Free Carpe Diem by Autumn Cornwell

bag?
    I picked up an aluminum Coke can. “Here.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œFound art.”
    â€œUh, no. That’s new, perfect, clichéd. Trash.” And she kept walking.
    Who was this person? I had a whole new empathy for Dad—I couldn’t imagine her being anybody’s mother.

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    Half-asleep, I stumbled after Grandma Gerd down the cracked sidewalk, taking care not to step into the open sewer holes. Then it occurred to me it was as good a time as any to accomplish item #6 on my To Do List Upon Arrival: Ask Grandma Gerd what she’s blackmailing Mom and Dad about. And it didn’t hurt to try the straightforward approach—who knew? Maybe it’d work. I took a deep breath:
    â€œGrandma, what are you bl—”
    â€œWill you look at that!”
    Grandma Gerd stopped so abruptly that I smacked into her and two elderly Malaysian women carrying bags of vegetables smacked into me. While I helped the women gather up their scattered herbs, tomatoes, and lottery tickets, Grandma Gerd stared transfixed into one of the kedais. This one contained a little bit of everything: padlocks, shiny plastic purses, rope coils, toothbrushes, giant square cookie tins, bottles of fish sauce, and bags of rice. The object of Grandma Gerd’s attention was an empty rice bag lying next to the full rice bags. It was pea green with a red rooster and Chinese characters across the bottom. She picked it up and smoothed out the wrinkles.
    â€œHave you ever seen anything more sensational?”
    â€œA rice bag?”
    â€œOpen your eyes. How fantastic is that green? Most rice bags are white or blue. And this exquisite red rooster? Very rare.”

    By this time, the short, squat shop owner had come forward, rubbing her elbow with the pungent menthol salve, Tiger Balm. Grandma Gerd bought the empty rice bag off her for the equivalent of twenty cents, but I could tell she would have paid twenty dollars. The woman didn’t seem to think it strange that a Westerner wanted to buy her trash. But I did.
    â€œBut don’t you see? This is a work of art.” Grandma Gerd was euphoric.
    Was this what was in store for me? Garbage collecting for three months? It sure wouldn’t make for a riveting novel. I guess I’d be forced to embellish.
    And as for my question, I decided to wait for a time with less “artistic” distractions.
    Then finally, finally , we returned to The Golden Lotus.

CHAPTER FOUR
    LIM
    CAUTION! One never, ever brushes teeth with tap water in Southeast Asia. Even in a life-or-death situation, the alternative could well do you less bodily harm than the bacteria flowing out of the faucet.
    â€” The Savvy Sojourner’s Malaysian Guidebook
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    A t the golden lotus, Grandma Gerd collected her wallet (“So that’s where it went!”), dried starfish (“And I thought I’d lost you!”), and a large yellow fabric-covered journal off the counter. It was so overstuffed that it required an extra-large blue rubber band to hold the whole thing together.
    She bounded up the sagging stairs, her long legs taking them two at a time. I dragged myself up the stairs after her. Once we reached the fourth floor, I asked—or rather panted:
    â€œWhat’s that under your arm?”
    â€œMy Everything Book. I keep everything in here. And I mean everything. Sketches, letters, photos, thoughts, materials, found art—” She waved the Polaroid of me and my
stain. “And now this!” Then she paused. “But don’t you get any ideas. This book is for my eyes only. Got it?”
    I was stunned she’d think me capable of snooping. I gave her a cold, “Of course.”
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    The guesthouse bedroom was simple: teak wood floors, teak dressers, and mosquito-netting clouds above each teak twin bed. Grandma Gerd’s art supplies were strewn around the room, and a collage-in-progress made out of shells, kelp, bottle