Thursday, 24 January 2019

on my favourite films of 2018

Continuing an upward trend from 2016 and 2017, I watched more movies last year (2018) than in any of the years preceding -- sixty-four in total (not counting the four repeat viewings I did of To All the Boys I've Loved Before in the first five days of Netflix releasing it, because, hot damn Noah Centineo!!!).

And also continuing what is looking promisingly like it will become a personal tradition, here's my third annual personal reflection on my favourites from the year, with the full list of all movies I saw in 2018 at the bottom. (My 2017 list can be found here, and my 2016 list here, for interested parties and dedicated stalkers.)

I feel like people say this at the end of every year but 2018 really did feel like a special year for movies. I mean, in October *alone* I got to see Wildlife (NYFF), Burning (NYFF), Leave No Trace (in-flight), A Star Is Born, First Man, Beautiful Boy, ROMA (NYFF), Won't You Be My Neighbor (also in-flight), and mid90s -- a truly embarrassing embarrassment of riches. I look back at that list and wonder how I got anything done in that month that wasn't related to putting my butt in theater seats...? And yeah, I know, that's the time of year when awards season films all descend at once, but still. That list. That's just not even fair to any of the other months.

And, of course, I will always look back on August 2018 as that glorious and barrier-breaking time we lived through called #AsianAugust. Crazy Rich Asians, Searching, and To All the Boys I've Loved Before landed on the big and small screens, and each one filled me up in a simultaneously new and familiar way. Sometimes you don't fully register what you've been missing until you have it, finally, right in front of you, and then it all crashes over you like a wave, first as a feeling of total revelation, then delight, then awe (mostly that it took this long for this thing to arrive), and finally, a hunger for more. Representation matters, and if you are an Asian-American, British-Asian, Asian-Canadian, or any other kind of Asian-living-in-a-Western-culture, August 2018 felt like it was a long time coming.

I ranked my top ten movies for 2017, but it seemed like a futile undertaking for my favourites from 2018. (The only notable exception to this is the #1 spot, which easily, easily goes to Paddington 2.) So here are my top ten movies of 2018 in alphabetical order, which is kind of obnoxiously #FilmTwitter of me, but oh well!!!

(Also, as with last year, I'm writing this list while still having not yet seen many other noteworthy releases from 2018, because if I waited until I'd watched everything we'd be on the other side of April before this went up. So - still on my watchlist: If Beale Street Could Talk (I know, I know), Shirkers, Free Solo, Madeline's Madeline, Blindspotting, Minding the Gap, Skate Kitchen, RBG, The Kindergarten Teacher, At Eternity's Gate, Boy Erased, and like, five bajillion others.)

Burning

I arrived late to the screening of Burning that Dawn and I had bought tickets for at the New York Film Festival, panting and breathless, and fairly trampled all over the poor elderly couple at the end of our row in my hurry to sit down. By the time I had my rear in my seat (and had apologized profusely to the sweet couple I'd knocked over on my right), Jeon Jong-seo's character, Hae-mi, was in the middle of pantomiming the act of peeling a tangerine over bottles of soju to her childhood friend, Lee Jong-su (Yoo Ah-in). Watching her, I was as transfixed, confused, and maybe as unsettled, as Jong-su.

It was a feeling that wasn't to go away for the rest of the movie, which is as slow a *burn* as you'll ever see, and just as hard to categorize. A depiction of Korean class conflict and pent-up working-class frustration, and also a thriller, and also a character drama, and also, maybe, a love story? Maybe not. "It's just a really...unsettling movie," I vaguely and unhelpfully told numerous friends who asked me what genre it was. But as with most movies, ultimately it doesn't really matter what it is so much as what it does. And Burning does a whole damn lot, building tension and unease through just the slightest psychological shifts until all of that buildup finally boils over in the disturbing (and perfect) climax.

At the end of all that, we haven't even talked yet about Steven Yeun, playing a charismatic, faintly unlikable, mysteriously wealthy Korean Gatsby to chilling effect, and obviously thriving. I am looking forward to the day we get to see him get to play such complex leading roles in American films, but until then, I'm glad we have Burning.

Also, Burning did not make it off the shortlist into the final nominations for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar. This is maybe the only good response to this wild injustice.

Crazy Rich Asians

What else is left to say about Crazy Rich Asians?

Well, maybe a few more things, though even these few things have likely been said by others, and more eloquently:

That while I have never been starved of seeing faces that looked like mine on screen, having had Korean dramas and movies to turn to in high school and college, Crazy Rich Asians gave me the first experience of seeing on the big screen faces that looked like mine but that also reflected back to me my own heart struggles over the years of being an individual tossed back and forth between two seemingly opposing cultures. Like the struggle of never perfectly fitting anywhere, of feeling that my identity is determined at any given time by whichever country I am not currently inhabiting at that moment: Asian when in America, American/English/Western (and of these, which?) when in Korea. Like the struggle of choking down tears and fighting the burning behind my eyes every time I say goodbye to my mother at Incheon Airport to come back to America, fearing that my decision to stay here means that I am, selfishly, so American-ly, choosing career and personal fulfillment over family.

That when it showed Asian street foods as dishes to be excitedly drooled over rather than strange foreign substances to be made fun of, it healed a bitterness left over from my childhood, when white schoolmates made rude comments about my rice and gim, and I did not yet have the language to stand up for myself and my culture.

That when it allowed Peik Lin's mother to say "aircon," so naturally, instead of "air conditioning" or "AC," it let me see my own mother on the screen, in a totally new and poignant context.

That when I realized afresh and abruptly, halfway through it, that I was seeing an Asian-American female lead and and a British-Asian male lead at the center of an unabashedly and joyfully Asian story, my heart felt like it would burst.

That in giving me the opportunity to cheer and laugh and gasp and cry along with so many other Asian-Americans in a packed screening room at AMC Times Square, it made me feel a sense of community I'd never felt in a movie theater before.

That it was (and is) the movie I had literally been waiting my whole life -- twenty-five years -- for. That it is, for me and for many others, so much more than a movie.

Eighth Grade

By the time I reached the eighth grade at my tiny private Christian international school in Korea, I was a fairly well-adjusted kid, possessing a healthy amount of confidence, and surrounded by solid girlfriends. But still I had my own very large share of insecurities and anxieties. Is my forehead too big? Why is my skin so oily? Am I outgoing enough? Do the upperclassmen like me? Do my classmates think I am funny? Will boys -- hell, just one boy -- ever be interested in me? Will this nightmare ever end?

Watching Eighth Grade was a deeply uncomfortable experience. Seeing your younger self's most private insecurities (see above) laid so bare on a gigantic screen in a room with a hundred other people can have that effect. I squirmed in my seat, covered my eyes, flinched, and groaned multiple times throughout, as did nearly everyone around me, and yet, and yet, and yet.

Bo Burnham is so tender in his storytelling, Elsie Fisher so raw and vulnerable in her portrayal of Kayla and her anxiety, and Hot Dad Josh Hamilton so wrenchingly earnest in his attempts to convey to his daughter how much he loves her just as she is, that I walked out of the theater dwelling on all of these things instead of on the many painfully awkward interactions that had had me cringing throughout. I thought of my eighth grade self and all of her insecurities, how desperately she wished she had double-lidded eyes and clearer skin, how much she wanted to appear effortlessly cool and confident and outgoing to her peers. And in that moment I found myself silently reaching down through the years to tell eighth grade me something she, like Kayla, couldn't have know then, but would learn eventually: it gets better. I promise.

Leave No Trace

I have only two things I can coherently say with regards to this quietly heartbreaking, beautifully low-key movie, and they are as follows:

1. A world that can overlook Debra Granik for a Best Director Oscar is a world which fully illustrates to me the fallenness of humankind as nothing else does, and

2. The not-exactly-final but almost-final eleven words uttered by 13-year-old Tom (Thomasin McKenzie) to her father Will (Ben Foster), who suffers from PTSD, cut deeper for me than perhaps any other line in any other movie I saw last year. (I think it is probably be a three-way tie between this, Constance Wu's mah jong monologue gut punch, and Eighth Grade Hot Dad Josh Hamilton's campfire monologue tearfest.)

Public service announcement: Leave No Trace is now streaming on Amazon Prime. So do yourself a favour and go watch it.

Paddington 2

Yes, it's true -- my favourite movie of 2018 was a family comedy (with surprising emotional heft) about a bear who adores marmalade sandwiches and believes firmly that basic human kindness can fix anything!

Could it have been anything else, in a year that saw xenophobia run rampant and it felt like every day delivered a fresh new batch of headlines about the deepest sorts of human unkindness from every corner of the country?

Paddington 2 is the bright, joyous, hopeful, and kind antidote that it is for all of the above.* Unlike the jaded heroes of so many (non-family) films, Paddington has a pure, unshakable faith in the basic goodness of humanity ("My Aunt Lucy says, 'If you are kind and polite, the world will be right'"), and readily accepts everyone around him, regardless of race, class, age, status, or even criminal background. He infuses every sphere he inhabits -- his adopted home with the Brown family, the street they live on in London -- with a warmth and joy that's contagious, even the prison he is wrongfully sent to, where he accidentally dyes all the inmates' uniforms pink and institutes bright and colourful tea parties in the prison cafeteria.

ON TOP OF ALL THAT, this damn movie gives you: a Wes Anderson-esque aesthetic bringing additional life to the movie's antics, endlessly creative and clever visual sequences, delightful supporting characters in each member of the Brown family, and a wonderfully roguish villain in Hugh Grant.

But for me the beating heart of the movie is Paddington's unswerving love for his Aunt Lucy, who raised him back in Peru (and for whom he is on a quest to procure a stolen pop-up book as a birthday present). Though we don't see her aside from a couple of flashbacks, we feel her gentle influence throughout, in Paddington's ability to find good in everyone around him, and in every decision he makes to be kind and polite even when others are not so to him. And the ultimate emotional payoff of all of his actions, and his journey, in the movie's ending -- which had me sobbing (both times) with a single frame -- is all the more profound for knowing that Paddington's kindness was never driven by possible personal reward, but out of a belief he holds to with his whole heart, that if you are kind and polite the world will be right. The real world is messy and we know that this isn't enough to fix things, but for a couple of hours, we believe maybe it is, and we go out there and try.


*For a great piece on the new wave of nicecore movies in the age of Trump, check out this from my favourite film critic, IndieWire's David Erhlich.

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse**

The first time (out of a grand total of two times in total) that I ever saw Edwin cry was while we were watching The Lego Movie, spring semester of our senior year of college, on a double date with Yerin and Josh. There was a joke about loose band-aids in Lego boxes and while all four of us laughed, Edwin lost his effing mind. He continued laughing long after the rest of us had stopped, and kept going and going until the tears came, and we stared at him, bewildered.

I thought of that moment while watching Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, aware that it was produced by the same duo behind The Lego Movie, which I remember at the time had blown me away in my seat with its sheer creativity and energy (and ability to make my stoic boyfriend cry laughing). It makes sense, that the same feeling of awe I'd felt seeing the world Chris Miller and Phil Lord had created around a childhood toy washed over me again as I took in the fullness of the comic book animation world of Miles Morales --  a world which could contain infinite alternate universes and show us our hero's most intimate thoughts with one delicate frame and make me hold my breath multiple times and forget I was holding it.

In some sense I don't feel qualified to heap praise on Spider-Verse, not being a Marvel diehard or a comic reader (if you are looking for nerds, I will refer you to my trusty pop culture chat buds Stephen Haw and Nathan Huynh), but maybe that is part of the measure of just how brilliant it is. I understood exactly 0% of Stephen and Nathan's excited chatter about the movie's Easter eggs in our group chat after we all watched it, but I do know I did not need to be a Marvel geek to be fully transported by the art, the soundtrack, the voice acting, the storytelling, and the profound empathy of this world. And I sure as hell did not need to be a Marvel geek to be moved to tears not once, but three times.

Shoplifters

EDIT: Stephen told me this was too spoiler-y so... (vague, but I guess still spoiler-y) spoilers ahead!

Hirokazu Kore-eda's Shoplifters broke my heart this past winter and did not even do it the courtesy of putting it back together again, as some more considerate movies are kind enough to do.

With the first ninety minutes, Shoplifters lulled me into a false sense of security about its being a simple but moving slice-of-life film about a Japanese family living on the margins and shoplifting to get by. Early on, the Shibatas adopt? technically kidnap? take in? five-year-old Juri, whose bruised arms tell them what she won't -- or can't -- tell them herself, and gently, lovingly start to draw her out of her protective shell. As she adjusts to her new, tight-knit family, we begin to get glimpses into the struggles its individual members wrestle with in their daily lives, external difficulties such as being laid off at work, as well as feelings of loss, resentment, doubt and anxiety. But what's always constant and certain is that the Shibatas love each other and will always stick together, because what is family if not the people who love you most, and the ones who will stay by your side even through the hard times? And so I drifted easily through those first ninety minutes, getting to know the everyday joys and worries of this family's life and how they carried each other through their various struggles, moving from one day to the next with a grace and hope that belied their circumstances.

And then something happened that abruptly turned the entire movie on its head, delivering a sucker punch to my stomach as it did so. The film I thought I knew and the family I thought I knew by that point began to unravel, challenging all of us complacent idiots in the audience to reconsider everything we believed to be true -- about family and what really makes a family, about belonging and who we belong to, about what binds people together and whether love is enough.

I walked out of the theater in a daze. The tears had dried by then but I hadn't reached any sort of conclusion for all the questions the final third of Shoplifters had posed me. I still haven't.

Support the Girls / The Favourite** / Wildlife

I'm grouping these three together not only because I crossed the point where this post became "too long" some million and one words ago, but also because, while wildly different from each other in style and story, all three strike a loud and poignant chord on the relentlessly wearying experience of  being a woman in a man's world.

Some of the most resonant scenes and images I take away from the movies in 2018 are those of Regina Hall letting the emotional and mental exhaustion -- of constantly dealing with a casually racist boss and the blatantly disrespectful male customers who patronize the "sports bar with curves" she manages -- juuust barely slip through the cracks of a capable and cheerful exterior. So subtle, but you can see the tiredness in her eyes. And of Olivia Colman's Queen Anne, playing the endlessly trying game of keeping order in a Parliament full of men who hold her in contempt and chafe under her authority. And of Carey Mulligan's 1960s Montana housewife, struggling to keep her life together when her restless husband leaves her and their young son behind to go fight the great fires that are raging in the mountains; and after years of having dutifully followed him as he uprooted their family from place to place, she is left with... what, exactly?

Theirs are characters in circumstances far removed from my own in time and space, and yet, watching all of those movies, I identified deeply with their frustration, despair, weariness, and, especially, their anger. But in the very existence of these women and their struggles on screen I also found a profound joy. The women of Support the Girls, well, support each other and scream into the abyss together. The three (!) leading (!) women (!) of The Favourite shine so brightly in their messy (but oh so fun), three-way love/sex/power struggle, while the men hover at the fringes -- I rooted for all of them and none of them. Carey Mulligan's Jeanette is flawed and often selfish as a human being and mother, but the movie doesn't condemn her for her choices; rather, it gives her the space to be fully herself, flaws and all, as she slowly figures out what she wants out of her life. (Side note: at the NYFF screening I attended, a grossly sexist old white dude decided to use the post-screening Q&A to deliver his unsolicited criticism of Carey Mulligan's character as reprehensible and unsympathetic, but she (and director/writer Paul Dano) shut him down real quick.)

In a year when I felt, more than any other year, that I was constantly on the verge of imploding in on my own fatigue and anger, living as a woman in a world where Brett Kavanaugh gets confirmed to the Supreme Court and men still think it's cute to catcall women on the street, I was thankful for these three films. To see complex, stereotype-defying, strong, flawed women be their own heroes, at the center of their own stories, overcoming the challenges of the male-dominated world around them -- 2018 was a mess of a year, but at least it got a few things right.

--

**Technically I watched Spider-Verse and The Favourite in 2019, but I am including them here because they were both 2018 releases.

Honourable mentions aka OTHER FAVES: A Star Is Born, Black Panther, First Reformed, Hearts Beat Loud, Mission Impossible: Fallout, Roma, Searching, Sorry to Bother You, The Hate U Give

And here's the full list of movies I watched in 2018, in order of viewing:
* = highly recommend
  1. The Greatest Showman (2017)*
  2. 청년경찰 (Midnight Runners) (2017)
  3. Goodbye, Christopher Robin (2017)
  4. The Shape of Water (2017)*
  5. Paddington 2 (2018)*
  6. Paddington (2014)*
  7. The Post (2017)
  8. Phantom Thread (2017)*
  9. I, Tonya (2017)
  10. Black Panther (2018)*
  11. Before Midnight (2013)*
  12. Lost in Translation (2003)*
  13. The Martian (2015)
  14. A Wrinkle in Time (2018)
  15. Game Night (2018)*
  16. A Quiet Place (2018)*
  17. All These Small Moments (2018) (Tribeca Film Festival)
  18. Captain America: Civil War (2016)
  19. Avengers: Infinity War (2018)*
  20. Logan (2017)
  21. Gifted (2017)
  22. Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001)*
  23. Solo (2018)
  24. Ocean's 8 (2018)
  25. American Animals (2018)
  26. Hearts Beat Loud (2018)*
  27. Set It Up (2018)*
  28. First Reformed (2018)*
  29. The Incredibles II (2018)
  30. Creed (2015)
  31. 밤치기 (Hit the Night) (2018) (New York Asian Film Festival)
  32. Yellow Submarine (1968)
  33. Eighth Grade (2018)*
  34. The Princess Diaries (2001) - my millionth rewatch; not entirely sure why this is on my list but
  35. Sorry to Bother You (2018)*
  36. The Tale (2018)*
  37. West Side Story (1961)
  38. The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement (2004) - ditto Princess Diaries 1
  39. Mission Impossible: Fallout (2018)*
  40. Crazy Rich Asians (2018)*
  41. To All the Boys I've Loved Before (2018)*
  42. 너의 결혼식 (On Your Wedding Day (2018)
  43. Searching (2018)*
  44. Juliet, Naked (2018)*
  45. A Simple Favor (2018)
  46. Support the Girls (2018)*
  47. Wildlife (2018) (New York Film Festival)*
  48. Burning (2018) (New York Film Festival)*
  49. Leave No Trace (2018)*
  50. A Star Is Born (2018)*
  51. First Man (2018)*
  52. Beautiful Boy (2018)
  53. Roma (2018) (New York Film Festival)*
  54. Won't You Be My Neighbor (2018)*
  55. mid90s (2018)
  56. The Hate U Give (2018)*
  57. Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald (2018)
  58. The Princess Switch (2018)
  59. Wreck It Ralph 2: Ralph Breaks the Internet (2018)*
  60. Shoplifters (2018)*
  61. Bridget Jones' Diary (2001)
  62. Mary Poppins Returns (2018)
  63. Elf (2003)
  64. BlacKkKlansman (2018)*

Sunday, 6 January 2019

2018, in summary: couches and cockroaches

So it's January again, and I am a little surprised to find that we are actually here, on account of how 2018 often felt like it would never end, but here we are indeed, and it's time for me to get my yearly quota of personal writing over and done with this month before proceeding to forget about the existence of this little blog for the next eleven months until the next January rolls around and the pattern repeats itself (or I repeat the pattern).

A lot happened in my life in 2018. I started co-leading my small group at church, moved into a new apartment in Hell's Kitchen, turned a quarter-century-years-old, and started a new job. I was denied on my visa renewal petition, lived in a state of unwavering stress and uncertainty about my future for two months, was approved on a second petition, and left and re-entered the country. I attended five weddings in California and one in Michigan, helped my younger sister move into her first college dorm in Philadelphia, and saw my best friend get engaged in New York. I staffed my first TV press junket, walked my first red carpet, played a lot of volleyball, watched more movies than I ever have in a single year (64, not counting rewatches), read more books than I have read in any year since 2009 (31), and, perhaps most important of all these things, binged my way through all seven seasons of The West Wing.

And in between all of those big life events and milestones and travels, I continued to exist on the happiest of planes living in New York and feeling each day that I belonged to this city more than I did the day before. It has been a little over a year and a half since I moved here from the Bay Area, and the surge of deep contentment I feel whenever I walk up and down 9th Ave to my apartment on West 49th Street, or emerge out of the West 4th Street subway station and see the marquee over IFC Center, or retread the exact same path from the Columbus Circle entrance of Central Park in a northeasterly direction to the Alice in Wonderland statues between East 75th and 76th Streets still hasn't faded. Is it a honeymoon period? Conventional wisdom provides conflicting answers. I will get sick of New York in a few years. I will never fall out of love with New York. I will get tired of paying twice the rent of any other city for half the space. I will find everywhere else after New York unbearably dull. I will find out one way or the other, eventually.

For now, all I know is I am very happy here. All the things that most people complain about -- the crowds, the subway, the piles of garbage on the street, the smells -- I either thrive on (the crowds, the subway), or don't mind (the garbage), or don't notice (the smells). The only two experiences that made me seriously question the long-term livability of this city last year were 1) the one major setback I faced in moving into my new apartment, or what I call the Pivot Episode, and 2) Dawn's and my summer-long battle with cockroaches in said new apartment, a harrowing saga during which I, Bird Box-style, never actually saw the monsters but lived in constant fear of them and of the self-destruction that would result if I did.

The move. Really it was just that stupid beige couch from the East Village. Transferring all my stuff from my old apartment was smooth enough. I moved the great distance of 14 blocks, from West 35th Street to West 49th Street, straight up 10th Ave. (Dawn moved into our place from Jersey City, technically a whole state away, but who's comparing?) I hired movers for the first time in my life, after years of bribing friends who had cars (and at least some muscle density) to haul around my college desks and dining tables, and given that I had only one very tiny bedroom's worth of furniture to take with me from my first apartment, the two guys from Man With a Van had me all set up in my new home in no time.

Tong had recommended I look on Facebook Marketplace to find some good used furniture, and once Dawn and I were both settled with all our bedroom stuff I found what looked like the perfect couch for our living room, a beige three-seater that looked promisingly squashy. The girl selling it lived in the East Village, so I promptly rented a U-Haul van for the next evening and roped in Jon and Michael to drive there and help me transport it from her apartment to mine, with vague promises of a reward.

That next evening, Jon and Michael met me at the U-Haul pickup spot and climbed into the front of the van while I voluntarily hopped in the back like a kidnapping victim with a serious case of Stockholm Syndrome and sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, making sure to stay out of sight of cops who might pull us over. It was a quick enough drive cross town but once we got to the seller's street there was, of course, no legitimate parking spot to be found for love or money (because New York). Which is how I found myself, suddenly, sitting alone in the driver's seat with the key in the ignition of a vehicle I was not practically, mentally, or spiritually equipped to drive, much less drive around the roads of Manhattan, offering up repeated prayers to heaven that nobody would come along and tap on the window.

The minutes passed as I waited for Jon and Michael to appear in the rear view mirror walking down the street with a couch... and passed... and passed, until, when over half an hour had gone by and still no sign of Jon, Michael, or a couch had appeared in any mirrors, I finally called Jon. (Or Jon called me, I can't remember.)

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, we're, uh, we just have a bit of a problem. We can't get the couch out."

"What?"

"Well, we got it out of her apartment, but like, it just won't fit in this hallway. Do you want to come see for yourself?"

Moments later, Michael appeared at the van door to take my place and I hurried up the street to see what the problem was. I walked in through the open front door of a typical, narrow East Village walk-up and was immediately confronted with a scene straight out of "Friends" (season 5, episode 16, to be specific): Ross Geller, here played by Jon Lee, despairing in the second floor stairwell with a large couch in his arms and on the banister, and absolutely no room to turn it.

The owner of the couch appeared from behind it as I walked up the stairs to join Ross/Jon. She looked just as perplexed as he did, if not more so.

"How did you get this into your apartment when you moved in?" I asked her.

"I don't know... I hired movers and these two guys just... they turned it somehow and got it in here in like five minutes, no problem."

I looked at Jon. Later on he would tell me, in a faintly disgruntled tone, that the girl had emphasized multiple times to him and Michael that the guys who moved her couch into the apartment were really big dudes. ("It's not about strength, it's about knowing the right angles.")

"Here... maybe Yurie, you can try standing below and pushing it up from there and maybe we can lift it over."

I obligingly hefted from below while Jon tried to lift from above, not fully comprehending the directions he was giving me or the physics of the operation, but game to try whatever he suggested. No dice. The couch was simply too large, the hallway too narrow, and the stairwell too small, for it to go anywhere.

After about ten minutes of fruitless huffing and puffing I resigned myself to the obvious and told Jon it wasn't happening and that it was fine, but he was determined to keep trying. I headed back to the van and sent Michael back to the apartment at Jon's insistence, expecting the two of them to return soon enough, but apparently Jon was much more invested in the couch than I was, as more time passed and neither of them appeared. Eventually I called them and told them to give up and come back, and the the three of us drove back up to Hell's Kitchen, couch-less and defeated.

It was a lesson for me that things that are take-it-for-granted easy to do (or for your friends to do) anywhere else can be a thousand times more complicated, if not impossible, in New York. (This principle also applies to shopping for groceries at Trader Joe's.) And it was a lesson for Michael and Jon to never again say yes to any favours I might request of them.

Dawn and I did manage to get a couch, soon enough after the Pivot Episode. I found another squashy-looking couch for sale in Hoboken, rented another U-Haul, and this time made Edwin and David drive it there to pick it up while they were both visiting for the weekend -- but not before I confirmed with the seller that her building hallway was wide and that there was plenty of room to pivot.

As for the cockroaches, well, I guess they are a rite of passage for people who move to New York. But that didn't make them any less traumatizing.

Dawn and I moved into our Hell's Kitchen walk-up in March, and for the first few months of our residence had no fault to find with what was -- and still seems to me now -- a too-good-to-be-true apartment for the neighbourhood, and for the rent. Even the crooked floors which Edwin made fun of and which give my tall bookshelf a significant right-leaning slant in my eyes lent the apartment an endearing, homey air.

Until summer came, and with it the yearly wave of New York City humidity.

The first roaches we spotted were tiny; I initially thought they were woodlice (or roly-polies, if you're American). Claire was living with Dawn and me for the month of June in between her lease ending and her temporary move back to Korea, and she texted us a picture of a tiny bug one day while she was home in the apartment and Dawn and I were at work, with the accompanying message "potential roach issue."

I didn't think too much of it until I showed some friends the photo that evening as we were leaving from small group and they solemnly confirmed that it was, indeed, a roach, at which point I went into a full-on meltdown and Matt and Wesan, alarmed by my outburst, reassured me (repeatedly) that it would all be fine. Wesan made me stop by her place and generously gave me her Raid, as well as some roach traps ("Traps? You mean I have to CATCH them and then they will just be sitting in the corners of my apartment?!" "No no no, it's like bait for them to come get the food, which is poisoned, and then they take it back to their families and the poison kills all of their babies" "They have BABIES?!"), which I gingerly set in various corners of the apartment as soon as I got home.

After that first day, we saw a couple of others, but no more than that, and my fears subsided, until the middle of July, when Claire (again) texted our group chat:

Claire: pmfogmgkgm
Claire: there's a bog ass roach
Claire: help
Claire: someone
Claire: come home

It was a Friday night and I was out at a rooftop bar in midtown, and Dawn was out with Nancy, who was in town and staying with us that weekend.

Yurie: Omg Lord
Yurie: I'm out at a bar

Claire: f
Claire: i went to get something to try and cover it
Claire: and its gone
Claire: wheb r u coming home
Claire: it was so effing big
Claire: idk where it went and i feel like we need to find it

Yurie: shit how big

Claire: like
Claire: the ones you see on the street
Claire: like my pinky lengrh

Yurie: dawn sos

Claire: sos dawn

Dawn eventually replied and the three of us ran through our list of friends we could call to help with this Grade A emergency while also making plans for alternative lodgings for the night.

Claire: i think .. im not sure
Claire: it fking hopped

Yurie: fuck no
Yurie: Shit claire you're on your own I'm sleeping at Eunice's
Yurie: actually Bryant Park is very nice right now I think I'll stay here
Yurie: a man is singing it is pleasant
Yurie: I shall live here

Claire: GET YO ASS HERE
Claire: fuck i am not sleeping here tn omfg
Claire: we goin to patties

I eventually, very reluctantly, arrived home, to find Claire curled up on our armchair, which she'd pulled out into the very center of the living room, with her feet (with their shoes on) in the air. I climbed onto another chair and peered into my bedroom in the general direction Claire pointed to having seen the offending intruder.

We were both too scared to actually go into my room to grab our pyjamas and pack for our stay at Claire's friend's place so we stayed perched atop our chairs, alternately wailing and swearing and cry-laughing about our ridiculous predicament until Dawn and Nancy arrived home and Dawn bravely ventured into my room, whereat Claire and I followed behind her.

There was no sign of the cockroach (who Claire had by this point decided to christen Tyler) anymore, but we two scaredy-cats still fled and headed for Claire's friend's apartment a few blocks away. We slept soundly, safe from Tyler's clutches, and the next morning, in the bright of day, felt cautiously optimistic that perhaps he had left us forever.

That night Dawn, Nancy and I went out with a group of friends for Ray's birthday, with the celebrations lasting (or at least, our energy lasting) until about 3am. The three of us hopped on the C train uptown with Jon, who we bid a goodnight to when he got out a couple stops ahead of us at 34th St, and immediately started getting ready for bed. Claire was already sound asleep, and I had just finished washing up and putting on my pyjamas when Nancy came flying out of the bathroom in a quiet panic: "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod there's a cockroach! And it can fly!"

What did we do? Of course we called Jon to beg him to come over and help us deal with this giant cockroach. Of course we did, even though it was almost four in the morning, and even though we had just parted with him not half an hour ago, and even though he had to head in to the office early the next morning. Because he was the only person in Hell's Kitchen who we knew was definitely awake at that time, and because that effing cockroach could fly.

And because Jon apparently had not learned his lesson from the Pivot Episode in saying no to favours I ask, and because he is underneath all of his deliberate efforts to wind me up a Good Friend, and maybe also because I told him we'd pay for a Lyft ride to our place and that I would never give him a hard time about anything ever again if he came to help us in this crisis, he appeared at our door about twenty minutes later, in his basketball shorts and tank and looking very much like someone who had been seconds from drifting to sleep moments earlier before being rudely disturbed.

And of course, by the time he gamely poked his head inside our bathroom -- which brave, brave Dawn, who is laying up many treasures in heaven for having been dealt such a pansy-ass roommate, had also ventured into shortly before his arrival, fully suited up in a hoodie and long sweats tucked into boots -- there was no sign of any cockroach, flying or otherwise. It was probably long gone from the moment Nancy had seen it and reacted, but sometimes it takes dragging a friend out of their bed in the middle of the night to come and carefully examine the whole bathroom for you and quadruple check that there is no cockroach currently present for you to be able to go to sleep with some peace of mind.

Unless you are Claire and have been asleep for hours already, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding around you.

Thankfully, we never saw Tyler or any of his friends after that weekend. But for weeks afterward I would continue to scan the floor from the doorway before stepping into any room in our apartment, and prick up my ears for any suspicious scuttling noises in the silence.

Ultimately I don't think I learned anything valuable from our war on roach(es) other than that Dawn and Nancy were likely wise that night to tell me not to go into the bathroom to see it for myself. I haven't watched the movie Bird Box and probably won't plan to, but I am fairly certain that I essentially lived it out in real life last summer, minus the two children and the rowboat. To wit, Claire, Nancy, and Dawn all saw the giant roach(es) with their own eyes and were clearly destroyed by what they saw; I on the other hand actively prevented myself from seeing them and emerged from the ordeal at least unscathed in never having known what we'd been up against. I am Sandra Bullock.

So that's that. Of all the big and wonderful and momentous and stressful things that happened in my life in 2018, moving a couch and dealing with cockroaches are apparently the two things that stick out the most vividly. It be like that sometimes.

But all couch and cockroach related nonsense aside, there's a lot to be thankful for from the past year. My little crooked apartment. My new job, which I love, and the new work visa that came through after the tireless efforts of my CEO and manager and HR and our lawyers, not to mention the prayers and fasting of my small group and of so many other friends. My church community. The xiao long bao and beef scallion pancake at Real Kung Fu Little Steamed Buns Ramen. The way the sidewalks in New York all come alive at once on that first warm day of spring. So many great movies. My family's good health. The list goes on.

I am feeling optimistic and not a little curious to see what 2019 will be all about, just as long as there are no more damned cockroaches involved. Please pray for Dawn and me this summer.