For all the grief my nomadic lifestyle has caused my parents, it is only fair to say that I learned the ways of small time exploring from my mother. I was fortunate enough to be born to two working professionals who regularly were able to take a family of five on vacations. We were the Asian-American answer to National Lampoon's Family Vacation, but instead of Chevy Chase we had my mother, a small but mighty Asian woman who speaks (amongst other languages) broken Spanish, and has the ability to eat just about anything. I have memories of driving over the border from California to Mexico, my mom forcing my dad to pull over at the sight of a working-class man on the side of the street, asking politely and loudly in Spanish, "Excuse me, where do the locals eat?" On one such occasion we ended up at a non-resort, sea-side restaurant overlooking a visible rat corridor to the ocean, where some of the largest, most delicious lobsters were served. Then and every occasion after, we were the only non-Mexicans in that restaurant. Low on fancy, high on tasty, that was how my parents fed us.