My Type B Goodness

A Short History of The Husband - 3

2011-02-06T00:36:00.003+08:00

Chapter 3: Nowhere to Go

Early next morning, in my haste to pack up and get to my third accommodation, I scraped my right hand on the uneven surface of a crudely finished wall in my room and got a bad cut. Quite amazingly, I had brought along not just band-aids but also antiseptic alcohol swipes. Those were left over from a school camp god-zillion years back and seeing them lying around, I actually have the foresight to put them in my backpack.

After taking a cab to my new stay for the night and getting lose in the myriad of hutongs for a while, I managed to find the lovely courtyard inn and checked in without much trouble. My room was fabulously beautiful, the courtyard was fabulously beautiful, so I spent the better part of the morning taking numerous shots in varying angles. Finally, I decided it's time to go out there for more exploration.

The thickness of my research notes suggested that I had far too many places to visit, it was mission impossible to complete even a fraction of that list. I was feeling lazy and didn't attempt to do any of them, deciding that leisurely soaking in the Beijing-ness of it all was a more agreeable option.

You guessed it, I went back to the cafe. Since I had decided not to go by the to-do list, I had nowhere to go, really. I wanted to go back to that historical cafe and take more photos. However, I stupidly did not make a mental note of the location of the cafe, which is quite usually the case for a person as bad with directions as I am. Hence I had to take a cab to the Lama Temple and try my very best to find my way there by backtracking.

As luck would have it, I found Nanluoguxiang pretty soon, but I was disoriented and mistook one direction for the other. I couldn't find the cafe where I thought it was, and so I gave up and thought I'd be better off just window shopping and taking more pictures of that pretty alley. Well, I did just that and even stopped for a leisurely lunch at a Korean restaurant before popping into a cute little notebook store.

When I exited the store and looked across the alley, there he was, standing in the doorway of the cafe that was just barely five metres away in that same blue shirt! He was walking out and stretching himself. (He later told me that he was indoors all along but seeing it was such a nice day, he suddenly felt like looking at the sun and so walked out.) In a split second, he saw me and looking a little surprised, waved me over. I was more surprised than he was, for I could hardly believe that I found the cafe by accident again!

Inside the cafe, I sat down in the same spot. This time, I didn't have to ask for the menu, he suggested that I try their latte and proceeded to make me one. As I was sipping at the coffee, he noticed the band-aid on my right forefinger. Then, he lifted his right forefinger up to show me a deep gash on the very same spot! He was watering the flowers in the doorway that morning when a pot tipped over. Instinctively, he tried to catch hold of the pot but cut himself on its chipped rim. It was creepy that we both had cuts on the same section of the same finger at the same time. What's more, I actually had not just band-aid, but alcohol swipes with me too! It was a never-ever-before moment.

While I was cleaning his wound, it occurred to me how unlikely, in normal circumstance, that I would help a grown person with that. I mean, I could have just given him the plaster and alcohol swipe, but there I was, being nice at such close range to this person whom I have no particularly strong affection for. Very strange.

Oh by the way, there was one point when I was slightly attracted to him. I was tearing open the alcohol swipe and before I used it on his finger, I pre-empted him that it could sting. To that, he nonchalantly replied, "I'm not afraid of pain." (Manly, but I later found out that it wasn't always true :P)

A Short History of The Husband - 2

2011-02-05T21:11:00.006+08:00

Chapter Two: The Meeting

My vacation finally began. I arrived in Beijing late in the evening and spent the next twenty hours rediscovering the city, especially the hutongs around my first accommodation.

I love to travel solo, and to be honest, it was fun and exciting to wander aimlessly and get lost in those neat old alleys. My immediate surrounding of courtyard houses and shops was enough to interest someone whose last visit was 17 years ago on a school trip - which meant remembering nothing but visiting friends in hotel rooms. Everywhere I walked, there was so much culture and history, I didn't need a map nor recommendations, and the pile of research notes that I had brought along was forgotten in the deep of my backpack.

So far so good, no unsettling indications of being manipulated by said higher being yet (see Chapter One). Or so I thought.

On the third day of my solo trip, also otherwise known as That Fateful Day, I had ventured into a different part of the city as I checked into a different accommodation. That is more hutongs to explore, and so I left the room as soon as I put my suitcase down.

Pleasurably wandering, I chanced on many good photo opportunities in the neighbourhood - colourful cotton blankets hanged out to sun, chessboard and mixed-matched chairs waiting for old masters to finish their breakfasts and come play, chatting grannies minding their toddler grandchildren whose ruddy bottoms peek out of their open crotch pants...

I came upon a sleepy street that looked rather quaint. It was a hutong, only fancier and lined with rows of little shops and cafes. Nothing seemed to be opened at barely 10:30am. I looked longingly into shop windows and wonder what time they will allow me some shopping. I snapped some pictures and began to search intuitively for a place where I could sit around and wait for the action to begin. The cafes, with potted spring flowers and old wooden doors beckoned to me, but some looked like there were still closed. I walked on and finally saw one that seemed to be open and stepped in.

There, I met The Husband, who of course wasn't The Husband at that time yet. He was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, standing behind the bar counter cleaning up and preparing the cafe for a new day. He looked rather startled to see me, clearly wasn't expecting customers at that time of the day. I was also quite startled that he looked so startled to see me, realising immediately that I had barged in before opening hours. Stumbling for speech, I lost my Chinese part of the brain and reacted by asking if I could come in, in stuttering English, uncertain if he could understand me. Stupid tourist, I said to myself.

So my entrance was nothing short of alarming, but I was lucky he was in a good mood and signalled for me to come in with a nod and a grunt after establishing that I was a just another (stupid) tourist.

Now some background before we move on: He was relatively new to Beijing then and barely spoke Chinese, though he could understand most part of it. The cafe, which also was a performing space for minority folk bands, was owned by his cousin who was also a photographer and went on annual photographic pilgrimages to Inner Mongolia and Xinjiang. At my point of visit, he was there helping to manage the cafe along with two other establishments while his cousin was at his artistic pursuit.

Back to the cafe, I chose a tiny two-seater table and sat there waiting for some form of service, but I got none. He was intently working on something behind the bar counter that I had to walk over to get the menu and tell him my order. It was as if I were a regular patron made to feel right at home - just not much service to shout about.

After he made me a pretty decent cup of cafe mocha and finished whatever he was doing behind the counter, he came over and chatted with me in his broken Chinese. He wasn't much of a conversationalist but felt obliged to since I was alone. For the record, I was also always an introverted solo traveller, I hardly chat to strangers and could go on for days without talking. (Much later on he told me that if I were to visit a month earlier, he wouldn't be able to converse with me in Chinese at all; one month later and he would not have been helping out in the cafe.)

The first thing he asked was if I were Mongol. Strange question you'd say, but yeah he thought I might be one, maybe because of my round face. It was then that I learned of his ethnicity, and we chatted cordially a bit more about that. The old house in which the cafe was housed had a surreal aura to it; the March weather was a little chilly and melancholic, yet the sun was warm and lazy. It did feel like we were two people in another world, but it wasn't at all seeping with romance or anything you'd imagine.

When my cup was emptied and I sat long enough to seem like a pathetic and lonely traveller, I decided stroll along the hutong a little before heading to the famous Lama Temple for a quick look. I asked him for directions and although he barely knew the way, he gave me a used map and tried to figure it out for me. I saw a strange script written on the border of the map and enquired about it. He told me it's Classical Mongolian script that they use back home, and offered to write my name in it. So for my parting gift that day, I had a small piece of scrap paper with two lines written on it - my name and his name in Mongolian.

Before I left, he asked what I was going to do the next day and I told him frankly - I didn't know. He then casually said, "Come here then, if you have no where to go." (Much later on, he told me that it truly wasn't a pick-up line, he was really just trying to help in case I had no where to go!) I wasn't thinking of taking up that offer, surely there are plenty more places for me to visit, but I asked for a business card anyway. He told he they were out of business cards, but wrote me the cafe name and phone number. (Only days after I came back from Beijing did I realise that I had stumbled upon the chic Nanluoguxiang unwittingly and his cafe was coincidentally the one that I've read great reviews online. Its very name, address and phone number were scribbled eerily in my pile of research material that I never used! How random is that!)

And I recall, that day at the Lama Temple, I thanked the Buddha for the new friend found.

More amazing coincidences in Chapter 3...

A Short History of The Husband - 1

2011-02-05T19:59:00.005+08:00

Chapter One: Destined to Meet

It was early March. There was only one thing on my mind - my week-long March school break, which I had failed to plan in advance. Well, it wasn't really a week long, I had a 2-day professional development workshop and so it was effectively just 5 consecutive days of holiday. Five days of idyllic rest at home would be nice, I thought. However, barely a week to the shortened break with no overseas vacation in sight, I was getting depressed and irritable like a coffee addict who was not getting his daily caffeine fix. The traveller in me had to go somewhere!

So there I was, staring at the Zuji website just days before the start of my holiday with no destination in mind. Five days should be nice for someplace near like my usual choice of Thailand, Taiwan or Hong Kong. Even if I were feeling slightly more adventurous, I would have opted for Borneo or Laos. But no, it was as if a higher being had taken over my body, or rather, my mouse clicking right hand. It swiftly got me a ticket to Beijing, the quickest and also most last-minute travel decision in my life.

I swear that it was not my doing. Firstly, having visited China several times in my childhood and early teenage years, I thought I had seen about enough of China to decide that it wasn't my favourite place to spend a hard earned 5 day holiday. Secondly, the ticket I had booked wasn't for a direct flight to the far flung Chinese capital - it stops over in Hong Kong, losing precious hours of my already short vacation. It just did not make sense. Moreover, I had no friends in Beijing and I hate Peking Duck.

Then came the question of what I was going to do in Beijing. If I asked you for a list of recommended things to do in the city, I bet you'd mention the Great Wall, Peking Opera, Peking Duck, Wangfujing... Man, just what else is there in Beijing??? (Now you see why it was not someplace I'd have endeavoured to visit...)

Thankfully, that said higher being (or perhaps it was an alien abduction) gave me an idea - hutongs. I have no recollection of how in the world I learned about the word 'hutong' or what it meant. Miraculously, it had me devoting hours past midnight researching and drawing out maps on hutongs to visit. To complicate my hasty holiday further, I even decided to book myself into, not one, but three different hutong-style accommodations for a true feel of Old Beijing. The madness hadn't end there, being the obsessive travel researcher that I am, I also trawled countless English and Chinese reviews of places to eat, shop and visit, resulting in pages of illegible scribbles of addresses and opening hours which I never got to use, as you shall see in Chapter Two...

The Curious Case of My Marriage

2011-02-05T18:44:00.007+08:00

At my wedding dinner in Singapore last summer, I was hard pressed by curious (and drunk) relatives and friends to give an account of how my Mongol husband and I met. Well, I had seen it coming, marrying a Mongol man isn't as commonplace as, say, marrying a Malaysian man. In fact, I don't think it was even heard of.

I tried to enlist the help of several privately expressive and dramatic friends to do a comical impersonation of our first chance encounter, but they weren't comfortable with revealing their inner clowns in a public appearance. Not even when I tempt them with a waiver of angpow or their choice of seating arrangement.

I then attempted to enlist the help of my teenage cousins who, since little, were very good at making cute but useless voice-over home videos with their toy Piglet, Tigger and Chansey (a Pokemon nurse who preferred the company of Pooh's friends). Sadly, they were in the blushing years of adolescence and thought this whole lovey-dovey project rather unsuitable for their cool stuffed friends.

My last resort was to write a short piece on the topic and have it printed on invitation cards so that everyone could read it before they come for the dinner, thus sparing us (mainly me) the agony of retelling our love story each time we stop at a table to toast. I even thought of having a quiz session at some point of the dinner to jack up the entertainment factor. However, the idea didn't materialise all the same due to my procrastinating nature. I was thankful for just getting the invitations out in time.

In the end, I didn't have a plan. So there we were, standing high and dry in front of a bunch of overly intoxicated guests who rowdily demanded their angpow money's worth of romantic storytelling. Being somewhat intoxicated myself and eager to go back to my red velvet wedding cake served with raspberry compote, I just grinned widely, promising to give them the story in detail another time before running off to toast the next group of curious well wishers.

Now six months later, I doubt anyone will remember that I owe them a story. I wouldn't be surprised even if they had forgotten whom I am married to. "Wasn't he from Mauritius? Or was it Manhattan? No wait, I think it was Mountbatten lah..."

Still, I shall give it to them, late but finally delivered. Up next, A Short History of The Husband...

I Believe I'm in China...

2010-11-07T08:31:00.010+08:00

... but once in a while I have to do a reality check.

I live in what the Beijing government calls an administrative district of Beijing outside of the city, what the laowai calls the suburbs and what a local refers to as the villa area. This is all thanks to my employer who is located in the same district - Shunyi. By that I really do mean thanks - no sacarsm intended - for living in the area means quality housing, green and spacious compounds, relatively car-free roads and neighbors who know how to smile, say hello and stand in line to pay at the local grocer.

My First Housing Compound in Shunyi - Chateau Regalia

Speaking of grocer, I have to begin my long whiny discourse on the good/bad (I couldn't decide) life here in Shunyi, starting from grocery shopping. If you don't live in Shunyi, you will never understand how different life is out here compared to the rest of Beijing. It is like living in Chinatown in LA, only the reverse.

My housing compound is one of the many so-called villa compounds in this area, with most of their residents being foreigners living in bungalows, semi-detached houses, terraced townhouses or apartments with English-speaking domestic helpers. They all feature grandiose clubhouses with multiple sports and recreational facilities, an army of security guards and manicured lawns with European fountains. On a not-so-clear-headed day, one might think he is back in America or Australia. Quite charming but not the Beijing I thought I'd live in.

A skate board park in my second housing compound - Capital Paradise

Granted, there is a local village near my housing compound with regular Chinese-speaking folks - old grandmas sitting outside their courtyard houses chatting and fanning themselves fervently while looking on their grandchildren running around in open-crotch diaper pants, elderly men practicing modified qigong that includes strange outbursts of laughter, migrant workers squatting around talking to their hometown sweethearts over the cellphone, those kind of things. However, the village consisted of single-story brick houses and dingy shacks hidden well out of sight, away from the main street and hardly intruded by outsiders. A laowai could live in Shunyi for a decade and not realize the existance of the village. All in all, Shunyi can jolly well be a neighborhood in the U.S. Midwest.

When I first settled in the neighborhood, I thought I was blessed with a good combination of both local old-school grocer stores that sells basic Chinese condiments and fancy supermarkets that offer imported fruit, cheese and wine sampling and same-day home delivery. Afterall, I look Chinese, speak the language and know enough about the Chinese way of life to "inflitrate" into the village stores. I am also paid a decent wage to be able to enjoy some luxuries of life that other foreigners do. The best of both worlds!

My bike parked outside a village hairdresser.

Husband insisted on cheap haircut for himself, and thankfully, not me.

Well, I was right but as life goes, there is no free lunch. I've come to learn that wadding through half-melted snow to the local village shack stores in the winter or putting up with the stench of its decomposing roadside trash in the summer for a bottle of soy sauce ain't no fun. Moreover, the village grocers can smell a laowai from a hundred li away and an overseas-Chinese compatriot perhaps twice that distance away. More often than not, I end up paying fancy supermarket prices at those pathetic shack stores and worse, enjoy no heating/air-con, pretty shopping bags nor VIP points. The only marginally nice part of being an overseas-Chinese compatriot customer instead of a laowai one is that I could understand the Chinese characters on those dusty labels, saving me from the heartbreak of returning home with dubious black liquid that is not soy sauce. Really, I feel for my laowai friends.

Village trash left out daily for the garbage truck.

OK in winter but smells real bad in summer.

On the other hand, if I decide to go upmarket and shop at pricier Jenny Lou's or BHG, which I do most of the time simply because it makes me feel better, I have to put up with watermelon prices being at least 200% more expensive, and they are not even of the organic kind. Vegetables are worse, with a measly bunch commanding RMB15 just because they are labeled organic when I could buy a heftier bundle for just RMB1 in the village. And who can be so sure they didn't come from the same patch of farm? I am not going to talk about the imported mangosteens and Alaskan King Crabs, you get the idea.

I think I should start exploring a third grocery shopping option - cycle 5 kilometers to a less snobbish local supermarket that looks like the Beijing version of SHOP N' SAVE. I've only got to endure shoving shoppers and impatient cashiers in return for reasonable prices and a roof over my head when I am grocery shopping. I really shouldn't complain. All I need is a bigger bike basket to fit my shopping bags, and a stronger set of legs!

Wimpy Photographer

2009-03-16T22:59:00.005+08:00

Eilin is a wimp because she has no guts to ask strangers for permission to take photos, nor to blatantly whip her camera out and start snapping away.

So she either regrets sorely for missing great photo ops, or resorts to using her pathetic phone camera to sneak shots incognito.

What a loser.

Beijing, Beijing

2009-03-15T21:05:00.016+08:00

I am misty-eyed and in love with Beijing.

Misty-eyed, not because I have to part with a Beijing boy, but because I had just braved dusty winds to walk on miles of the capital's sidewalks. Some say the particles in the winds are Gobi Desert sand, but I have a nagging feeling that they are in fact due to ubiquitous piles of dirt left by the roads for the let's-use-them-if-we-ever-decide-to-build-something-but-not-now construction, the same conclusion that I had drawn about Hanoi.

Never mind that.

And in love, because Beijing is like no other:

Where else in the world can an old man drive a tiny boxed-up scooter, bring a dozen songbirds in a dozen birdcages, hang them all up like artwork right by the palace wall, then leave to take a leak (right by the palace wall too) while an old lady stops to listen for a while?

Where else do they bundle up your book/CD/DVD purchases like packets of Chinese medicine?

Where else can you be with 17 million people and yet have an entire stretch of pavement all to yourself?

And Peking Duck. Need I say more?

The Worst Thing About Traveling Solo

2009-02-15T17:39:00.005+08:00

The worst thing about traveling solo is eating alone.

I usually end up:

giving large-party meals such as hot pots and BBQs a miss. [Though there was once I had a Swiss cheese fondue, a basket of bread and two side dishes all to myself. It really depends on how courageous I feel at the point of time.]
giving roadside snacks a miss because it takes half the fun away eating those alone. [A good compensation to this is to have two portions then :)]
having a tough time deciding which one dish to order, resulting in a really boring meal. [In which case, I'd usually rather not eat.]
ordering too much food and getting stuffed because it's not so nice to waste food, especially good food. [It happens to me ALL the time.]
ordering too much food and wasting it because it's not so nice to stuff myself, especially when the food's revolting. [I subscribe to the philosophy of not wasting calories on undeserving food, but am secretly worried for my next life.]
ordering too much and having to eat the leftovers on the the next morning. [Sometimes, I get a room with a kitchenette, which could be a blessing or a curse, mostly the latter.]
ordering too much and bringing the leftovers back to the hotel, only to leave them in the fridge forgotten until the last hour before I check out, by when have no choice but to throw them away. [It happens about 100% of the time.]
having to settle for the tiniest table at the most awkward corner in the restaurant where no waiter can see my frantically waving arm and hopeful eyes. [Then those eyes start shooting daggers. There is only so much patience in my 4"11' body.]
having to sit at the bar/counter and eat while the bartender/chef is staring down my throat. [While I try like crazy to eat as elegantly as I possibly can.]
having nothing to do while waiting for my food, so I pretend to look admiringly at ugly wall decorations. [This accounts for 50% of the time. The other 50% is when I put up with absurd music.]
having nothing to do while waiting for my food, as I pretend to study the menu and jot down notes as if I were a no-nonsense food critic. [This is a little tricky, especially if you have Lonely Planet on the table.]
not taking photos of my meals because it is too darn tacky and there is no one to share that tacky quotient with. [But then being Asian, I have license to be tacky!]
taking way too many photos of my meals because there isn't much else to do, plus I need to show them off to my gluttony friends! [Sadly, I tend to forget about my camera when food is in my face.]
eating too fast because I cannot wait to get the hell out of the almost-empty restaurant before the awkward silence kills me. [Luckily, I don't get this often, because it is my usual policy to avoid empty restaurants.]
eating too fast because I cannot wait to get the hell out of the restaurant where wait staff and diners stare as if I were the saddest thing in the world because I have no one to eat with. [The saddest part is I think the same way too, sometimes.]
buying junk food back to the hotel room to eat while I watch junk TV. [Oh, my favorite pastime!]
not having dinner at all. [Probably because I had too much at lunch. Belch.]

Thanks, Bro!

2009-01-30T02:16:00.009+08:00

Birthday chocolates from Confiseur Läderach. Yum!

Nagano to Gifu, Edo Style

2008-10-18T19:54:00.020+08:00

"For one?"

The matronly ticket lady looked at me with interest. I nodded, smiling apologetically for my lack of companion. As much as I love to travel solo, I have not gotten used to the occasional bout of loneliness. At that moment, I wished I had some company, for it was going to be quite a walk.

"There you go. Please take care!"

The lady handed me my ticket and a map, looking slightly concerned. It was a slow day at the valley, and there weren't more than a handful visitors going on the trail beyond the first village. She was probably worried that I might get lost, and thus shouted after me to keep going on my left.

I started off a little disconcerted, as I was expecting more tourists at this Tsumago end of the trail, since it was so accessible -- just barely a minute from the JR Nagiso station. I've read that the Kiso Valley is a very popular tourist destination in this part of Japan, and the lack of visitors seemed most strange.

Five minutes down the path, I still did not see anyone else within sight. Not that I minded, of course, I was just worried that I was going the wrong way. Fortunately, the trail was well marked by signs, and after ten minutes, I forgot about navigating. Instead of looking out for directions, I was soon absorbed by the changing scenery at every turn of the trail. The idyllic forest and smattering of traditional houses, combined with the calls of birds and insects made it more than just picturesque. I didn't have the foresight of bringing my own water (I really thought they put vending machines everywhere and anywhere in Japan), and almost wanted to take a sip from the refreshing streams of water running alongside the pavement, where bunches of lovely wild flowers danced in the sun's reflection.

The valley had the kind of tranquil beauty that could move a grown man to tears, although I most certainly did not weep that day. I was too busy for that. As an avid photographer, I was stopping after every other step to take pictures. Pictures of flowers, birds, trees, butterflies, manicured gardens, rice fields, graveyards, stone Buddhas... It was indeed a very fruitful morning, and more importantly, I was walking on the famed Nakasendou!

The Nakasendou is the name of one of the two Edo period routes that connects Kyoto to Edo (present day Tokyo), and one of the five official routes for the Tokugawa shogunate. Cutting across the central mountains, it spans 544km with a total of 69 stations. Today, a few stretches of the original route remains, including this 8km trail between the post towns of Tsumago in Nagano Prefecture, to Magome in Gifu Prefecture, which has been painstakingly restored and preserved. As such, the architecture style of the houses along this trail remains mostly unchanged, and walking down the restored paving evoked nostalgia even to an outsider like me. I could almost imagine samurais hurrying by as I strolled along this historic path.

Come to think of it, I came close to being history there and then, together with those aristocratic warriors, when I nearly stepped on a snake! I was ambling along the wooded trail, and boy, am I glad to have looked up the slope ahead of me! It was approximately 6 ft long, lying straight across the road. It must have felt my footsteps, for it had its head up high when I approached, ready to attack. I did not scream, only because I was instantly devoid of breathe. My legs seemed to take on a mind of their own and managed to scramble backward until it was far enough for the snake to understand that I wasn't keen on intruding. In fact, the thought of turning back to avoid the path of a sunbathing serpent did crossed my mind, but I soon decided that it was too wimpy a choice for someone in the origin of kamikazi. I mustered all the courage I could possibly have to stand still for a good minute before the snake slithered off the pavement and into the bushes. Very much later, I continued on my hike, quickly.

The episode with the snake shook me up a little, especially when there seemed to be no one else in the vicinity who could possibly come to my rescue if I did get bitten by it. I never felt worse about traveling alone. In a desperate bid to keep calm, I started a funny conversation with myself, taking longer and faster strides as I rambled on, and finally saw the first person in the valley, across the rice fields. It was an elderly local resident in yellow rubber boots and a big floppy cloth hat who seemed to be in a great hurry. Either that, or she must have seen me talking to myself and thought I was a madwoman, for she sped into her cottage before I could smile and say hi. I bowed to the koi in her fish pond anyway.

Finally, after passing some of the most beautiful rural homes I've seen in Japan, I entered the Tsumago post town. Yes, it was just the beginning, but I wasn't in a hurry to walk to Magome, my feet were tired and I need something to drink quite badly. I hesitated outside an old, pretty teahouse, wondering if they specialize in strange food like horse sashimi, a regional delicacy that I wasn't too keen to embrace, yet. Most of all, I wondered if they serve soft drinks. I was really, really thirsty.

After walking up and down the charming cobbered main street and not finding any better bets, I decided to take a risk at the teahouse I had came upon earlier. A friendly staff led me to a table by a pretty Japanese garden, I almost gave a loud whoop when I saw the wide open view of it from my seat. The ambiance was amazing -- imagine a dining area on tatami, with low, aged tables and cushions dyed in traditional indigo. The only illumination was the soft sunlight peeking through the row of pine trees lining the garden. Sounds of chopsticks against rice bowls reverberated in the light breeze like a wind chime tinkling softly.

Of course, a major source of happiness for me was that they had Kirin orange soft drink! I ordered the local specialty, goheimochi, a skewered and grilled rice cake smeared with a sweet miso paste. It was excellent, much to my surprise, as I was never a big fan of mochi. The lone ojisan sitting at the next table had a huge bento set, which looked really... erm... huge, I was quite glad I didn't order one of those, or I'll be there all day. As I was paying at the counter, I read from one of the signs that the teahouse had been in business since Edo times, and warriors actually frequented it! This information really made my day, for I had walked, and now dined, in true samurai fashion. I left feeling immensely smug.

Back on the street, I took in Tsumago with renewed enthusiasm. It is a wonderful little town with quaint teahouses, traditional inns and omiyage shops that are usually packed with tourists who arrive by the busloads. I mingled among them, happy to eavesdrop on a tour guide's commentary at the post office museum. An ice cream, countless photos and some sightseeing later, I proceeded on the next stage of my Nakasendou hike. I headed out of Tsumago feeling energetic, happy to note that there were a few other people on the same trail this time. However, I was soon left behind by them, despite valiant attempts to keep up. Till now, I really wonder if they were ninjas.

It was amazing how different the touristy main street was from the trail further down. I seemed to have left the rest of the world behind, it was just me alone, again. This part of the trail was just as attractive as the one just preceding Tsumago town, but it required much more effort as there were some steep slopes involved. I slowed down to a crawl after twenty minutes, and raindrops began to fall. Dang, I had no rain gear!

It must be due to my good karma that I had just crossed a motorway and was halfway up the steps when it rained. I couldn't possibly walk any further in the rain and it was getting dark too, so I ran back down to the road and voila, a bus stop sign! I didn't have to wait long in the rain before the bus plying between Tsumago and Magome arrived. Acknowledging how ridiculously lucky I was, I made a mental note to buy some sort of lottery when I get back to the city, and drifted to sleep on the cushy, air conditioned bus.

When I peeled my eyes open after what seemed like a long time, I was in Magome. It looked bigger and more touristy than Tsumago, but I didn't quite have time to sight see. It was getting late, and I really didn't want to continue on the trail to the JR Nakatsugawa station and risk getting lost in the woods in the dark. The only option for me is to catch the last bus to the train station, which was scheduled to depart in less than thirty minutes' time. I was pretty disappointed for not being able to take more photographs of the Nakasendou, but I managed to console myself by browsing the omiyage shop just opposite the bus stop and spending some yen on two packets of traditional chestnut cakes. Shopping does heal, and I was soon over the fact that I did not complete my hike.

By the time I got on the bus, then the train, and arrived back in Gifu, it was past dinner time and everything reverted back to normal. There was no death threatening reptile, no post office from the past, no obasan and her koi pond, no delicious goheimochi on a stick, much less sword wielding samurais. Why, I couldn't even find that Kirin orange soft drink in any of the convenience stores! It was as if I had just returned from a visit to the past... Or was I simply dreaming?

Maybe. The Kiso Valley is such a beautiful place, it can't be real.

Unadulterated Bathing

2008-10-12T17:10:00.003+08:00

Strip. Scrub. Soak.

Aahhh... I'm finally back in home base. While I can't say that I have accustomed myself to all things Japanese, one practice I've taken like fish to water is, literally, Japanese-style bath water -- still, steaming and stylishly zen.

Looking back, I was quite abruptly introduced to the wafu way of self-cleansing twelve years ago, when I joined the Yoshimuras-and-friends on a camping trip to Fukui. We drank, made merry and hardly slept. On the next morning, everyone agreed that a bath was the next sensible thing to do. Before I could protest that I just had my morning shower, I was whisked off to a nearby sento, shoved the standard two towels, one large and one small, and told to undress in a room with two dozen other stark-naked women. I felt strangely dizzy.

Putting on a brave front, I knew I had to do what the nihonjin do and recovered quickly to to strip myself into my birthday suit, not daring to stray my eyes all the while Keiko and her mom peeled off their layers. For the record, I had never bathed with my own mother before this, let alone someone else's. With steam floating around my giddy head, I was initiated into the surreal world of Japanese mass bathing.

For the uninitiated, communal bathing in Japan involves taking off your shoes at the entrance, stowing them on shoe racks or shoe lockers and changing into slippers. Then, you enter the correct changing room for your gender (look out for blue curtains for male and red for female), you undress and put your clothes into individual baskets or lockers. Towels are usually provided and are either found in these baskets or given to you earlier at the reception. However, some establishments expect you to bring your own or you can buy a small one cheaply from them. Once you're stripped to nudity, grab the smaller towel and head for the shower area (usually separated by a glass door).

Now, at this point, if you are expecting to see shower cubicles, you are in for a shock. What awaits ahead is a long row (or more, depending on the scale of establishment) of mirrors, taps, removable shower heads, toiletries, plastic basins and stools, on which women (I suppose the same goes for men on the other side) of varying shapes and sizes are busy engaging in head to toe scrubbing, scrubbing and more scrubbing. The idea is not to fix your gaze on anyone (it's rude to stare, as in most other cultures) but go about cleansing yourself in a matter-of-factly manner.

Quickly, find an empty stool, sit down, and start soaping and shampooing. Next, fill the basin with water, wet the small towel and scrub every part of your body with the towel. Some ladies bring their own little bathing kit that includes scrub pads, razors, brushes and whatever they may need for a bath. There's no right or wrong procedure here, just take your time and wash yourself like how you'd do it back home. The only thing to make sure is that you clean yourself thoroughly before stepping into the pool, as it is very, very inappropriate (not to mention unhygienic) to share the bath with others otherwise.

Once you are squeaky clean, you may step into the oyu, or hot bath water. Note that long hair should be tied up or wrapped with the small towel so that stray hair will not find its way into the water. If you are shy, feel free to use the small towel to cover up a little (frankly, there's not much you can hide with a towel that tiny), but never put the towel into the bath! The Japanese will feel offended by such inconsiderate behavior. Remember, that towel just scrubbed every single inch of your body.

If you're in a regular, no-nonsense sento, or public bathhouse, there will probably be just one pool for everyone. Enjoy the hot soak for no longer than 15-20 minutes (less if you are a first-timer), and rinse in cold water before going back in the bath. The hot-cold-hot cycle aids blood circulation and I heard it's better to end with a cold shower. Again, there is no rule to the number of times you go into the bath, the point is to enjoy and relax yourself fully after a hard day's work (or travel).

However, if you are in one of those more touristy hot spring bathhouses, usually in famous onsen towns, expect multiple pools containing different combinations of minerals or herbs, each touting to relieve a different ailment, which is why onsen-visiting is a popular recreation among seniors. Most of these upmarket establishments have outdoor pools with pretty Japanese-style gardens or rock features. Some have great mountain, sea or city views, and some are open round the clock for those who want to combine a hot spring bath with sunrise viewing. I had personally tried a few outdoor baths on snowy winter nights, and I must say that the combination of snow flakes falling on your head, semi-frozen cheeks and a hot, almost scalding, body is one of the most wonderful things that can happen to anyone.

I remember one time in Tokyo, I stayed in a dorm-style hotel that didn't come en suite, and had to take my bath at a specific time in the common bathroom downstairs (it was same bath but different time slots for men and women). Believe it or not, after I checked out one week later, I actually felt lonely bathing by myself. Somehow, it had become a cleansing ritual performed with strangers; there was an unspoken camaraderie among all who shared that same pool of water.

As you can see, I am totally sold on this bathing-together business. And it's not just out in the public; the Japanese people bathe in a similar manner at home, with stools and mirrors for careful scrubbing, and a common bathtub of hot water for the whole family. From the way I see it, it's an art that embodies attitude. The Japanese take pride in their bodies, like how they take pride in everything else.

Why so serious?

Why not.

Truckload of Old Fashioned Ingenuity

2008-09-03T01:30:00.005+08:00

Drink a Glass of Tradition

2008-09-02T01:33:00.010+08:00

September 1st - Hong Kong - Blistering hot

Trudging over to Central and up the Midlevel escalators (thank god for these!), hastily sweating my morning congee and breakfast tea away, I met up with KFC (his birthright initials, I swear), who was standing outside an authentic Chinese herbal tea shop with a sweaty lunchtime crowd, drinking a special 'cooling' brew.

The contrast was amusingly stark -- well-heeled workers from the excruciatingly chic IFC offices nearby, standing around drinking bitter age old potions at a shop so ancient-looking that I won't be surprised if Wong Fei Hong walked right out of it. Just try imagining the after-work clientele at Harry's, then take the beer bottles away and replace them with murky concoctions in chipped glasses on a stainless steel countertop and surgical-green mosaic walls. There you go, a real, breathing Hong Kong.

I tried to hide my Starbucks Caramel Creme Frappuccino from view as KFC (alright, for the very last time, before he protests) offered to buy me a glass of that mysterious tea, feeling slightly ashamed for drinking something so foreign, so pretentious and not too beneficial to the body. I turned down his offer anyway, and looked around curiously.

Around me, deep in the bowels of Asia's financial center, voluntarily removed from the air-conditioned comfort of their state-of-the-art offices, are men and women decked in smartly pressed shirts and dresses, probably from Lane Crawford or the likes, now soaked and stuck to their backs like clingwrap, their carefully tousled hair wilting in the midday heat, all for barely half-a-pint of traditional goodness.

In a heartbeat, I remembered why I love Hong Kong. Here, people live with their heritage, and I really dig that.

Travel Companions

2008-09-02T01:16:00.004+08:00

Hong Kong International Airport - Sep'08

Published Work - Club Med Sahoro

2008-07-25T01:06:00.006+08:00

Simply Her, Aug 2008

* What Goes Around Comes Around

2008-03-13T00:30:00.005+08:00

London Eye, UK - Summer 2001

An Abandoned Sail

2008-03-12T03:11:00.003+08:00

Whenever I suffer from writer's block (maybe 'blogger's block' would be a better term), I could almost always look to Benkei for inspiration. His words could discover and pull mine out like a strong, reliable magnet, and I had never been failed.

He was like the wind, sometimes swift and furious, sometimes easy and gentle. He pervaded every nook and cranny of humanity. There was nothing he could not write about, I thought.

However, the wind had ceased. He stopped writing. I had lost my muse.

My sail is forsaken. I wonder if it will ever be picked up by another.

I'm on Taiwan News! Almost.

2008-02-25T17:20:00.005+08:00

Woooaah... I'm famous!

Haha. Not exactly, but this is the closest I've gotten to fame. I have been featured (term used very loosely here) on Taiwan's Liberty Times in a travel article.

http://www.libertytimes.com.tw/2007/new/dec/24/today-travel1.htm

By the way, you can skip the text, I've no business in there. Look at the photos instead. Yeah, that long-range one of some blue people skiing on virtually slopeless ground. See the one looking lost and drowned in a ski jacket that is way too large? THAT'S ME! (Grin.)

Pretty pathetic, I know, but nonetheless amazing to be on a foreign national daily. I've not even been in the locals!

Published Products Writeup - Organic Asian Foods

2008-02-06T00:49:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Organic Asian Foods (cont'd)

2008-02-06T00:47:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Kids' Musical Toys

2008-02-06T00:44:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Kids' Musical Toys (cont'd)

2008-02-06T00:31:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Touched

2007-12-24T14:14:00.000+08:00

Today is Christmas eve, and I received yet another a surprise parcel from Hiroko. It contained a box of delicious Aomori candied apple slices, a Christmas card and her very own custom-made New Year postcard.

It made me feel really blessed this Christmas to have such a great friend in her.

Mrs Sawada, Merry Christmas!

Not Your Pet

2007-12-13T12:22:00.000+08:00

I like my Facebook despite detractors calling it 'a total waste of time' (which I can attest to) and 'only for those with no life' (excuse me?!). I feel quite at home with the 111 people I know enough to add to my Friends list, and I enjoy throwing cakes in their faces once in a while, or leaving virtual post-it notes to cheer them up. Indeed, most of my closest and most outrageous friends are on FB, and they make FB-ing a whole lot more fun. That was how I became a convert. Having said that, I think it is still important to stay vigilant and in control of our lives, virtual or not. And practice cyber-sanity, no pet rearing.

Call me a prude, but I had to draw the line when people start to think I'm some unwanted kitten from SPCA. That's was exactly what I found happening to me this morning when I logged in to my Facebook account. It sent me a notification saying someone actually owns me as pet.

Initially, I thought it was probably a close friend with a sense of humor. But no, it wasn't. Although I have a general lack of mental facility to remember faces and events, I do quite well with names, and I was quite certain I've never seen my so-called new owner's name in my entire life. Yes, I had just been sold to a complete stranger.

I was tempted to delete that Human Pets application immediately, which I had previously added without much thought (as with many other FB applications), purely as a favor to a friend who had wanted to earn some points. But I didn't want to offend the poor guy or appear unfriendly to a fellow FB-er. After all, I did put myself up for adoption unwittingly. I deliberated for a while, and decided that I really didn't want to be kept. I clicked on the 'secretly escape' button and the rest is history.

Friends, in case you see a missing pet notice, don't turn me in.

* Pretty Please?

2007-12-09T10:51:00.000+08:00

Grandparents' at Toa Payoh, 1978

Not Really Mothers' Day

2007-12-09T09:30:00.000+08:00

This is something I wrote years ago in my ugly brown jotter book. I rediscovered these thoughts while going through the junk I was about to clear out. Somehow, when I read it again, it seemed like I was reading someone else's words. This is why writing is so fun.

Yesterday was Mother's Day and I hope everyone's moms had a terrific time.

For me, I wished my mom a Happy Mother's Day and had a simple supper with her last night. That was about it, since we are having our weekly dinner with my sister and brother-in-law tonight (as usual Monday is our family day), plus two weeks ago I had already bought her the deepfryer she wanted from Robinson's.

But that is not the point. What I really want to share here is a thought that had dawned upon me in between watching the heartfelt wishes and giant carnation displays on TV.

Why on Mother's Day and not on our birthdays?

Just think about it, a child's birthday should be more significant to a mother because that is also the day that she would think, "Gee, I gave birth to my baby today x years ago!" Probably the most memorable, if not painful, day of her life.

Also, the official Mother's Day date is different on each year (and celebrated on different days throughout the world!), which is such a pain in the a** to remember. It doesn't make a lot of sense at all.

On the other hand, maybe it's just to make the fathers feel better, coz 'third Sunday of June' isn't exactly a breeze either. Now we know.

* Black - The New Red?

2007-12-08T11:24:00.000+08:00

Sahoro, Hokkaido - Dec' 07

Carbon - Would You Buy It?

2007-12-08T08:19:00.000+08:00

No ladies, I am not referring to your diamonds.

It's about the recent Virgin Atlantic move to offer passengers carbon offsets alongside in-flight duty-free items. Although the initiative hasn't taken off in Asia yet, I already wonder if Singaporeans will actually pay a fee for own carbon emissions, or even be remotely interested in how large their carbon footprints are. My guess is, people would probably shrug it off since it's optional. And if the offset is made compulsory, most Singaporeans will see it is a penalty rather than their responsibility, and trust me, they will make a lot of noise. A LOT of it.

It's sad to see how our nation has developed, and how it hasn't at the same time. I always had this rosy picture painted of us being abreast of issues of the world because we have quality media coverage and a large number of highly educated and well travelled Singaporeans. However, it seems to be contrary in reality. Granted, many go through the motion of reading their papers daily, but what information they are picking up is debatable.

The majority of local readers are reading news for updates on what affects them most personally and directly instead of focusing on the fundamental issue. They want to know, say, how a new labor policy is going to affect them. Will they lose their jobs? Will they get a pay increment? But they probably couldn't care two hoots about the social repercussions of a large foreign work force or the extent of our country's widening rich-poor gap. At least not until something tangible takes form.

For a relatively developed nation like ours, such general apathy is actually quite appalling. Maybe it is a syndrome of hardware growing faster than heartware. After all, mindsets take time to develop, and money apparently doesn't take so long to generate, so let's be patient. Take heart, for there is also a strong minority out there who is genuinely concerned about the world and its well being, and doing their best to make a difference. That's all we need, just some belief.

So for the rest who are still unsure, take your time, ponder over your carbons.

* Counting Down to Christmas

2007-12-08T03:31:00.000+08:00

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Blur Queen

2007-12-08T01:04:00.000+08:00

If you recall from my previous blog post, I am also Miss Mess Queen. So that makes me a double-title holder. Sigh. If only this was a beauty contest.

About being Miss Blur, all I got to say is, it really isn't my fault. I am absolutely certain that at some point in time, I was abducted by aliens and hence had my intellectually superior mind altered in some big experiment, leaving me with a half empty skull that has trouble processing memories lasting more than two seconds.

Mmm... What was I saying again?

Ha ha. Alright, things aren't that bad yet, I was just having a little fun writing silly stuff like that. But seriously, I am quite a loser when it comes to remembering things. Big things, small things, they all elude me.

Just barely three days ago, I had left my passport in an airplane seat pocket and conveniently forgot all about it. I then happily swapped seats and spent the next seven hours not realizing what I've done. Fortunately, I always have eagle-eyed friends to watch over me. At the end of the flight when we were all standing up, waiting to leave the plane, Irene coolly walked up to my original seat and pulled out my passport -- leather cover, boarding pass, the entire works. The same thing happened to me another time, also when I was on board a plane and about to disembark. Trusty Huifen pulled my passport out from in-between two seats. On both instances, I swore not to do it again. Obviously, my swearing didn't help at all. I was just as hopeless.

Misplacing items, remembering the wrong names, mixing dates up, misadventures like these happen to me all the time, and I've since gotten used to being a blundering idiot. I just hope I don't frustrate my friends too much.

To you all, thank you for being my guardian angels. Just bear with me until I get a chance to speak to those aliens. I want my brains back.

* Dream House

2007-12-08T01:00:00.000+08:00

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Japanese, Or Not

2007-12-07T08:56:00.000+08:00

I have a strange affinity for Japanese things. It's really not the kind of fervent passion that you see in people chasing the Japanese culture. I'm just not the pursuing type. Rather, it is an innate familiarity that I had somehow developed for a culture that seems so different to many others.

I'm not quite sure how I did it. Maybe I was born with a Japanese gene by mistake, or maybe it was those Japanese beers. Whatever it was, I took it for granted and didn't think too much about it. It was not until I went on this recent media trip to Japan with fellow Singaporeans that I realized just how strange it was for me to be so at home with quirky Japanese ways.

For example, I did not learn how to bow and exchange pleasantries in the Japanese fashion. I simply did. I'd say a quiet "itadakimasu" when I start eating, and "gochisousama" when I finish, even when I eat alone. When it gets cold, I'd let out a "Samu(i)!" under my breathe without thinking. They all seem so natural to me. And I definitely did not grow up taking baths with strangers, but I love to. The practice of communal bath grew so much on me that I began to feel melancholic if I had to take my shower in solitude.

Now there are some truly Japanese things that do not go down so well with me. Take sashimi for example. If you have already read my previous blog posts, you'd have gotten an inkling that Japanese food isn't quite my cup of tea. And if you're thinking, "What about those ramen and stuff?" Let me tell you that ramen is originally Chinese. So are gyoza dumplings. There you go.

So in conclusion, despite having quite a bit of Japanese in me, my stomach is essentially Chinese.

* Cousins' Bonding Day

2007-12-07T01:00:00.000+08:00

East Coast Park, Singapore - Nov'07

Can't Do It For Food

2007-11-10T23:00:00.000+08:00

I don't normally do food reviews for a few really good reasons.

Reason #1: No photos for illustration.

If you are a true foodie, you'd understand my predicament. I have absolutely zero control over my enthusiastic taste buds when confronted with highly delectable food. Out of ten times, I'd forget to take pictures a good eight times. Even if I remembered, it would be a tad too late. Before I can say "cheese!", the damage will have been done, and any enticing presentation of a dish will inevitably be ruined and reduced to an appetite-inhibiting splotch. Garnishes overturned, meat dissected, gravy dribbled all over. Not a pretty sight, especially for a food review.

Reason #2: Lack of recollection of details.

I am not one for note-taking during the course of my meal. In fact, I think that is counter-productive to fully appreciating food. The hand, at the fine moment of food tasting, is for holding cutlery, not stationary; the mind, at the same said moment, is to be experiencing pleasurable sensations, not sidetracking to remember the right spelling for exotic ingredients.

Hence, without the aid of a trusty notebook, it is quite unlikely for me to remember a thing about really good food. I wonder how anyone can. Especially those who can list every single detail from the price of the entire menu down to the types of tableware used in presentation.

Reason #3: Lack of words for description

How do you say something tastes really good, other than saying it tastes really good? Pardon my bluntness but I do find words like oozing (warm chocolate cake), slippery (udon), firm (fish) and bloody (steak) quite disgustingly sexual, or medical, or both.

I don't know about you, but to me, mind-blowing orgasmic food (some people prefer to describe it this way) just ain't something you can recount and retell with precision. (Which is also why I can't understand people who blog about their... ahem, other orgasmic-inducing pursuits.) The joy of eating is an intimate personal experience, quite indescribable in words. You can't just tell someone how good it is, he's got to try it for himself.

So my conclusion is, food bloggers must be food lovers who have remarkable self-control or a remarkable memory. Or they are not real food lovers at all, just people who find eating otherwise too boring. Whatever it is, I know I can never aspire to be one, and I shall count on the goodwill of these industrious people to write good reviews so that I know where to go for my next... errr... pleasurable moment.

* Have the children forgotten about us?

2007-11-10T02:43:00.001+08:00

Inokashira Koen, Kichijoji
Summer, 2007

Lost Things

2007-11-10T01:10:00.000+08:00

I got a little sentimental last weekend when our home was finally sold. Not that I minded the sale; I was eager to move to my spanking new apartment after all. But somewhere deep down inside, it hurt to say goodbye to this familiar place where I grew up in, the safest and warmest I've known so far, for a good twenty-odd years.

At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"

Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.

So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".

The precious thing is no longer mine.

* Do Not Disturb

2007-11-10T01:00:00.000+08:00

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

The Dichotomy of Self

2007-11-09T02:52:00.000+08:00

I am the embodiment of extremes. Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with it.

Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.

Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.

Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.

Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.

As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.

* Colors of Food

2007-11-07T03:50:00.000+08:00

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

Meat, Give Us Meat

2007-11-06T01:20:00.000+08:00

It was a hilarious weekend. What was supposed to be a genteel lunch get-together turned out to be rather disastrous. Six pairs of pretty pumps, three designer handbags, and a smart casual dress code, all waltzing gracefully into the green serenity of a cafe-in-the-park, thinking just how holistic it was to bask in some sun and phytoncide for a change.

Moments later, we fled.

No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.

It was the VEGETABLES.

We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.

NO MEAT.

Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...

So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.

But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.

We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.

Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.

* For Good Luck

2007-09-01T03:56:00.000+08:00

Asakusa, Tokyo - Jun' 07

Up In The Clouds, Those Books

2007-08-31T23:50:00.001+08:00

I have habit, a small pleasure really, to always buy a paperback from the airport bookstore each time I travel. And on its first page, without fail, I'd scribble the date and city of departure before I start reading.

It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.

Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.

So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.

Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.

Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?

Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.

* To Papa

2007-08-26T03:59:00.000+08:00

Tokyo, Japan - Jun' 07

That Day With Dad

2007-08-25T08:36:00.000+08:00

I do not have many fond memories of doing things with my dad. Well, he's great and all, just never very involved in the things I do. Throughout my school years, Mom was the one to depend on. Of course, Dad provided the dough, and all is well.

Being highly independent bordering on being autistic as a kid, I was quite happy sticking to the status quo, but nevertheless always quietly envious of the other kind of father-daughter relationship I watched on TV. You know, the kind where Dad actually plays basketball with Daughter and gives her advice on what to wear to the prom? Yeah, the non-existent kind, at least to me.

Well, there were times when we had moments together, but always with Mom around, making us a wholesome family of three (occasionally five, when my equally wholesome sister and brother-in-law were with us). Other times, we hardly had anything to say to each other. It seemed that I took after Dad, and the two of us alone at home would mean a silence overkill.

So, it was with great apprehension that I welcomed that day which I got to spend some time out with him while my mom thrived in her shopping elsewhere round the globe. Actually, it wasn't even a big deal because we were just supposed to get some official things done at the bank involving a property purchase. We were on task and done within an hour, and because I had to work later in the day, there was effectively only a couple of hours to spare in between.

And what did we do? We shared a Subway sandwich and coffee between us (Dad's first taste of my college staple), window-shopped at a furniture mall and exchanged pointers at an electrical appliance store. It was the best father-daughter bonding day I've had.

My dad is so cool.

* Follow Your Heart

2007-08-25T08:00:00.000+08:00

合歡山, 台灣 - Dec' 06

A Few Things

2007-08-25T07:37:00.000+08:00

Actually, more than a few things. Every time I chance upon a great topic or something memorable, I commit it to memory so that I can perhaps put them down in this blog one fine day. As you can see, that fine day is long overdue and those 'mental notes' just keep piling up.

With keen alikeness to a computer overloaded with too much inconsequential data, my pathetic brain slows down to a pace just marginally faster than my current PC. (Trust me, this is saying a lot.) Well, I have only this many neurons until some smart fellow from the valley finds a way to upgrade my RAM.

In face of such a major brain-stalling catastrophe (actually, my remarkably slow PC bothers me more, but well...), I've decided to take the cue from IT and adopt the 'back up-and-reformat' strategy. All I've got to do now is to start the painfully slow process of backing up -- writing what I've been meaning to, for the longest time.

First, let me recapitulate... ... ... ...

Oh, just great. My mind is stalled and I gotta reboot. See you in a minute.

* Jump!

2007-07-02T04:07:00.000+08:00

Pulau Ubin, Singapore - 1994

Shizen Yoga

2007-07-01T00:27:00.000+08:00

Shizen means nature in Japanese. For the past one week, I have been living au naturel (I mean spiritually, not physically naked or anything) in Kichijoji, attending daily yoga lessons at Shizen Yoga studio B under the guidance of several wonderful instructors.

Kichijoji is a hip little neighborhood in the outskirts of Tokyo with an arty, offbeat culture that results in numerous indie establishments and a slight un-Japanese-ness. From the minute I stepped out of the train station, I knew that a yoga school in this area would be the right way to go.

And indeed, I was right.

The studio is nestled in the quieter side of the neighborhood among quaint little boutiques and private residences, with just a simple grey sign to indicate its presence. I was a little apprehensive as I made my way up the open stairway to the second floor and pulled open the slightly ajarred door, but I soon felt right at home when Sachiko-sensei welcomed me with her bright "konnichi wa".

Studio B, from what I understand, is smaller than studio A and hence caters for smaller classes. There is no shower facilities, in-house snack bars or fanciful fixtures offered by larger chain health clubs, just a simple washroom and a changing area marked by pieces of cloth hanging from the ceiling. A wall-to-wall cupboard stores a good supply of mats, blocks, belts, blankets and bolsters for class participants. The environment is clean, quiet and minimalistic. All the right combinations for pure, unadulated yoga.

And so it was, I was soon breathing and bending at the close supervision of our instructor, together with five fellow participants. Nothing was too easy or too difficult as Sachiko would demonstrate variations of a single pose and then promptly advised us which to follow depending on our level of fitness and flexibility. By the end of my first lesson at Shizen, I was looking forward to my next. I must say, Sachiko really did well to stretch my muscles, as I actually ached quite a bit that night.

In the very same manner, I became student of Madoka and Reiko as well. Though the instructors share a similar philosophy, they have different personalities that shone through in every class. No two classes were the same, as each sensei has their own style and there was always a different focus or a new pose to touch on. Madoka opened me up to an enlightening perspective on yoga and meditation, while Reiko radiated power and confidence through her sturdy moves.

My fellow classmates at Shizen too, made my experience unforgettable. Whether it is sharing thoughts and laughter with each other, attempting to balance hefty butts on our arms or simply lying on our mats in sweaty togetherness toward the end of each session, they were good company and inspiration. There is nothing more motivating than knowing there are great people like these who practise yoga. And as a bonus, I even met a fellow Mac alum - Madoka's sister, Michiru - at Shizen, halfway round the globe from Minnesota. Yes, yoga really does wonders.

As Shizen's founder Dominica puts it, yoga is about the discovery of oneself; I was beginning to discover, bit by bit, my own physical, mental and spiritual state of being through each breathe and step I took. This experience, though totally new to me, felt really comforting and rejuvenating under the wings of Sachiko, Madoka and Reiko.

Thank you to all of you at Shizen for your patience in providing English explanations, your kind words of encouragement, your generous smiles and genuine passion in yoga. I had a truly wonderful time and I hope to be back soon.

* Jewels of Nature

2007-05-26T21:52:00.000+08:00

Sheipa National Park, Hsinchu
Winter 2006

Gadget Girl

2007-05-26T00:12:00.000+08:00

I'm a Gadget girl, in a Gadget world.
Memory sticks, life's fantastic...

Oh yeah, Houston, I have a problem. I'm totally into my gadgets and it's leaving me bankrupt and luvin' it. Well, almost bankrupt, but definitely loving all of it.

Between now and my last blog post on how I was infatuated with the Creative Neeon, then subsequently the iPod Nano (and yes I eventually bought one) , I've managed to amass a good number of high tech toys: a Panasonic digital video camera, an iLuv stereo docking system ipod, a Kensington remote control for wireless presentations, a Sony Ericsson 3G-cum-3.2 megapixel Cyber-shot lens multimedia phone, a Penpower Handwriter - a pen and tablet set for handwritten input, and a Creative 2-in-1 keyboard that has both computer and black-and-white musical keys on it.

Cool huh? You don't think so? Well, I think they're awesome... BUT still, not half as awesome as these items on my current MUST-HAVE list:

Sony VAIO TX56 - For surfing the net and blogging on the go. The free wireless@SG hotspots, its featherweight size (in laptop relativity), and the stylish carbonfibre (the same material that Ferrari cars are made of. I mean, how neat is that?!) casing are perfect reasons why I just have to get one to complete my wardrobe.
Nikon Coolpix S200 - For taking 7.1 megapixel shots on the go. My current 3.2 megapixel phone camera and an antique fat bodied Sony Mavica is just not good enough for serious arty farty types like me. (Not the niftiest one in the market, but hey, that's all I can afford!)
Nokia N95 - For its wireless internet connection and 5 megapixels Carl Zeiss Tessar lens. Now, now, before you start explaining how I do not need the N95 as the Vaio is wifi-enabled and the Coolpix is way ahead in terms of picture resolution, I must remind you, as a blue blooded gadget royalty, that the N95 comes with GPS and maps of various countries. Absolutely essential for survival in this time and age, and beyond.
Apple Airport Extreme Base Station - Just its name alone is gratifying to any gadget enthusiasts. Of course, the best deal is that it allows me to connect all my toys wirelessly with each other, and with the internet. Need I say more?

Hmm, with school out and the Great Singapore Sale kicking in, I better start realizing my dream list one by one.

Good planning. Wish me luck.

* Waiting... waiting...

2007-05-26T00:04:00.000+08:00

Changi, Singapore
May 2007

Cook My Sashimi, PLEASE!

2007-05-18T23:51:00.000+08:00

I pride myself on being a self-made connoisseur of good food.

Misunderstand me not, for I am not a snobbish nor a fussy eater. I've had my fair share of plain tasteless to downright revolting culinary experiences, and I'm actually quite easily contented by simple, unexciting dishes on most uneventful days.

The only thing that makes me a real foodie is my unrelenting passion in finding out about and tracking down good food, wherever it may be. Suspicious looking street side hawker fare in Bangkok, classy Ritz afternoon tea in London, dingy diner breakfast in the States, I've conquered them all. Even in Singapore, I'd travel across the country (albeit a very small one) just for that great Hainanese chicken rice chili dip, or risk getting heat stroke by walking from Orchard to Botanical Gardens in the blazing sun for that rack of lamb roasted to perfection.

Alas, there is one big regret in this gastronomic pursuit of mine. That is, I absolutely hate raw fish. With this revelation, I have a strong urge to weep and bow deeply to the Japanese to apologize for my horrendous inadequacy. I sin, in the eyes of millions of sashimi lovers, each time I gag when I see or smell raw seafood on little wooden plates.

In the unfortunate event of me being force led into a sashimi restaurant, I would have to ask for flasks of hot green tea to wash the slimy fishy mess down my throat, half hoping that the piping heat from the tea would actually flash cook it in split seconds (well, it didn't, but it did cook my throat to a medium rare). If I get lucky, I might be able to get through the night by pretending to concentrate hard on creating the optimal mix of wasabi and soy sauce. Since I'm mostly not a lucky person, I've swallowed quite a variety of raw things (I still can't bring myself to say 'food') to date.

The most memorable (and coincidentally, also the saddest) experience I've had was the time I went to a yakiniku, or BBQ, restaurant in Nagoya. It was a dinner which I had been looking forward to, and it didn't disappoint. Not until the beef liver dish came up. If you know me quite well, you'd know that I'm really crazy about liver. Pork liver, duck liver, goose liver, chicken liver, whatever... At this juncture, I'm sure you're feeling really happy for me, but let me tell you that NO, one does not eat BBQ beef liver in a BBQ restaurant! You eat it raw. Oh yeah, red, dripping wet raw.

Thus, it is with greatest sorrow that I placed a slice of raw beef liver gingerly onto my tongue while miserably watching that lovely BBQ fire crackle in unknowing excitement. I cursed silently as the piece of liver french kissed its way down my throat. To add insult to injury, I had to finish the entire plate as I was sitting at the counter bar where half a dozen Japanese diners had their eyes on me, nodding approvingly at my valiant attempt. And it wasn't even cheap.

To this day, I am still bent on conquering my fear for all things raw, in a bid to become a true gourmet. Once in a while, I'd boldly try a slice of sashimi from my dinner companion's platter, but it will always end in the same fashion - me reaching out for my tea cup frantically just before I throw up.

So, minasan, give me shabu shabu, sukiyaki, tempura, anything. Just keep that sashimi away from me, unless there's plenty of hot green tea. Please.

* Wedding Bells

2007-05-18T23:50:00.000+08:00

Sister's Wedding - Feb' 04

I Have a Sloth for a Sister

2007-05-18T23:49:00.000+08:00

So where shall I begin?

Maybe with a disclaimer, just for my personal safety. For the record, it is in no way derogatory that I call my own blood sister a slow-moving arboreal edentate (meaning almost toothless, if you're curious) mammal that does nothing but attempts to finish chewing two leaves in its mouth before the sun sets... and rises again.

And if it helps, may I also emphasize that she got the lovely nickname from her husband, by absolutely no fault of mine.

Believe it or not, I actually find the term rather affectionate and quite darn cute. It never fails to amaze me how good my sister is in adopting such a surreal tempo. And pray, it is indeed amazing when you consider Ms. Sloth's most un-sloth-like past as an enthusiastic gymnast and athlete in her school days. Those were her golden days of many quick moves and nifty footwork. She could have been Ms. Puma then.

I'm not sure what exactly happened but somewhere down the line (after one marriage and many many pound cakes later), she morphed into what she is today - the human equivalent of a creature that moves so painfully slow that it may as well be in reverse. You'll have to watch her really closely or you'd think she stopped dead midway in her track. Meet her at the start of the day and you'd know what I mean. The true epitome of S-L-O-W.

To be fair, I not a quick person either. It probably runs in the family, where lazing around is a highly desirable pastime. It's just that my sister is at the more extreme end of the BUMMER spectrum. I've got a lot more to catch up.

To Yanni the most successful sloth in mankind and the glory of our family!

* Fashionable Sisters

2007-05-18T23:48:00.000+08:00

Toa Payoh, Singapore - Mid 80's

Every Pi Has Its Day

2007-03-14T22:04:00.000+08:00

Happy π Day to all!

Did I just see you do a double take? Now, blink no more, for it is indeed the Pi Day on this fourteenth day of March! If you've been oblivious to the existence of such a special occasion, fret not! According to my own statistically intelligent guess, for every 1000 people out there,

No. of people who know about Pi ≈ 143π
No. of people who know that there is a Pi Day ≈ 2π
No. of people who know the exact date of Pi Day ≈ π

In case you are interested, π is an irrational real number and is equals to 3.14159 26535 89793 23846 26433 83279 50288 41971 69399 37510 ... ... (it's an infinite decimal expansion, so if you're bored, this can keep you busy for a long time) With that, for those who prefer to work with integers, the above equations translate to just approximately 3 out of 1000 people who are aware that today is Pi Day. Not many celebrate the greatness of this mathematical constant, I must say.

For me, I've just learnt about it barely five minutes ago, and am very glad that we all grow wiser with age, even though I do not have much to do with this magic number anymore. How on earth did anybody figure this critical but deceivingly cute little symbol π out, I really do not know, but I salute them, nonetheless, for giving us this special day. Oh, and by the way, it's physics genius Albert Einstein, and my dear friend Albert Tan's birthday too.

Hap-Pi Birthday to both!

* Come Sit By Me

2007-03-13T11:30:00.000+08:00

Changi, Singapore - May' 07

A Self-Righteous Blogger

2007-03-12T01:04:00.000+08:00

Some people ask me, why do I blog so much about nothing in particular? A very important person (read: my boss) once said that a blog is good and should be encouraged if it provides others with useful information. Well, mine doesn't, considering that it is about "nothing in particular", so I guess it is officially one of those trashy and redundant blogs.

I should be damned.

With due respect, even though this is how they would probably view my blogging business, I do not quite see it in that light. I prefer to think of it as reflective conversations with my inner self, and these conversations take on the form of a blog for very good reasons.

First of all, I do not keep a journal, simply because I have really bad and inconsistent handwriting that is too shameful to leave behind in this world in case I die. Secondly, I think it is rather ludicrous to keep talking to myself, and therefore I'd like my friends to listen in too. Thirdly, I live in the digital age.

And I must stress that I do not write about nothing in particular, even though it is sometimes quite nondescript. In fact, I write about very important things - of love, of hope and of chivalry. In case you've missed all that, then I'm sorry, you're just very dim. No offense.

* Lounge and Relax

2007-03-12T01:00:00.000+08:00

Ubud, Bali - Spring 2004

A Walk In The Woods - An Excerpt

2007-03-11T22:53:00.000+08:00

For all its mass, a tree is a remarkably delicate thing. All of its internal life exists within three paper-thin layers of tissue, the phloem, xylem and cambium, just beneath the bark, which together form a moist sleeve around the dead heartwood. However tall it grows, a tree is just a few pounds of living cells thinly spread between roots and leaves. These three diligent layers of cells perform all the intricate science and engineering needed to keep a tree alive, and the efficiency with which they do it is one of the wonders of life. Without noise or fuss, every tree in a forest lifts massive volumes of water - several hundred gallons in the case of a large tree on a hot day - from its roots to its leaves, where it is returned to the atmosphere. Imagine the din and commotion, the clutter of machinery, that would be needed for a fire department to raise a similar volume of water to that of a single tree. And lifting water is just one of the many jobs that the phloem, xylem and cambium perform.

It is quite a rare occasion for me to stop midway through a compelling book, but I really want to share this with you. It may just be a goofy recollection of Bill Byson's courageous attempt at walking the Appalachian Trail, but if you, like me, have read his works, I'm sure you'll appreciate how he'd always throw in nuggets of seemingly trivial knowledge which are, in fact, most humbling and thought-provoking. I would even go as far as to say, philosophical.

If there is a reason for me to get so sentimental, it's probably because I am the sort of person who live in awe of science. Or rather, of nature. However, as a true urbanite, my stance on the magnificent works of nature have always been just to maintain a respectful distance. I was never really motivated to know more about how their intricate clocks tick. In a way, I am a half-hearted naturalist, one who laments about the declining state of our environment, and yet basks shamelessly in the luxury of the industrialized civilization. And I know, many of you are just like me.

Hence, I feel a pressing need to pause and share some of these little things in the book that bring us back to thinking and feeling what we have not been thinking and feeling for a long time. The trees, the birds, the insects, the raindrops... All that are so insignificant to our daily lives, and yet so unbelievably amazing, and so very crucial to our existence.

At least I think we owe it to them. Let us marvel for a while.

* Silent Night

2007-03-11T01:00:00.000+08:00

Chingjing, Nantou

Winter 2006

Guzzle... Guzzle... Guzzle

2007-03-06T02:46:00.000+08:00

Sob. I miss my beer.

For the record, I am not a recovering alcoholic. I was never an alcoholic to begin with. I am just a social drinker whose beverage of choice happens to have healthy head of foam and plenty of calories.

A brief history of my drinking habit - it duly started when I turned eighteen, the legal drinking age in Singapore. Being still in the midst of weaning off juvenile soft drinks, the natural choice of liquid for me was sweet cocktails with fancy names, which I drank not so much because I enjoy them, but more by default since most of my friends were drinking the same.

One could tell that I wasn't really into them by the way I associate each drink with the mixers - tonic, Coke, juice... rather than associating them with their respective types of liquor. Frankly, I couldn't tell gin from tequila, rum from vodka. Yeah, I was that clueless. I wouldn't even know if someone gave me methanol. Very quickly, I lost interest in liquid concoctions of various kinds, and from then on, there was no looking back. It was only beer for me.

Contrary to popular belief, my beer-loving ways were not a result of my days in the US-and-A, as Mr. Borat calls it. Well, it could be, if I had been living in sunny California or tropical Florida. I was, however, buried knee-deep in the great Midwestern snow, where steaming hot chocolate was the rational way to drink.

Anyway, it was at the royal age of twenty when I got officially inducted into the Empire of Kirin, Asahi and Sapporo. I was fresh in Japan and everyone out there was out to get me drunk. In fact, I think they were out to get everybody else drunk. At dinner parties, I was greeted first with traditional Japanese bows (maybe to apologize in advance) and then basins full of namabiru to shove my face in. It wasn't that difficult, really. Once you're halfway through, the i-ke, i-ke chants sound like heaven harps playing under water. Or maybe, I was just drowning in beer.

Soon, I was addicted. Beer time was equated with friends, laughter and many silly games to boot. As my alcohol threshold became higher and my face redder, I slowly perfected the art of coupling beer with yakitori, ramen, okonomiyaki, edamame... It was culinary at its highest. At least, it was the kind of art that I could deal with.

Now, back in Singapore where beer is more expensive and yet less entertaining, I have cut down on my beer binging ways. In fact, it had come to a complete halt since my asthma came back last year. That is why I moan about missing my beer, missing the way I guzzle it down and let out a big "aaahhhh...." of satisfaction.

Well, I'll just have to make do with my diet Coke for now. At least there is no beer belly to worry about.

Bottoms up!

* Each Blooms in Her Own Time

2007-03-06T01:00:00.000+08:00

Hsinchu, Taiwan - Dec 2006

Things Fall Apart

2007-03-06T00:58:00.000+08:00

I've studied Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe's novel of the same title when I was in secondary school. While most of my classmates hated it, I have to say that it had some kind of emotional impact on me. What exactly is was, I couldn't tell then, but I was deeply grieved. Somehow, the strange Igbo African dialect rang with natural melancholy.

I remember most clearly, the scene in which Okwonko decides that his chi, along with the rest of his tribe, has deserted him, and he hangs himself. From a man of bravery, to a man of lonely death, there is no sorrier destitution than the betrayal of his own kind. The betrayal against his every belief, all that have long been forsaken by his own people. And that, is just because Okwonko's world has changed. Changed for the better, some may say. Or maybe, simply changed because nothing doesn't.

Change isn't sad. Hopelessness is. And hopelessness, I dare say, comes from within, when one perceives that he has been deserted, when it is he who has walked away.

I believe that things fall apart. They all do. But I do also believe that things come back together too. If you'd just hang around long enough for it to happen, and amuse yourself in the meantime, things ain't all that gloomy. Now, if only Okwonko knows better.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world
- William Butler Yeats

* The Ideal Class Size

2007-02-24T11:52:00.000+08:00

Two students.

5 Patience - Oct' 06

I Lied

2007-02-23T21:42:00.000+08:00

Samantha, you'll be okay.

Actually, I didn't know if she was really going to be okay. For a split second, I even thought she might die. There she was, eyes rolled over, body cramped and twitching, with vomit spilling from one side of her mouth onto the pages of her activity book. The cutest little girl in my Primary One class looked frighteningly ill. And all I could do is to tell her something I wasn't even sure of. Don't worry, you'll be fine, and Mommy will be here soon.

So much for my years of first aid training. Really, years. Three as a student police cadet, two as an outdoor activities instructor (Christ, I even gave a first aid lecture to student leaders), and another training as a certified Red Cross volunteer. Yet I was so distressed know not how else to help the poor girl except to call the office for help.

I tried to carry her out, but she was too stiff. I couldn't insert anything in her mouth to prevent her from biting her tongue, as I couldn't even pry her clenched teeth apart. She was burning with fever and all I could do was to wipe her down with wet tissue. I never felt more anxious and helpless in my entire life. I felt totally useless.

Looking at the girl now, bubbly and healthy again as she once was, I am relieved, but also guilt ridden. I dread to think of what the whole episode may have developed into instead. I wasn't the reliable teacher who could protect her. I was just a liar who got very lucky by God's grace. And I realize, I've got a long way to go from here.

Samantha, I'll work hard on being Teacher, I promise.

* Pray for Blessings

2007-01-01T03:24:00.000+08:00

Ubud, Bali

Spring, 2004

On this 31st Day of December

2006-12-31T20:19:00.000+08:00

I thought that this last day of the year is just too significant for me not to write about it. Especially when almost everyone is out there somewhere ready for the big countdown. If I have reason to stay home alone, it has got to be something as good as writing a solemn, thought-provoking piece, and not blatant laziness.

But what should I write about? I do not have much to say on the closure of this year, nor do I have exciting plans lined up for the coming one. After all, I have quite established my reputation for being the-one-without-plans.

Come to reflect on it, maybe my new year resolution should involve some kind of plan, even though my past experience tells me that planning or no planning makes no difference to new year resolutions. They are never meant to be realized. How else do you think we can keep coming up with new year resolutions year after year? If you do not believe me, just see how many 2007 new year resolutions you have that are similar to those in your list this same time last year...

Nevertheless, I have decided that as a mature, responsible adult who is taking a big step into the next stage of life, I need a plan, which is as follows:

- I will be neat and tidy around the house and at work.
- I will do my yoga and running religiously everyday. Oh well... every alternate day.
- I will cut down on snacks and sugared drinks. And greasy food, and synthetic flavorings, and...
- I will put on sunblock and some makeup when I go out, at least when I go downtown.
- I will put in effort to dress up, and stop wearing the clothes I keep wearing repeatedly.
- I will be more careful in what I say, and stop making silly social boo-boos.
- I will stop losing things.
- I will stop forgetting to bring things.
- I will remember things.
(and lastly, the most treacherous one...)
- I will save $$$.

Wow, it's amazing just how satisfying making a plan is. I think I'd better take a rest before my new year starts. Got lots to accomplish...

Happy New Year!

* Nice Buns!

2006-12-31T01:02:00.000+08:00

Joo Chiat, Singapore - Feb' 04

Fly and Take Me Places

2006-12-30T00:51:00.000+08:00

A tribute to the good people in the aviation business.

Oh, and especially dedicated to TK, my beloved brother who has finally gotten his wings and proved himself Ray Bans-worthy... Congrats!

You know, when you say how a man's medicine could be another man's poison, it's the same for airplanes.

For those who travel distances, the plane is probably the best invention ever known to mankind. I'm one of them who think quite so, despite the fact that I absolutely hate every ear-popping minute strapped up there with nothing but great masses of mist. For the frequent flyer that I have become -- previously for studies, then for work, and now simply for pleasure -- air travel has become a normality. It is impossible to imagine a world without airplanes anymore.

But for the rest of the world's population who never had the need, the urge, the guts or the means to stash money on a few hours' worth of fast moving transport in a two feet wide space, the airplane is then probably one big piece of metallic crap that uses up way too much of the world's precious resources.

Well, I can totally see their point. In fact, at this very moment I'm jetting away for the nth time on an airplane, I feel so overly indulgent that I am a tad apologetic toward the feet-firmly-planted-on-ground folks. By the same token, I wonder if the thrust-worthy guys over at NASA feel the same toward us lowly, gravitated earthlings too when they blast off to outer space.

Alright, back to my point. The point is, if you have not gotten it already (and I do not blame you if you haven't, considering that you're listening to a person who, technically speaking, has her head in the clouds at this moment), is that I love my airplanes. Airplanes big or small, airplanes long or short haul.

The funny thing is, I had never put much thought about an airplane in my entire life until just minutes ago when my flight was preparing for take off, and I had pressed my face against the tiny aircraft window to see four other airplanes of various sizes waiting in line behind ours. There they are, with their respective carrier colors and logos proudly emblazoned on their bodies, these powerful creatures carry a somewhat elegant, yet secretly haughty demeanor, not unlike their prettily groomed crew.

As I have mentioned, I do not enjoy being couped in thousands of feet above sea level. The level of discomfort is on par with being in a dentist's chair. However, quite ironically, I take great pleasure in the fact that I've flown with them. Them... the planes... The Big Guys, as I call'em.

In case you are wondering what on earth the cabin pressure had done to make me sprout so much senseless gibberish, let me draw a parallel -- it's about the camaraderie between me and the airplanes. It's like fighting a battle alongside the general whom you admire. Yes, I WORSHIP airplanes.

I worship their ability to fly and take people places. Through thunderstorms, blizzards, roller coaster turbulence, they almost never fail in their job. I worship them for the fact that about a million people a day entrust their precious lives to them. They carry on them, academic minds of students, profitable prospects of businessmen, and even hopes of miracles of patients with various health conditions, jetting them off to the land where their dreams may come true. Or, perhaps true for most other frequent fliers, simply ferrying weary travelers home, to where their loved ones are patiently waiting. Such is the lofty job description of these mean machines.

I continue to count my blessings each time I get to fly and witness that great responsibility upheld and delivered upon every arrival to all who silently pray in their seats, a smooth, safe touchdown.

Thank you, and it has always been a pleasure flying with you, Mr. Aeroplane.

* Bee Busy

2006-12-08T12:06:00.000+08:00

Home, Singapore - Oct, 06

I Love My Friends!

2006-12-07T22:35:00.000+08:00

Lest you think I'm a sentimental tree-hugging romantic. One who will buy Forever Friends bears for every friend's birthday.

Nope, I'm so not.

On the contrary, I'm quite a cat. And I thank the deities that my dearest pals take my affectionate, albeit naughty, nips and scratches (figures of speech, not literally!) with plenty of tolerance and huge doses of humor. It's these people I safely call my friends who are good enough to take my crap. Not just any crap. Real intense crap.

Friends, to mean that special circle of four, a clique we call it The Support Group. And friends we've been for a good two decades (close!) : HF, XF, YB and myself, not really by choice, but more by natural default due to frightening similarities in our beliefs and personalities.

Oh, and before I offend the other darrrrlings whom I failed to mention, you do not qualify mainly because unlike us fabulous foursome, you are either married and therefore too busy to spend time bemoaning little absurdities with us, or you are out there spending too much time trying to get married, therefore resisting any force that may somehow land you in The Support Group. (You should get an inkling of how the group works by this far... not unlike Alcoholic Anonymous...)

Yes, we are helpless feminists.

A paradox, you'd say, but nevertheless real. This is how: one of us is a walking magnet for undesirable foreign men. Another one has the hots (OK, maybe just innocent admiration) for mature, married but unavailable men. Yet another has her undying love pledged only for The Man with the Guitar and the Beer Bottle. As for the last one, gee, I don't know... she never figured it out.

And so it goes... we strong, independent females spend weekends together doing nothing but fretting over our men, real or not. It's slightly depressing, but actually very therapeutic to be just sitting around over tea and desserts while we ponder who's next to leave this oh-so-exclusive group.

Girls, what do I do without you! I might have never said it, but I really love all of you very very much, and I'd rather be with you gals than anywhere else on a Saturday night! But, ahem ... it's just that maybe, we could do this WITH the guys instead? Let's really try...

Before then, here's to the power of four!

* Celebrating Mid-Autumn...

2006-11-11T14:53:00.000+08:00

... with mooncakes, champagne, and a little bit of haze.

Emerald Hill, Singapore
Mid-Autumn, 2006

God Save the Monkeys

2006-11-07T23:58:00.000+08:00

Anger. Agitation. Sympathy. Sadness. Disappointment. Fear. And more anger.

This was cycle of emotions that I felt when I read, with much disgust, at the plight of the orangutans in Indonesia. In a nutshell, the poor primates are being driven out of their homes by ravaging fires in forests of Sumatra and Borneo, many burnt to death or injured and blinded in the deliberate disaster. For the orangutans which escaped the thick smoke, blistering flames and searing heat of their ruined habitats into the supposedly safer civilisation of mankind, they were instead subjected to further infliction of pain as men armed themselves with machetes, attacking every "encroaching" monkey they see.

I shudder to see photos of their fearful expression in the newspapers, and I shudder to think of how many more orangutans may be out there unknown to the ill fate that is awaiting them.

Please, wake up! How many more forests do these people have to burn down before they are realize that they are treading precariously on a fine line between existence and extinction. Not only of monkeys, nor the thousands of forest animals which are in real danger this very moment. But of this deteriorating earth that we all live, breathe and feed on.

Of course, I do not foolishly hope that the subsistent farmers and mercenary plantation companies in Indonesia care about what I, or anyone else, may think of them. However, it does not mean that I, or anyone else for that matter, should then shut up and do nothing about it.

Perhaps it is a reminder for us to reflect on our own ways, and ask ourselves if we are treading that fine line too.

God save the monkeys, and let us try to save them too.

* An Attempt at Photoshop Artistry

2006-09-09T13:51:00.000+08:00

Indulge Me

2006-09-01T14:31:00.000+08:00

Yesterday, for the very first time in my life, I celebrated Teachers' Day as a teacher. To be honest, I wasn't quite prepared for all that attention I was to receive, and nearing the end of the school celebrations when the girls all shouted "Happy Teachers' Day!", tears actually welled up in my eyes.

Call me a sentimental fool, but I am truly touched.

It all started early in the day, when assembly had bared started. I saw several students sneak up one by one to their respective teachers to give them their T-Day gifts, and felt mildly envious. As a new teacher, I was rather anxious about the whole gift-receiving affair. Like any other teacher in the world, we do really mean it when we say, "the best present you can give me is to be a good student." However, blame it on our less-then-perfect human nature to worry when we do not receive as much attention as the teacher-next-door on this special day. Do my students hate me? Do they respect me? Am I even considered a teacher in their eyes?

So imagine the insecurity in me when I see the teacher seated next to me receiving present after present. I had none yet.

It was only after receiving the first gift (regrettably, I have failed to remember which student it was from) that I felt marginally relieved. Soon, the gifts started to trickle, and then pour in. Before I knew it, the two empty seats beside mine were bursting with flowers, cards and colorful packages. It was almost as if Christmas had arrived early. Suddenly, I felt quite overwhelmed, and slightly embarrassed to be showered with that much attention.

With the morning assembly and the ACES Day (it was also the national-wide All Children Exercising Simultaneously Day) event well over, I staggered into the staff room, half-exhausted, half-invigorated by my students' display of affection. As I stumped into my seat, looking at the messy heaps of gifts on my desk, it struck me. I AM a TEACHER.

As the day progressed, more gifts poured in, and at last count, a fellow teacher in the afternoon session informed me that there are more on my desk, apparently from students after I had left for the day.

That night, while I sat in my living room reading each card, tearing up gift wrappers and unveiling the content of the packages, the "I AM a TEACHER" thought became stronger and stronger, and never before had I felt more pride, responsibility and love for my students.

Try as I might to remember the faces of students who came up to me with their gifts and well-wishes, everything was a blur and I could hardly match a single gift with a face. Never mind, I appreciate every single thought. Gifts are immaterial.

To the students who saved each penny to buy a gift, thoughtfully wrote each word in your card and painsakingly wrapped each present, teacher wants to say a big "Thank you!" to you. I love you all.

To the students who didn't get me any, I still say, the best present you can give is to be a good student. Honestly. And I love you too.

* Christmas Came Early

2006-09-01T01:03:00.000+08:00

Teacher's Day, 2006

My Lord, What a Din!

2006-08-10T14:59:00.000+08:00

Tuxes, lime green socks and a goofy sense of humor. That was the repertoire that the sensational Harvard Din & Tonics, an all-male a cappella group from the Harvard-yes-THAT-Harvard University, presented to Singapore on its National Day eve.

I was there that night at the Esplanade with three fabulous singer-friends - Huifen, Xiufeng and Chronos, who are almost as talented in music and comedy as those twelve funny ruffians (they called themselves that), and even bumped into a colleague who had watched the Dins last year and assured that they were 'very good'.

Nice. I was looking forward to hearing them for my very first time. Especially after a frustrating start to the evening.

You see, it was also a National Day fireworks night at the very location, with the fanfare set to go off the same time as their all-American performance. As you can pretty much imagine, the rest of Singapore jam-packed the entire City Hall/Suntec/Marina Bay area, with the Esplanade being smacked right in the heart of things. Thank God the four of us managed to squeeze through to the recital hall just before the performance started, but a good number of the audience were rather late, possibly due to the bad human and vehicle traffic.

Despite the less-than-stellar pre-concert experience, I must say that the boys were quite brilliant in their own rights. There was no question about their vocal prowess, but what was more captivating was their ability to tickle a somewhat mature and straight-faced audience while they sing to a perfect pitch. Whether it is their boyish looks (I'm referring to those few who have it, but to those who haven't, they are cute in their own right...), their hilarious improvisation antics (like the one of the Michelangelo masterpiece. Who ever thought that you can physically mimic a painting?) or their tongue-in-cheek moments talking about academic inadequacies, unrequited loves, and of course, the night's dazzling fireworks which every one of us in the recital hall missed. All for the sake of music.

So, amidst tapping our feet to the tunes of Blue Skies, Blah Blah Blah and My Lord, What a Morning, we were left clutching our sides from laughing too much. Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's what I call entertainment. Now, if only we can see the fireworks going off at the same time...

Perhaps next year? You bet.

* I'm a Heartlander

2006-08-08T12:16:00.000+08:00

Serangoon, Singapore - Aug' 05

Guilty As Charged

2006-08-06T19:54:00.000+08:00

Warning: This is not a happy post and should be avoided if you are, in anyway, even remotely depressed.

The past two weeks had been a little too much for me to bear, if not for my best-friend-and-evil-twin-sister Siewhong's timely companionship (including food, booze, loud music, and lots of senseless laughter) which tided me over.

The problem with me is that I'm one wide-eyed wonder, way too cheery to confront negativity. Not that I don't understand negativity, it's just... I don't understand why some people embrace it.

Take my cousin for example, she has everything she needs and all that she wants, save for a miscalculated career move some four years ago that has had some serious repercussions on her social and mental state of well-being, to the extent of being suicidal. To me, I'd probably say, so what. But to her, this episode has pinned her down and driven her deep into the doldrums. Maybe it's like clearing hurdle after hurdle but never reaching the finishing line. That, I can understand, and can sympatize with. But that, I cannot face.

It pains me a great deal to see her suffering, struggling to get out of that pit, while I look on so helplessly. Frankly, I do not know how to help her, despite showing a brave front and dishing out what I think is good advice. Her situation depresses me so much that I am avoiding it altogether, because I do not know what I can do for her anymore. To think she trusted me and came to me for help before she tried to jump off a building or swallowed pills. I should be so ashamed.

For now, I am trying. Trying hard to help her, and to help myself at the same time, coz I have realized that maybe, I am the one who is in denial. Maybe, I am the one who cannot cope with negativity. Just maybe, I am not as happy as I think I am.

* Twenty Ways to Say "I'm Vain"

2006-08-06T01:35:00.000+08:00

A chronical of Ms. Hypewriter's valiant (and futile) efforts to remake herself over the years.

Braveheart

2006-08-03T20:39:00.000+08:00

It's insane. I work close to 12 hours everyday, five days a week, sometimes with a complimentary Saturday morning thrown in for good measure, and yet it always seems like the entire PL teaching force works harder than me.

Well, to be fair, I don't take lunch or tea breaks. I don't partake in small talk with my colleagues. And I am always fast on the move, multi-tasking between full-blast lessons, desk-ridden marking and a whole list of miscellaneous chores. Yet, piles of books sit on my desk each day, as if silently mocking my incompetence.

In fact, PILES and PILES of books sprawl across every single desk in the staff room, as teachers shuffle in and out everyday, demoralized, defeated and destroyed, but nonetheless fearless enough to soldier on without as much as a second thought.

Sounds pretty bad huh? Well, on the contrary, I think it's great, because I actually do like my job, and I like it a great deal. As the saying goes, you can never conquer the books, but you do conquer the little minds.

And by the way, that saying was from me. Heh.

* Published Travel Article - Taipei

2006-06-10T15:33:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Jul 2006

* Published Travel Article - Taipei (cont'd)

2006-06-10T15:32:00.000+08:00

When Mate Turns Into Mom

2006-06-05T02:42:00.000+08:00

I'm not sure when exactly my friendship with Huiann developed into what it is today. To begin with, Huiann was such a model student back then in school, so much so that it seemed like protocol to be engaged with her just as such - hardworking, disciplined, saccharin sweet; just a trifle too proper for someone as un-decent (not indecent though) as me.

Looking back, I guess our rough VJC-ODAC days had built good foundation there. After all, you don't go through two years of frolicking in dirt, seawater and sweat with a person and simply end up being just regular friends. And I'm not even exaggerating.

Perhaps it was that moment when I foolhardily jumped onboard that malam express train with her, secretly discussing our Mission America as the train chugged fervently towards her hometown Kuala Lumpur. It was from each other, I supposed, that we garnered the courage to seek further education some 9000-plus miles away from home despite parental objections.

Or maybe it was the occasional phone call we'd give each other, whether across states (she in New York, and I in Minneapolis then) or across continents (she still in the States, and I somewhere in Asia later on). In between us, there was a comforting sense of camaraderie that I never shared with anyone else.

Whatever it was, it developed into a sisterhood that remains fast and strong, notwithstanding our lack of contact in recent years. In fact, it seemed just like yesterday when we settled in our sleeper bunks to KL, when we caught up for a few minutes through a glass panel at the Changi Airport transit area, when you introduced us to Kengo for the first time, when I literally got you on your knees at your wedding tea ceremony, and when you had that weird little bulge in your tummy and had to wear jeans that wasn't button-fly but elastic-band...

And good grief, it has been ten years since that fateful train ride. Ten years on, nothing has changed for me, but you, (gasp) you have turned from Huiann-the-mate to Huiann-the-mom. It's like you have a PhD in life and I'm still stuck at Survival 101. Well, heck, I don't really care, except that I feel really happy for you, it's like watching a movie with a happily-ever-after ending and coming out eager for the sequel (where you get the baby and all that...)

I don't really know why I'm saying all these, but I guess it's just my way of saying "Great Job, Mom!" and to let little Erisa know that she's got a helluva mother.

* Light Up My Life

2006-04-04T12:21:00.000+08:00

Little India - Deepavali 2006

Training

2006-03-17T01:58:00.000+08:00

This post is just a light-hearted take on my precious teaching career and is not meant to be taken seriously. So pupils, spare thy teacher. And MOE, please don't prosecute me.

It took me seven months of hard work at NIE before this funny little thought crossed my mind.

In fact, it was a copy of Behavioral Modification notes that did it for me. I realized we are a bunch of kid manipulators in training, not unlike zoo-keepers or circus-trainers.

Well, not that it is a bad thing after all. Young children nowadays... you'd wish they were made with some sort of embedded remote control. Better yet, let them run on DC so that we can take the batteries out once in a while! Teachers gotta do what we gotta do -- set spoilt-brats and cry-babies straight by learning various important-sounding Educational Psychology methods. Give them a reward when they are behaving well, and ignore their nonsense to extinct their behavior. Yeah, it's really just pet-handling. (Do not quote.)

BUT, it's not as simple as it sounds. As with any self-respecting high-risk vocation (yes, teaching is a dangerous affair, ask any practising teacher) we must first be trained under the supervision of a world-class faculty (read: probably ex-teachers who had spent years under the torture of their wards, and now redirecting their energy to help others battle evil students instead.)

And of course, place our campus in an unbelieveable location at the western-most point of Singapore. Good heavens, it is so goddamn far that I can travel to Malaysia and clear the customs in less time than it takes for me to reach home. I suppose they just wanted to make sure that no school kid can come near enough to know what child-handling spells they have been teaching their teachers. But then again, a dreadfully slow bus service and a mind-numbling MRT ride daily is all it takes for us to forget everything that we've learnt. So there, relax, kids.

Ahh, and food. They feed us revolting food on campus so that we will eventually learn to appreciate the art of fine dining in future school canteens. How thoughtful. Acquired taste for 50-cents siewmai and cheechongfun: check.

It's all a massive effort to prep us for The Unbearable Madness of Teaching. Now that I'm the midst of my teaching practicum, I've begun to appreciate what the Institute had given me, even though I can't remember a thing at the back of my thick skull when kids are poking each other's eyes and making animal noises in class. At the very least, I know I have those Behavorial Modification notes in my locker.

Phew!

* Foundation of a Nation

2006-03-15T12:25:00.000+08:00

Istana, Singapore - Jan' 05

Adieu

2006-02-12T22:34:00.000+08:00

Time flies. No, maybe fly is not a good enough adjective. Time rockets.

I can't believe that it had been almost eight months since I started my teacher training course.
I can't believe that I had survive two semesters of intensive pedagogical and curricular modules. I can't believe that I am really going to step into a classroom to teach.
You mean, I am a teacher??!!

It's all rather sad, really. I hate to leave NIE. This, despite the fact that I have to endure the long commutes to and from campus. Afterall, there is a bunch of fun and spirited coursemates to share that horrible MRT ride with, to pack together like sardines on a 199 service bus, and to go through the thick-and-thins of preparing for presentations after presentations, assignments after assignments, all for the sake of being a qualified, and hopefully, also a competent professional educator. Competent enough, at least, to survive the unknowns that behold in schools. Shudder.

I will miss all of you:

My GESL-mates who have shared many grumbles and frustrations initially, and then lots more fun and supportive moments, especially at our VERY SUCCESSFUL camp. (I just had to BOLD that part.)

My Chinese specialization coursemates and classmates, who have infected me with their passion for the language, and for those witty moments that made learning so much easier. Special thanks to my groupmates. I could not have done this without you! Collaboration at its best!

My other module-mates, thank you for selflessly sharing all that you've got. I feel as if I've had a lifetime of classroom teaching after listening to all your experiences. You guys have just given me a good headstart there.

My lecturers and tutors, you have all inspired me to give everything I have to education, just like you have given yours. I will never forget what you have done for us.

With this, adieu NIE. Till we meet again.

* Long Lost Pal

2006-02-12T07:30:00.000+08:00

If you see this, contact me...

St. Anthony's Convent, Singapore - Mid 80s

Stress-Buster

2006-02-11T02:26:00.000+08:00

Some people blog to relieve boredom. I blog to relieve stress. Strange as it may sound, I always have the biggest urge to post something here when I'm at the peak of my work cycle. No matter how near a dateline is, or how high my workload piles up in front of me, I'd find time to log online and type away.

And it's happening right now. I have two presentations, two papers and an exam due next week, which means I really should be looking at a Word or Powerpoint window right now, not this one that says Internet Explorer. What to do, I need to tell the world that I am busy and stressed out right now, OK?

So the next time you see a new post on my blog, remember that I'm not loafing around. I've got plenty on my hands and the pressure is running high. Which reminds me, I've got to go back to my Word and Powerpoint windows. Now God help me.

Practicum Posting

2006-02-11T02:10:00.000+08:00

It has been decided. I'm going to do my teaching practicum at PL**S. Looks like I am destined to go to all-girls' schools my whole life. Some things never change.

* Published Travel Article - Japan

2006-01-27T23:32:00.000+08:00

Simply Her, Feb 2006

* Published Travel Article - Japan (cont'd)

2006-01-27T23:31:00.000+08:00

Warfare

2006-01-09T04:11:00.000+08:00

Yes, you heard my battle calls. I'm going on war and it's no laughing business.

OK, I am sick la. You heard my coughs and sniffs, more likely.

Not deliriously sick, but sick enough to have stayed at home over the weekend and as a result, missed a birthday party, a stag night (why am I invited anyway?) and worse, my sister's invitation to drop by her home to pick up free cosmetics.

See, I am THAT ill.

The irritating thing about this current flu bug, is that it has bogged me down for some weeks now. Some serious bug, really! And to top it off, this workaholic works without a schedule. My condition swings erratically from being absolutely bubbly and well, to being confined in the pits and in my bed, with just a box of Kleenex for company.

Well, not that I am complaining, since I am partly responsible for my own state of well-being. You see, from Dec 10 right up to Jan 2, I have been putting my health at stake by having way too much fun. It was of course no joke that I had to start school on the very next day. To add insult to injury, the very next day = my birthday, which was, by the way, also my last twenty-something-th birthday. Sniff. Sob. WAHHHHH...

Frankly, starting 2006 in such less than desirable condition did shake me up a little. I have since learnt my lesson and decided to make health my top priority in my days ahead. Having fun will, unfortunately, have to take the second spot in my grand list of resolutions.

With this, I declare that I will devote my every living moment henceforth to making The Flu Bug miserable and wishing that it had never lived.

Medicine, vitamins, bring them on!

* Never Too Many Girls

2006-01-08T12:35:00.000+08:00

Nieces Rachel and Ryanne

Ang Mo Kio, Singapore - Aug' 06

Sob Stories

2006-01-07T05:01:00.000+08:00

An interesting fact about me is I almost never cry, but when I do, it is usually because of really weird things.

I remember when I was in secondary school, when we had to bid farewell to some relief teacher or retiring teacher (I don't even remember) and everyone was tearing like nobody's business, I stood blinking, dry-eyed and feeling very ridiculous about the scene others were making.

Another incident I recall was the one featuring my face-to-face, skin-to-skin encounter with my worst nightmare - the house lizard (believe me, I could withstand a few fat leeches sucking my life out of me, or capturing a flying cockroach with my bare hands, but when it comes to lizards, I'd rather die). I was happily digging into my box of leftover chocolate bits and munching away when the cursed little reptile fell out of it, onto my hand. I think I screamed so loud that the entire Serangoon estate could hear me, but nevertheless, I did not cry.

Then, there was this time when I had to kill a chicken with my bare hands and dig its intestines out from the butt-side. I didn't cry too. Instead, I laughed a little and unfortunately got caught on camera, thus earning me the royal title of THE DAREDEVIL.

However, I cry at the most unbelievable things. Or rather, I should say that things simple and mundane move me the most. Usually, it'll be something like a Kleenex ad, a folk song, or just a random scene from a comedy. I would sometimes be strangely moved to tears too when I see a lone bird in flight, a few kittens playing with one another, or an old man peddling ice-cream. Once in a long while, I would just lie on my bed and start to cry non-stop for no reason at all. Must be my quirky way of relieving stress, I don't know...

One sure way to start me sobbing away almost immediately is when I think of my parents. I become extremely vulnerable when they come into the picture. So, it's good that I am back under the same roof with them, and hence not having to miss them too much.

So you see, so much for those till-death-do-us-apart Korean dramas or sob-till-you-drop Qiong Yao romance novels. They are just no match against two jolly old folks; or an elderly street hawker; or a single bird. Not even a box of tissue.

I say, what touches the heart, is what is in the heart itself. No more, no less. Go figure.

* Always Put Up a Good Fight...

2006-01-07T04:00:00.000+08:00

... even if it's against your twin sister.

Pacific Bay, Taiwan - Oct' 01

I Love Rock N' Roll

2006-01-07T03:54:00.001+08:00

I hate the fact that I look like a proper law-abiding citizen. I dislike the superficial Ms. Decent skin that I was born in. I wish I can look like a rocker. An angst-ridden, tough-as-steel rock star in leather.

If you are thinking, "Wow, I would never have guessed", then you probably don't know me very well.

You have probably never heard me at KTV.
You have probably never seen me at rock concerts.
You have probably never witnessed how I scream at my students.

Yes, my favorite movie is School of Rock.
And yes, I ever sang and dance to Elvis' songs with a comb in hand.
I ever cried with my mom when John Lennon was murdered.
I cried again with my sister when Beyond's lead singer fell off the stage and died.
I ever really wanted to marry Jon Bon Jovi.
I ever imagined I could play the guitar like The Edge in U2.
I ever spent SGD$50 on a Japanese CD by Spitz.
I even know all the lyrics to Mayday's hokkien songs (and I'm not even Hokkien).

In other words, I am a multilingual rock chick. Love and peace.

* Kanpai!

2005-12-25T10:08:00.000+08:00

Underaged drinking? - Summer 1997