I settle into the pale green leather sofa accompanying my mom who is busy conversing with her older brother, Kuku Afuk and her mother, Popo. Something about someone’s kids getting married or such I heard. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me, so to entertain myself I take a plate and grab some snacks.
My eyes set on golden rounded shape pastries that waft a sweet, greasy nostalgic aroma in front of me. Who could resist a bite of freshly oven heated Pia balances out with a cup of teh tawar hangat. I take a passionate bite. The flaky, buttery layers of pastry combine with a hint of sweetness from its scrumptious fillings, hmm…heavenly.
All of my attention is given to savoring a plate of warm Pia, until Kuku Afuk let out a random question. “Thalia, gimana Jakarta? Apa yang you rasain so far setelah balik?” Kuku Afuk asks with his typical Indonesian English accent.
Cough, cough. His question caught me off guard. “Hmm.. good question”, gesturing with my hand that I need a moment and trying to drink off a piece of pastry stuck on my throat. “mm… it’s definitely.. hmm..” I pause, not sure how to tackle this question despite being asked multiple times. “Ah.. mm.. a different experience?.” The truth is: I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about Jakarta. About this transition. About everything.
***
A month ago
“Thalia. Wherever you are, we’ll wait for you in Portland.” Mary and Sammy’s arms linked on my waist, giving me the biggest bear hug I could have ever asked. I met them in college. We all took the same art class during sophomore year and have been friends ever since.
Sniff Sniff. Tears ruin our eye makeup, leaving black mascara residue on our blushed cheeks.
It was 10:18 PM. We just finished our farewell dinner. That’s it. I’m leaving Portland. My friends and everything in it. The seven years of life I’ve built here.
The greeneries and old trees surrounding the neighborhoods.
The clean, crisp pacific northwest fresh air that I can freely breathe.
The mountain water safe enough to drink straight from the tap.
and the people; the quirky, lovely people.
The bright lights from the stalls fully exposed our swollen eyes and snot-filled noses.
“Ehehe…” We laughed and cried at the same time, staring at each other’s ridiculous faces. I held both of their arms, gave them each a longing stare of a good friend.
“Thank you for being my friends these past seven years. Portland feels like home thanks to you guys.” I said. Anxiety rushed through me, unsure of how life in Jakarta would look without them.
The Autumn wind breezed on our poorly layered clothings’ bodies. All of us shivered from the cold. In Jakarta, will I belong?
***
“Ce! Gantung baju!”, My mom yells from the kitchen.
“Iya, iya,” I sigh with a slightly annoyed tone as I head to the washroom to hang dry the clothes. If it were in Portland, all of this could be solved with a dryer. I roll my eyes reflecting back on the convenience Portland has brought to me.
Do I even belong in this place?
“Ce.. kamu tuh keluar dong. Jangan dirumah jadi orang malas, gak berguna. Cari kerja lah. Kamu tuh sudah gak muda lagi.” My mom continues from the kitchen, sending the expectation that productivity equals usefulness.
“Apa sih… aku baru pulang, loh. Dua minggu lalu. Bisa gak biarin aku rehat dulu?” I rush to my room. I do not have the energy to argue with my mom. On top of managing her endless expectations, I’m still trying to navigate this grief on my own: grieving the people and place I grew close to for seven years, grieving the life I used to live, and grieving the version of me I left behind in Portland.
When home becomes unbearable, It makes me miss Portland a bit more. The quietness of the city. The walkable neighborhoods.The clean breeze of air. The spaces it gives for the pedestrians to exist. The brick buildings that can’t be over the height of Mount Hood. I remember how I would just head outside of my apartment in downtown Portland whenever I needed a breather from my piles of assignments. A form of escapism I’ve taken for granted at the time.
I glance at a photoframe on the bedroom’s night stand of an 8-year-old me and Papi posing in front of the Glodok’s busy streets filled with gerobak and local vendors. Both of us were busy portraying the widest smile in front of the camera while holding plastic bags filled with groceries.
“Ah, right. I used to go to this place a lot with Papi.” The memory of me and my dad walking around the narrow long alleys searching for groceries came back to me. The chaotic gerobak placements on the shoulders for the road. The mix smells of fresh produce and cooked food. Each old building squished on one another. The freshly cooked choi pan we had at the end of the day. Life was so much simpler at that time.
I wonder how Glodok has changed. Perhaps going to Glodok will remind me of those memories. Something where I can feel belonging, something to be nostalgic too.
“Then it’s settled. I will go to Glodok.”
***
“Wow! It changes a lot!” I stand in front of the beautiful, intricate Chinese-inspired ornaments decorating the Glodok entrance gate, with a few guardian lion symbols perched on top of the sign. The whole gate is painted silver, built in the style of a paifang. It’s majestic.
As I enter the district, the stores and street vendors are already busy keeping their businesses alive: restocking, rearranging, and shouting orders. Along the street, many of those who look like me, pale yellow skin and small eyes hidden under sun-protection hats and sleeves, come and go with handfuls of grocery bags.
It’s not hot, if it’s not Jakarta. The prickly heat mixed with humidity wraps around me. “Ugh.. I can’t live like this. It’s too hot,” each breath feels suffocating through Jakarta’s polluted air. A surge of frustration hits me. All of these problems wouldn’t happen in Portland. It’s winter now in Portland. How I wish I was there.
I continue walking as I take in the information each senses my body experiences.
“Sayang opo kowe krungu jerit e atiku…”
One of the local vendors turns his stereo volume higher, making sure everyone on the street knows exactly what he’s listening to. Today, it’s “Sayang” by Via Vallen.
“Tiiit! Tiiit! Woiii maju!” a driver screams from his window, honking at a motorbike driver who decided to drop off a passenger right in the middle of traffic.
The Vendors call out as I approach their gerobak.
“Boleh, Ce, otak-otaknya!” one man calls.
Another voice follows, “Es serut! Es serut! Ayo dicoba!”
Delicious aromas trail behind each food stall. From the freshly pan-fried kuotieh’s savory scent to the sweet aroma of cempedak goreng from the next door vendor. Every shout and greetings feels like a small acknowledgment. I see you. You belong here. Each moment is filled with overwhelmingly rich sensory experiences of a market. The liveliness and the warmth of the community I’ve yearned for after leaving Portland.
Back in Portland, I avoided Chinatown like a plague. The place felt abandoned— dangerous and unpredictable. Each corner was crowded with houseless people. The stench of piss would hit my senses immediately and push me to walk faster, head down, pretending not to see anyone. It didn’t help that I was a minority there as Chinese-Indonesian. But here in Glodok, I feel like I am one with this place. I belong. It may be noisy. It may be loud. But I feel seen.
***
Across the district, Chinese red lanterns and decorations filled with red and gold colors line up on the street. A sweet, fruity scent greets me as I stop in front of a manisan buah store.
“Woah, they all look so pretty, like colorful jewelries stones!” I am mesmerized by the manisan display at a shop next to the entrance of Petak Sembilan.
From inside, an elderly woman with her reading glasses sitting halfway down her nose stares toward me. One can tell she is the owner. I nod shyly, intimidated by the stare. She signals me to stop for a moment.
“Mau coba? Nih… wo kasih buat ni. Cobain ini buah plum kering dari Tiongkok, Hua Mei. Wo gei ni zhe ge. Kalau enak, nanti kapan-kapan datang lagi beli ke tempat wo.” She fills a small plastic bag with a few big dried plums and gently shoves it into my hand.
“Xie-xie, Ayi,” I reply, making sure not to drop the bag—too stunned by her warmth to react properly.
“Bu yong xie, bu yong xie…” As she moves to help another customer before I even get the chance to say goodbye.
This tiny, unexpected moment leaves me in awe. What a delight to feel cared for—especially coming from a stranger. My heart is full. In the streets and alleys of Glodok, I witness some of the most resilient people: the people of Jakarta. Those who smile while earning a living under the scorching sun. Those who show up for their community. For once in a while, I feel like home.
***
“The day in Glodok won’t end perfectly without eating choipan.” I head out to Petak Enam after twenty minutes trying to look for a choipan place close by. Only for Google to send me to Petak Enam. An open hall only a few blocks away from Petak Sembilan; heavily influenced by Chinese architectural elements.
My steps turn into tiny little jumps of excitement as I walk toward the stall.
“Ko, choipannya dua bungkus ya.” I show two fingers to the seller.
Each wrinkly plastic container contains three pieces of choipan with a pouch of sambal.
As I am about to take a big bite, a girl carrying warm choipan approaches.
“Kak, Ini boleh duduk disini? Soalnya mejanya pada penuh.” She points to the seat across from me. She looks about her twenties.
The hall is crowded. There is barely an empty table in sight, so I nod. “Iya… kosong. Boleh kok.”
She smiles widely, relieved. We both take a mouthful of choipan at the same time. As the flavors hit, we look at each other and nod voraciously, silently agreeing on how good it tastes. I laugh at our synchronized reaction. As if we already know what the other is thinking. As if we weren’t strangers only minutes ago.
The chewiness of the thin rice-flour wrapper, and the savory, garlicky flavor from the garlic oil that combines so well with the umaminess from the jicama and ebi. Legendary. My mood brightens up as I taste the familiar goodness.
“Hmm… It’s still as good as I remember!” the girl lets out a tiny excited gesture, shaking her upper body.
We chat a bit about each other’s interests. She is a graphic designer working remotely for a company in Melbourne. She often comes to Petak Enam to practice life drawing. The conversation continues, reminding me of the little joys that make life bearable: eating a delicious meal with a friend, sharing a moment with someone new. I am not alone. Jakarta, and the people I get to know now. They bring hope for a better future.
“Ah aku lupa memperkenalkan diri! My name’s Rania. Nice to meet you“ her right hand reaches out to me inviting me to shake her arm back.
I stare at her hand. A realization comes to me. Right! A new life chapter awaits to be written in Jakarta.
With a big smile, I hold her hand firmly. “Hai salam kenal. I’m Thalia.”
This grief. It will get easier.
