When RFID was a in rave, I predicted that one day each of us will carry several on us all the time: in the shoes, glasses, sewed into the clothes, or even implanted into our body as part of some medical devices like artificial joint or pace maker. Since each of them can be traced and kept in databases, the collection of those RFIDs can statistically identify a person as surely as his genome, fingerprint, or retina scan.

How do we know this person is Mrs. Jones? Well, she carries all three RFIDs that were implanted into Mrs. Jones: an hip joint replacement, a pace maker, and a insulin pump. There is no need for any other IDs. How do we know that kid is her son? Let’s see, we have previously seen him 15 times and collected 250 RFIDs during those encounters. This person carries 7 of those 250 RFIDs. Statistically, we are over 99% certain that is the boy.

With RFID, who needs facial recognition?

It was a nice fantasy and a wrong one. Almost a decade passed and the great RFID revolution never came. Today, I carry zero with me. The sophisticated software system I dreamed is nowhere to be found. Then I moved to Washington State and got my Enhanced Driver License.

This thing is part of the West Hemisphere Travel Initiative. It has a built-in RFID so that I can, theoretically, zip through custom without evening taking it out of my wallet. To get one, all I have to do is make an appointment at the local DOL (Department of Licensing) office, show my passport and California driver license, and stare into a vision exam box. No “knowledge test” was required. Too bad it works only for crossing the borders via land or sea, but not air. I can drive or sail to Canada with this EDL, but not by airplane.

Honestly, I do not know if the slightly more expensive EDL offers any real benefit over the simple driver license. If I had an existing WA license, I would probably not bother to upgrade, but since I will have to make a trip to the DOL, I thought I might as well get an enhanced one. After all, don’t we all want something that is enhanced?

7:50am started the journey — myself, Wife, Daughter, Dog, and a Ford Explorer packed to its fullest. GPS leads a path that we have never driven before.

Two days prior, two strangers turned my 20+ years four-bedroom house into boxes. One day prior, 4 strong men vanished those boxes into a big truck. Weeks before, we started making frequent trips to Goodwill, local library, recycling center, or the dump.

A friend came by to bid farewell. She moved five years ago to a faraway place. When the big truck left, she said she cried uncontrollably in that empty house. Sadness is the emotion caused by a big lost. What do you lose when you move away from a place? You lose that warm feeling that you knew where everything is, where your friends are, and how to get anything done. You knew that it will take you a long time, if ever, to regain them in the new place.

The severing of ties to a house is like a limb from the body. It is not just a place you raised the family. It is the anchor to many emotional investments: friendships, remodeling, tears, sweats, and blood. Memories have permeated into those walls like roots grabbing onto the earth. Re-potting can be necessary to the growth, but it hurts.

The rented SUV rolled over 900 miles of asphalt before we arrived the the two-bedroom in this city. Dog kept on marking the new territory, as I tried to learn the neighborhood. This is as primal as it can be.

A week later, three strangers came in a big truck and turned my apartment into a sea of boxes. The boxes will disappear into this new home: my new home.

Last time I was here, it was literally hell. Furious blaze swept through the land and ended all lives in its path. The smoke was so thick that I cannot see the Grand Teton when I stood right in front of them. We escaped Yellowstone, choking, as the park was closing down. Later, it was known to be the fire of 1988.

Today, many 22-year-old skeleton trees still stand silently, some long ago fell. Saplings spawn among tall grasses, some young trees have reached about half of their ancestors’ height. Had we known that trees took so long to regenerate, would we have “let it burn” then?

Bison addiction was powerful and contagious. People will stop the car, jump off, and start snapping pictures whenever a bison come in-sight. This fever became uncontrollable when a herd of several hundred decided to come enjoy the sun in Hayden Valley. Old, young, male, and female bison were everywhere and literally stood in the middle of the road posing for those cameras and camcorders. If the rangers weren’t shooing people, they would try to pet those bison.

Deer, Black Bear, Grizzly, and possibly a Coyote we also saw. Moose definitely not and Elk was questionable, too far to tell. Whoever planning on a visit should bring a pair of high-power binoculars or a serious telescopic lens.

Beside Old Faithful, Yellowstone is good for at least two to three days of just sightseeing and light hiking. There are the upper and lower falls at the Grand Canyon (of Yellowstone), the Terrace at the Mammoth Hot Spring, and many geysers close to Old Faithful. The Yellowstone Lake is beautiful and offers many boating and water activities. For those who are serious hikers, horse-back riders, or bikers, then this park can easily fill a week’s time. Reserve the lodging probably a year early. As far as I can tell, only the Old Faithful area has cell phone reception. I did not see a TV anywhere and probably no Internet either.

Late March was a perfect time to move to Seattle. Winter lingered on and summer was lazy to insist. You can feel the seasons changing. One day it would be damp and cold and the next bright and balmy. I found myself grabbing the wind breaker, instead of the winter coat on my way out. They said the winter is not over until July 4th.

Why move? It’s the right size, right timing, and right city for me. Working for a small company is so refreshing. Decision chain is clear and short. No more months of slide deck refinements, socializations, budget allocation, and, worst, political bargaining. I felt the liberation from of the decision making speed and the satisfaction of being impactful. I am, hopefully, at the balance point of maturity and risk tolerance. Lastly, I like a smaller city’s downtown and actually a cooler climate.

The foods landscape here is different. Starbucks defines the minimum quality coffee anywhere in this city. Most places serve intense, flavorful, and near perfectly made coffee. Beers are excellent. Almost all restaurants offer local draft beers and they are all well-made. My recent favorite is Mac and Jack’s, an unfiltered pale ale. It is not so bitter and a bit fruity. Oregonian and Washingtonian wines are good and cheap. A $15 dollar Pinot Noir is at the same quality as $30 in California, at least to this amateur drinker. Of course the seafood are fresh and tasty. Oyster and Salmon are the best and they cook them (or serving them raw) just right. I found steaks boring but burgers great.

I have not ventured out of the Seattle downtown much. For a rainy city, people are extremely active outdoors. There are more runners, bikers, climbers, hikers, yoga, dancing, etc. than anywhere I have ever worked. These are serious exercisers: they train for events and try to win. One of the co-workers is a ultra-marathon runner. He runs 50 miles (in about 8 hours) in weekends.

Everyone who heard that I was from California gave me this wry smile like I am about to go through a hazing process. Seattle’s summer is charming and her winter drives those unfit to northwest away. As someone who arrived in March, I may be fooled into liking this place. “Just you wait,” they were thinking. “And let’s see if I will see you next year.”

OK, we’ll see.

How do you move 1,000 packs of poker cards from China to the USA? Daughter decided to design a pack of cards years ago. She doodled with Photoshop on and off and refined the definition of “finish” for over a year. She kept on tweaking and finally reached the limit of her creativity. The perfection is elusive and a matter of opinion. Changes would just please a different set of people, instead of making herself more satisfied. So she called the project done and hired a production manager (Ahem) who also would finance this venture. The idea was to print certain quantity and sell them to recuperate the costs. There is, after all, a difference between designers and artists.

Email messages flew. Weeks became months and time tried the patience. Money changed currencies and changed hands. Finally, 1,000 packs of poker cards arrived a friend’s house in Beijing. Those of you jumped up and shouted “Fedex” just sit down. Put together, they will cover your coffee table and stack 10 inches high. Yes, about 260 pounds in weight.

If we ship them, the unit cost will be way too much. So we hired couriers: those friends and family who happened to be flying to the USA. Twenty packs in the suit case and hundred packs as a separate luggage. The last batch came when I went to Beijing on business. I filled an extra luggage with about 100 packs and another 250 in a separate box — a hair less than the limit of airline weight limit.

A bone-skinny officer picked me out after the airport X-ray station. She led me to a windowless room with a elevator door, two low tables, a phone, and no chairs. She made a phone call and waited siliently. For 25 minutes, I rehearsed Richard Gere’s Red Corner. Then someone came in with one of my luggage. She was surprised to see those cards. My explanation brought a hint of smile, “so, she tried to become a designer.” I offered her a pack and she declined.

The SFO custom could not believe a lone business traveler would bring three pieces of heavy luggage into the country. I, again, offered the inspector a pack. He declined too.

My coffee table is now covered with packs of cards. I would probably move them to the closet, but that involves handling lots of weight. Instead, I contemplate how my grand kids will be amused by their mom’s youthful design works.

Nope. I would never get the money back.

When I was ten, we lived in a suburban town called Yong He (永和). On weekends, Mom would leave change on the table. Brother and I would take the money to this place down the street to have breakfast. There was a grinder that liquefy soy beans into a giant pot. The pot-belly guy would stir the pot with a big ladle constantly. What I wanted would be the freshly made bowl of soy milk.

There are two kinds of soy milk then. The sweetened version taste rich and silky. A popular variation required an egg, pre-beaten before pouring in the boiling soy milk. The result was extra buttery and yummy. The soy sauced version has a crescendo of flavors that came from many condiments. I usually had a hard time deciding which one to get. Legend had it that Mr. and Mrs. Chiang Kai-Shek frequented the very same store. We were having royal foods just next door! They were not even expensive.

The standard companion to the soy milk is the Chinese pita. The cook will moisture their hands (to protect against the heat) and stick the raw pitas inside of a clay oven. Later, they would skillfully pry them off with an iron stick. The standard filler for the pita is the fried flour sticks (kind of like churros, but not sweet, pictured above) It was fascinating to watch the flour sticks expand ten-fold when dropped into the fryer. They come out fluffy like croissant, only crispy. When served with the Chinese pita, the cook would open the pita, fold the fried sticks into it, and press down to crush the sticks inside. When you bite into this thing, the hot bread and sesame aroma rushes into your nostril, the pita will have a nice crust outside and soft inside, the sticks will add the extra chunkiness to the texture.

Yong He has long became just a memory. My favorite soy milk place would be at the corner of FuXing S. Rd. and RuiAn St. (復興南路, 瑞安街). This Saturday, we woke up early just for it. There was a long line at the door. “7:45am. Really?” Wife asked. Fortunately, it was the to-go line and the eat-in area had no wait. We shouted out our orders and sat down. When I had the first bite, I sighed silently and almost closed my eyes. How I did not know those childhood memories can come back so vividly?

Sun seduced me to run outside. Temperature seemed friendly, so I laced up and went. As an obsessive planner, I plotted my route first: go north on Olive, it turns into John, turn right on 15th, and turn right on Pine. It should be a leisurely 2.5 miles. Let’s go.

The map did not mention the slope. A young lady chatted on the cell phone while walking past me. These people give no respect to the aging runners. Dogs, pedestrians, restaurants, and apartments all became a blur against the uphill. My thighs were aching and I distracted myself calculated the probability of a cadio arrest. I should have known, they called this place Capitol Hills for good reasons. Finally, I reached 15th and it is flat. I widened my stride and started to enjoy this jog. Then I turned right on Pine.

Yes, what goes up must comes down. Every step became a pounding. Were these a new pair of shoes? What happened to the padding? How thick are my precious cartilages in those knee joints? Fighting gravity this way is way worse than the other way. Actually, fighting gravity anyway is no fun. Wait, this is supposed to be a work-out, I am supposed to be tired. Why did I come out on the streets? Oh yes, the Sun. But Seattle Sun is no good for Vitamin D. Man!

The next day, when the memory was still fresh, I went the other direction: go out on the 8th, left at Denny, left at Broad, left at Western, then left at Steward that becomes Olive. I was enjoying the perspiration when the black-diamond grade slope appeared after 1st St. I simply gave up on Steward, after Pike Place Market, and walked uphill. This street can kill those less fit.

Finished shower, I contemplated life sipping a nice cup of Starbucks (this is Seattle, they don’t do Peet’s). What is worse: the boring yet flat treadmill or the up and down Seattle streets?

The sun looks nice out there.

Arizona stands among these united states like Ugly Betty in a cheerleader squad. They didn’t observe Marin Luther King’s birthday, they don’t change to daylight saving time, and now they passed the laws that are unfriendly to immigrants. Americans did not have much issues with Nevada allowing prostitution, California doing weeds, or Texas being Texan. Those are state’s own businesses. Arizona is the sibling that everyone picks on. Curious.

Seattle recently decided to boycott Arizona — a stern disapproval on its new anti-immigration law. The municipality will not do business with anyone from Arizona. This reminds me the city of Berkeley that boycotted against oh so many things; it will not do business with firms that hurt dolphins, enslaved children, depleted ozone, not green enough, in China, in Arizona, or whatever silly things it has objections to. I don’t remember the whole list, someone please google and leave me a comment.

Which social values you are willing to sponsor with your own money? Do you boycott Chinese goods because they compete unfairly with their currency policy? Would you refuse to buy Japanese cars because they hunt whales? Would you boycott Arizona because their laws? Who else should you boycott, since there are issues no less important than immigration. Does Seattle have a list of values they stand behind and would boycott those who do not abide?

I guess Seattleites felt righteous that they stood up for the immigrants. Ironically, they also beat the hell out of someone for no apparent reasons than the guy is not white. We don’t like those people either, but you are wrong in making that into a law.

Was it a Willie Nelson song? Business trips are the time I read and write at personal level, since I am alone and had time for introspection.

A colleague talked about her family. Her husband is in Utah operating a small business. Her older son is in New Jersey working. Her younger daughter is in Indiana in college. She bought a condo in San Francisco bay area and will soon move. “Do you see each other at all?” I was curious. “Not much,” she replied. “We skyped each other a lot and email and that.” She appeared content and looked forward to her retirement in California, by herself.

I started this trip several days ago at 6am. At 7am, the airline counter clerk told me the flight was canceled. She moved me to one two hours later. So I found a restaurant, ordered breakfast, and started working. At 10am, the gate clerk said there was an “FAA delay” and the departure time was moved to noon time. I sighed and went back to my computer. This is just like a day in the office, with much less comfort. At the end of a long day, around 10pm, I checked into the hotel in a city that I have never been before. After room service dinner, I banged on the keyboard for a couple of hours more and collapsed into the bed. I woke up to a full-day meeting in the same hotel. Then I jumped back to the airport and landed in another city that I have never been to before. This pattern continued until I got home, four days later. It was not the bed, the recliner, the TV, the home cooked food, or the familiar city and streets that I missed. It is the presence of my family. Am I getting old? (Don’t answer that.)

Several empty nested friends have interesting commute pattern. The couple would alternate living separately or together: they would have 4 to 6 weeks of separation followed by about the same amount of time together. My colleague whose family are each in different state seems to be the extreme on this spectrum.

When my family are together, we simply talk a lot randomly. Wife cooks, everyone sit down, talk about things that are not really deep or provoking, and went on to do our TV or Internet. Guess what we just do is soaking up each others’ warmth.

Much better than watching TV by myself.

Sunday, 8am, woke up hungry. The refrigerator was empty, like the rest of the apartment. I needed to feed. Internet showed the way. So I braved into Seattle’s cool morning and find Bauhaus Books and Coffee. The street sign said, “less cold than elsewhere.” Ah. Sunday morning cannot be much better than a cup of good coffee, a big and tasty muffin, and the cartoon pages of Seattle Times.

Isn’t it great that so many stores allow pets? Even Metro buses are OK with them.

I grew up surrounded by rice paddies, trees, and farm animals. When I was 10, we moved to the dazzles of a big city. I remembered the thrill when I got my first wheels, a beat-up 100cc motorcycle that was the coolest thing ever. Then I emigrated to American suburban to raise a family. Now the city seems to be calling me. This one-bedroom apartment gives me a 10-minute commute, in public transportation. I keep a pair of office shoes and change into walking boots for the road. Of course I would have a light water-resistant jacket and the iPod.

The Westlake shopping area is kind of like San Francisco’s Union Square. Down the street comes the famed Pike Place Market, a tourist attraction and a local favorite too. The labyrinth excites new explorers and makes old acquaintance at home. There is enough foot traffic for every specialty stores to thrive. Their uniqueness, in turn, brings more foot traffic.

I have liked Seattle for years but couldn’t find the reasons. I think her size is just right: large enough for standardized services and conveniences that come with the economy of scale, yet small enough for characters and charm to survive the great equalization.

Come to think of it, that describes my new gig here too.