Twenty-seven.

Despite being a trained figure skater, I can't handle the cold.

As of late, Christmastime in New York has been somewhat unpredictable. Over nearly fifteen years, I watched global warming throw the city's seasonal climate completely off-kilter. There are winters where I can't take one step outside without being buffeted by a blizzard; other times, it's warm enough that I can walk out the front door in shorts. As a native Southern Californian, I much prefer more temperate degrees, and the life I've lived in New York has done little for me to acclimate to snow, slush, sleet, whatever—I can't handle it, I need to be warm.

2021 was the year I first decided to travel for the holidays. More than a year of pandemic-induced isolation led me to conclude that I should see more of the world while I was still alive, and having Henry, my then-boyfriend, come with me to split the costs only made it easier to do. In my prior relationships, I'd ended up taking trips with each of my boyfriends and in that way unintentionally began my personal tradition of vacationing with my partners. With Henry, it just so happened to be that the holiday season coincided with me beginning to feel secure enough with our relationship so as to invite him along.

I just want to get away, I'd said to him one October evening. I was laying next to him in bed in his tiny Times Square studio apartment, into which I'd helped him move while questioning his judgment for shelling out almost three thousand dollars a month for a room that could barely fit his mattress in Manhattan's worst neighborhood. I had watched countless others take advantage of once-in-a-lifetime cheap airline tickets for over a year, not regretting my choice to mitigate infection yet also regretting my inaction, and I fantasized about escaping New York's weird pandemic atmosphere.

New York City in the time of COVID-19 was a Cubist dreamscape. Neighborhoods became ghost towns as people disappeared and businesses shuttered; sirens were incessant as ambulance after ambulance trafficked the infirm from block to block. The city's vaunted hustle and bustle had precipitously abated, and all that remained were those of us who couldn't or wouldn't flee. But, getting vaccinated somewhat waylaid my misgivings, and I was basically on the brink of accepting my mortality. I no longer cared if I dipped into my savings, accumulated over the past decade—I just wanted out.

I remember, as I came of age, observing that young adults traveled with their partners. It was a trope that I took to imply a level of serious commitment within their relationships. Somehow, the concept integrated itself into my worldview; I assumed such vacations were a natural consequence of adulthood and genuine dating. I envied those who sojourned annually or more—I wanted to be like everyone else, too.

With my first boyfriend, I'd spent one of my Spring recesses during college in the Dominican Republic. With Wayne, my second, I'd lived briefly on O‘ahu in the summer. With my third, I'd gone to eat Peking duck in 王府井 (Wangfujing) after making a pit stop at Tiananmen Square, after which we'd caught a flight into Tokyo and rode bullet trains across Japan. With Henry, my fourth, I bounced ideas about where to go.

By autumn of 2021, I was going stir-crazy in New York. My Japanese vacation with boyfriend number three, two years prior, was my most recent trip, and I theorized possible locations on the basis of warmth—I wanted to leave winter behind, at least for a week. I ruled out Europe and Asia because they're similarly cold, and I considered anywhere in the Southern Hemisphere to be too far away. That left me with destinations around North America closer to the equator.

I decided to return to Hawai‘i. I had last been there in 2017 to visit Wayne, with whom I spent a week falling back into the old habits we'd had when we were a bonafide couple. It's most likely due to his influence on me that I like the islands and its people so much.

Henry had never been to Hawai‘i, probably in part because he had no need to visit any tropical island since he grew up on one himself. I took it upon myself to draw up an itinerary: with Waikiki as our base, we'd spend a week doing nothing but hiking, eating fresh seafood, driving around the island, and lounging on the beaches. On our way there, we'd land in Maui's Kahului Airport and spend the layover wandering its outdoor layout as I reminisced about my Maui trip in 2017.

I almost accidentally killed Henry by leading him to climb up a steep, slippery, muddy mountain path in the rain, all because I confusedly navigated us to the wrong destination point. He castigated me because he was understandably upset, but we reached the right location in the end just as the rain abated, giving way to a bright, picturesque rainbow with which he took many selfies. He didn't have a driver's license, so all the driving was my sole responsibility, but I suppose it was fair because he let me take us wherever I wanted to go.

As I retreaded all of my favorite spots with Henry, whether for fresh poke or butterfish laulau or even just to explore, I didn't tell him that they were Wayne's. It was Wayne who had first shown me his favorites, but he wasn't there to partake in our adventure because he was living, at the time of my visit, on Moloka‘i. Later, after Henry and I had broken up, I confessed to Wayne my guilt, for what felt like a desecration of the memories we two had shared, by bringing Henry to those very same places, someone who ultimately didn't deserve to be initiated into that magic because he was a failed lover. Even after half a decade of being physically apart, I still relied on Wayne for comfort.

I'd loved walking amongst the locals because I felt that I more closely resembled them, phenotypically, than I did in the other (predominantly White) States; it was as if I were in a tangibly Asian American society, although I fully acknowledge the unjust history of the United States's actions against Hawaiian sovereignty. I've since learned about the Red Hill water crisis, which clued me into the (many ongoing) American-made ecological disasters that local Hawaiians suffer. Despite—or, due to—the admiration I have for the islands, I've chosen to keep away, because those critical resources don’t need to go to me. I can make do with the memories I already have.

In the intervening years, I've tried to keep up my tradition of leaving New York for the New Year. More than disdaining the cold, I dislike the tourist hordes that come at what I personally think is the worst possible moment to visit. Of course, that makes me the contemptible tourist wherever I end up, but I just want to be warm.