A Tale of Two Tattoos
The volume of traffic in Hanoi can't compete with New York or San Francisco, but what it lacks in numbers it makes up for in terrifying driving. Humid and sticky, I cling to Krista for dear life. I can barely drive myself around Lincoln, Nebraska without causing a wreck, so her ability to maneuver the rented motor scooter in the haphazard flow of foreign traffic amazes me. I'm half certain that this is how we die, but in less than 20 (heart-pounding, life-affirming) minutes, we've arrived.
Suddenly feeling entirely too badass, I smile as we finally find the perfect selfie angle, still perched on the back of the scooter, with the sign of our destination in the background: Ninja Ink.
***
The idea was born in July of 2015 after, as with most great but slightly irresponsible ideas, heavy beer drinking.
In a few weeks, one of my best friends from college would leave the country for a year, bound for Taiwan on a Fulbright scholarship. It was our last hurrah, and several hours of drinking in, we'd arrived at the "oh my God I'm gonna miss you so much ugh I love you" stage of the night.
I don't remember who said it first: WE SHOULD GET TATTOOS.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah I'm fuckin' serious! We should do it!"
"WE SHOULD DO IT!"
"What should we get?"
I do remember that it was my drunk-ass idea: "We should get plus signs," I slurred. "Because it means you, plus me. And," I added, pragmatism bubbling to the surface, "if we ever stop being friends, it's like, kinda vague."
My logic was sound enough to us, but we needed a gut check before following through on our decision to get something permanently etched into our skin. So in line at the bar bathroom, we detailed our plan to the other drunk bitches waiting to pee.
"Oh my God that's SO COOL," they slurred back at us, encouraging and enabling us in only the way drunk-bitches-in-arms can.
Validated, we set out into the summer night. For Krista, it would be a second tattoo; for me, a first. But we were thwarted, because, as with most drunken shenanigans, it was after midnight. No parlors were open, not even Bob's Needle Palace.
Hungover, we laughed about it the next morning. In the year that followed, the plus sign became a cross between a running joke and a term of endearment between us.
***
At Ninja Ink, the proprietors of the shop, an Australian husband-wife duo, turn our year-long inside joke into something tangible. Krista's plus sign is tiny and thin on her wrist; mine is about twice the size (an inch circumference), on my inner bicep.
It hurts about as much as I expected, which is to say it's neither excruciating nor enjoyable. The pain of a tattoo isn't as stinging as the pain of a bikini wax, but it is much less relenting.
After, I can't stop looking at it. So small, but still so stark on my milky white skin. We have ice cream then go back to our hostel, where we clean our pluses and rub on the healing ointment they gave us at the parlor.
***
My mother does not like tattoos. I did not inform her of my intention to get one beforehand, and it was, in the end, excruciatingly pre-meditated.
I know she is annoyed by its presence, but after a single, snide comment to let me know she knows, she goes out of her way to ignore it. In turn, I can't resist making offhand comment about it—how it's peeling now, how I need to go wash it again, how it's itching—gently needling in hope of a reaction, trying to provoke a fight and get it over with, if one must happen, but my mother bears the indignity of my tattoo with the patience of a saint.
Unlike my mother, my fiancée knew about my plan to commemorate my trip with some ink, but he too is less than enthused about it. But Seth accepts it, eyes rolling. I think that this tattoo, this small, black flaw, is the probably the least of the prices they pay for loving me.
***
In my philosophy classes, we talked about the ship of Theseus, a classic philosophical thought experiment.
In a nutshell:
When the Greek hero Theseus returned from slaying the Minotaur in Crete to Athens, the Athenians saved and preserved the ship that bore him home. Over time, the the wood began to decay. At first, the Athenians removed only a single rotted plank, but eventually the entire ship had been replaced with new wood that Theseus had never laid hand nor set foot on.
The question, the paradox:
Is it still the same ship?
If not, when did it stop being the same ship?
***
I spend the train ride from Geneva to Zurich dozing on Seth's shoulder, listening to Spotify, and cataloging the changes in my life since I last traveled abroad. Perhaps most notable (at least in the eyes of society and the law) is the transition from fiancé to wife. There are other changes too: I've run a marathon. I can do a headstand. I stopped eating meat.
But what hasn't changed? My name, and a thousand small, subtle things: I still wake up early. I still leave the house with my hair wet from my shower. I still speaker louder than necessary. I still like IPAs.
I am different than the person I was at 16, when I thought bottom-eye eyeliner was a good look and didn't understand white privilege. Am I different than the person I was at 23? Maybe not so drastically, but maybe at least a little.
***
Seth and I arrive at Born 1891 after passing it by a couple times. It's hidden from passersby beneath a parking garage, but once we get close enough, the large vinyl "TATTOO" on the door assures me we've found the place.
He performs his husbandly duty by waiting with me for the artist to arrive, a woman with an Italian accent and movie star beauty. Like with everyone we encounter in Zurich, her English is good enough that we can easily discuss what I want my next tattoo to be.
Half an hour later, I can say I have tattoos, multiple. Since this one is on my shoulder, I can only ogle it in the mirror, the stark black lines and dots that form my favorite constellation: Orion, the warrior.
We go to dinner, then hop on the bus back to our room. As he peels off the Bandaid-secured cling wrap and gets his first look at the fresh ink, Seth says, "I don't hate it."