There are two things people need in life: Jesus, and Costco.

That’s the joke I used to tell people growing up. Half my belief continues to be confirmed when I take my parents to Costco to do some shopping. I don’t know why my parents need Costco per se, they could easily buy the same stuff at any standard-issue grocery store. But I love Costco, so I don’t object.

My dad grabs a shopping cart lying in the parking lot and pushes it towards the entrance. I grab it from the front, and help pull it so he doesn’t have to push so hard.

I’ve become head chef of the Hom household, which means I cook every dinner. Every single one. I know my parents survived before I showed up, but part of me wonders how. They must have struggled with it, because it’s a freedom they give up with no resistance.

Cooking for the elderly comes with a certain set of restrictions, which has naturally changed my own eating habits. Salt, sugar, oil, fat, all the things that make the world right, are sacrificed to the boring altars of fiber, vitamins, and nutrition. Most things that are necessary are also the least interesting, perhaps simply by definition.

I’m a stranger, a stranger in front of the house I’m about to call home. It’s a temporary move, but it’s also an indefinite one. These are the scariest kinds of moves. They’re also the most fun.

I press the doorbell and hear the two-tone sound bounce around the halls as I anxiously wait for the sound of shuffling feet to approach.

It’s grey. It’s dreary. It’s pouring rain. And I strangely am enchanted by it all, as I cruise in my car with nearly six years worth of stuff as my four passengers in tow.

So here I am, on “The 5,” as I’ve learned to call it—a nod to the San Diego chapter of my life. The shortest way from Seattle to the San Francisco Bay Area, about thirteen hours in total, is to stay on the 5, a straight shot through Oregon until I hit the town I grew up in, the one I used to call home.

Today, I’m a tourist on top of the Seattle world—higher than Queen Anne, any Amazon building or that tourist trap thing called the Space Needle.

No, I’m at Columbia Center, having paid less for an even more glorious view. The view is 937 feet high, which really isn’t all that high. But between the expansive Sound, the Olympics out west, and all the neighborhoods of Seattle right at my feet, Seattle actually feels pretty big. There’s a lot of land here. A lot of land. A lot of memories.

I try to draw the boundaries of each Seattle neighborhood as I lean in towards the cold glass, my warm face only inches away. They feel distinct, each neighborhood. All of which I’ve at least passed through. Some of which I’ve lived in. A few, have defined my life.

My dad is a sit on your ass all day kind of dad. I mean this literally, and kindly, because my dad is now old and not exactly mobile anymore.

His nest is an off-white leather couch in this weird corner of the house that’s between the dining room and living room, but not quite in either. I imagine my parents put the couch there because they couldn’t find a better place to put it when they first moved in, and have been too lazy to move it since. It doesn’t even face the TV, which you have to view at more than a forty-five degree angle if you’re sitting down.

Super Bowl 49 could not have been more scripted for my own personal gain. The Seahawks were down, but just barely, and only one yard away from a touchdown and a repeat Super Bowl victory.

And then Russell Wilson threw the ball.

“Ahhh,” I sighed with content, staring outside my office window. The sky was already completely dark, with the only lights coming from storefronts, street lamps and cars buzzing by. I told myself that I must have been so laser focused that I lost track of time and that it must be eight pm or later.

Clearly, this revealed a dedicated work ethic, which would surely reflect well in my upcoming performance review. I’ll start celebrating my impending promotion now, by staying up tonight for no reason, eating fried chicken and binge-watching TV shows I don’t even really like. Then I’ll sleep in and come to the office late tomorrow.

Sushi.

Sushi is like the Royalty of food. It requires incredible technique and delicacy to prepare, intimate knowledge of the sources of your ingredients, and the end product cannot be faked—the fish is either fresh or it isn't. There's no masking the flaws in every step that creates god's gift to man known as sushi. In fact masking it, is the antithesis of sushi.

So it was weird when my new-to-Seattle-friend Serina texted me, as we were planning where to go for dinner:

Hey, know of any good cheap, mediocre sushi?

Day Sixteen:

As if to help prepare me for a return to my life back in America, Michael and his wife take me to joint called 'The Breakfast Club', appropriately named after the American movie, but serving not quite appropriate enough actual American breakfast.

Michael asks for some tea. They give him a cup that says 'I❤BC' on it. We come up with different things 'BC' could stand for. I go with 'I heart before Christ.'

“You fit right in,” Michael says.

Work items finally start showing up on my phone's to-do list. My first day back at work will be Friday, which will be a day full of catch up and other logistics. You know, fun things.