City Girl,” she says. “Take us to the Chinatown Night Market!”

Vivian is only here for a few short hours, so we act fast. I lead us onto the A train using my newfound navigation skills, freshly acquired from my one month of city living. As we ride downtown, I think about how Vivian and I have met up during the little overlap we had during our winter breaks, but only so far as to grab lunch at a local cafe or take a lakeside stroll near my house.

Today feels different. Being in such a dense cosmopolitan area is freeing — the buzz is vaguely reminiscent of the thrill I felt all those years ago at the end of fourth grade. 

***

We hear the Chinatown Night Market before we see it. Teresa Teng’s soothing voice echoes from PA speakers and makes me feel like I’m living in the 80’s. Getting closer, we see the market already abuzz with activity: artists are displaying (and making!) handmade zodiac sculptures and paper cutting art, and food vendors hawk their homemade noodles and fried buns. English mixes with Mandarin and Cantonese chatter. Everywhere there are people: old people, young people, Asian people, people of all ethnicities. The warm glow of lanterns replaces sunlight as twilight fades to dusk.

Vivian and I feel right at home, oohing and aah-ing at everything the market has to offer. The music plays louder, the crowd becomes sweatier, and smoke from twenty-something grills thickens and fogs my vision. More people begin packing onto the street. I tighten my grip on Vivian’s backpack, careful not to lose her in the human sea. 

We line up behind a random food stand and it’s only when we work our way up to the cashier that we see what they’re selling — tornado potatoes, which are whole potatoes cut in a spiral and dusted with toppings of your choice.

The cashier looks at us. “What would you like?” She asks.

“Um.” I take a second to study the endless assortment of toppings. “We’ll have one potato with half barbecue, half cheese please!”

The cashier returns with a huge swirly potato and I hand her $5 that I earned from my summer job at Brooklyn Bridge Park. Vivian and I spend many minutes marveling at the potato’s perfect helical shape and taking plenty of selfies. Then, carefully balancing our prized potato on its stick, we squeeze back into the labyrinth of sticky human bodies and find a relatively quiet area to sit and eat. For a few moments we chew wordlessly, watching parents tote young children and yuppies swallow noodles in styrofoam bowls. 

Vivian breaks the silence. “Doesn’t this kind of remind you of —” and I know exactly what she’s going to say.

The music slowly fades away, as does the sidewalk and all of Chinatown’s cramped buildings. In my mind, they’re replaced by a trampled lawn, carnival games, and amusement rides. I almost see the Scrambled Eggs and the Gravitron in the distance. And if I concentrate hard enough, it’s as if the salty potato I’m eating has transformed into the sugary dough of funnel cake.

“Our first Expo!” I say. I laugh a little and let out a sigh. “Yeah. Funny how times have changed.”

“For the better, I think.” Vivian smiles, polishes off the last bits of potato, and extends a hand. “Come on, we can’t dwell too long. I’ve got a train to catch in ten minutes!”

On our way out of the Night Market, we see a small crowd, mostly elders, dancing to an upbeat jazzy tune. Without thinking twice, Vivian steers us towards their direction and pulls us in. At first I stand awkwardly, unsure of how to move my arms and feet. But Vivian takes my hand and spins me around, and soon we’re laughing and smiling and dancing with the crowd. For the remaining minutes Vivian and I have together, we twirl and jump and wave our arms, not worrying about where or when the next time we’ll see each other will be. For now, our futures can wait.

1. Vivian and I’s first Expo in June 2012.
2. Meeting up at New York Penn Station
3. The Chinatown Night Market before it got crowded
4. Dancing before we left!

If you liked this piece, be sure to check out another one of my pieces titled for my family, as well as the Musings and Featured pages.