The Worst Thing About Traveling Solo

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!

Birthday chocolates from Confiseur Läderach. Yum!

Nagano to Gifu, Edo Style

"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

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

Drink a Glass of Tradition

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

Hong Kong International Airport - Sep'08

Published Work - Club Med Sahoro

Simply Her, Aug 2008

* What Goes Around Comes Around

London Eye, UK - Summer 2001

An Abandoned Sail

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.

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

Simply Her, Feb 2008

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

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Kids' Musical Toys

Simply Her, Feb 2008

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

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Touched

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

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?

Grandparents' at Toa Payoh, 1978

Not Really Mothers' Day

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?

Sahoro, Hokkaido - Dec' 07

Carbon - Would You Buy It?

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

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Blur Queen

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

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Japanese, Or Not

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

East Coast Park, Singapore - Nov'07

Can't Do It For Food

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?

Inokashira Koen, Kichijoji
Summer, 2007

Lost Things

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

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

The Dichotomy of Self

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

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

Meat, Give Us Meat

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

Asakusa, Tokyo - Jun' 07

Up In The Clouds, Those Books

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

Tokyo, Japan - Jun' 07

That Day With Dad

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

合歡山, 台灣 - Dec' 06

A Few Things

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!

Pulau Ubin, Singapore - 1994

Shizen Yoga

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

Sheipa National Park, Hsinchu
Winter 2006

Gadget Girl

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:

1. 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.
2. 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!)
3. 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.
4. 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...

Changi, Singapore
May 2007

Cook My Sashimi, PLEASE!

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

Sister's Wedding - Feb' 04

I Have a Sloth for a Sister

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

Toa Payoh, Singapore - Mid 80's

Every Pi Has Its Day

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

Changi, Singapore - May' 07

A Self-Righteous Blogger

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

Ubud, Bali - Spring 2004

A Walk In The Woods - An Excerpt

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

Chingjing, Nantou

Winter 2006