the city of angel numbers.
By Kamea Macusi, a second-year ETA
The first syllable of this city’s name still catches in my American born‑and‑raised throat, unable to determine just how much space should be made, how slack my jaw should be, the placement of my too‑large tongue and grinded teeth. It’s as though every time its name slips past my lips, I’ve come across every iteration possible, except the true one.
A year ago, over the course of just six weeks, time spent in sudden close proximity with strangers led to even closer friendships, nights of drunken laughter, days of endless banter, moments of quiet understanding.
It’s amazing how the workings of the human heart can transcend the arbitrary rules of time and space—the rules of language and culture.
I found myself in an unfamiliar space soon after, suddenly ejected into the corner of a car filled with overpacked luggage, school superiors, and a colleague‑turned‑friend. There, I learned how the city we were driving to was home to her. I only hoped that it would become the same for me.
If the city was anything like her, I knew only beauty awaited me.
I met a family that helped heal wounds of my own that I hadn’t realized were so deep. They showed me that a healthy dynamic could exist in spite of pain and trauma—that this was just something they would work through as best they could, time and time again. They saw my shortcomings and met me with a love that celebrated both our differences and our shared life experiences. They taught me that spoken language is secondary, for as long as you wish to understand the person before you, then understand you will—the building of bonds despite the brokenness of language.
I met peers who made my everyday life so vibrant, like the red spider lilies that grew in our school’s garden, like the wisteria that hung above us on our way up the hills. People brilliant like the blinding reflection of light from the ocean below, well‑seen from the vantage of the cable cars warmed by the sun of a Saturday afternoon. Moments of warmth shared over cups of yuja tea, sweet compliments in the form of ripened watermelon, kind consideration in the opening of an umbrella over an already rain‑soaked head.
I met students who gave me reason to keep going. Children who still hold such wonder for life, who are still trying to determine what it means to thrive in a system that barely hopes for them to get by. Children who still see the world in the full array of color before the beginnings of adulthood come and push them into the dreariness of black and white.
But perhaps the shades and hues found in this city’s street corners and shorelines could keep them searching beyond the extremes. This place could show the children that between the ebb and the flow, there will be moments where the waves settle. When they can take the time to savor some 딸기모찌1 as tourists filter in and out of the turtle ship nearby, to race down blocks illuminated only by the streetlights leading to 낭만포차거리2, to ride the city buses labeled with angel numbers to guide their paths both home and away, to sit at any of the seaside cafes and watch the glistening water. I hope that when they see the waves catch the crystals of the sun, they realize that the beautiful sight before them can only occur when the sun and sea and moon work in tandem. Always together, never alone.
They are my sun and I am their moon, reflecting the light that they shine.
A mere push and pull is all I can offer, small movements to create rolling waves.
But they are life‑giving, fiery and brilliant.
And even when they become an echo of a memory, when time has long since clouded the clarity of once was, I will try to carry this light they’ve allowed me to witness, never forgetting what it meant to bask in their warmth.
Farewell to this romantic city of mine.
Farewell to the sand‑riddled socks discarded near beachside picnic spots.
Farewell to the art‑filled walls of hidden gems.
Farewell to the delicious foods that draw envy from all corners of this country.
Farewell to the kindness of strangers, to the offering of snacks and of seats.
Farewell to my beloved friends, colleagues, and students.
Fare well.