Visitors

Growing up, my house was full of visitors. They were either family or international friends of my parents whom they met through their various working and schooling years in the Phi.lippines or the University of H.awaii in the mid-60s. Thankfully we had a guest room, so I didn't have to give up my bed (or clean my room) to make way for guests. My friends thought it was weird that we had a guest room. I thought it was weird that they didn't. "Where do your guests sleep?" "What guests?" (We have a guest room in our home now, but guests are few and far between, especially the international variety.)

I remember once that we had a teenage cousin from the Phili.ppines staying with us for a few months. I guess I was about 12-ish, and I found it odd that he smoked in the bathroom. I complained about this to my mom and her issue wasn't that he was smoking but that he was doing it in the house. Years later, I figured out his fascination. The bathroom had no windows but a vent fan, which he probably thought was strong enough to suck the smoke out from his puffs. Hilarious.

There really isn't a point to this, just that we're all cut from different cloths, that our experiences shape us, and what might make perfect sense to one person makes none to another. I'll write about another incident that made me realize "So that's why she's how she is." Now back to work.