We walked to Bondi for an early dinner. It was rather overcast and chilly yesterday evening, and we were getting fairly bored in the office so at 4pm, we decided we needed to do something different. We packed up our lap tops, walked the 15 minute downhill walk home, dumped our computers and put on our walking shoes. We were on the Eastern Coastal walk heading out to Bondi by 4.30pm. It was perfect walking weather. And so we talked the whole 90 minute walk. We talked about our work, where we intended to submit a paper we are working on together. We talked about D's presentations in December and how we needed to call the travel agent to confirm our flights. We wondered if it is possible that D's neighbours at the office are able to hear him fart. The walls are thin. But how thin? How do we test the ability for sound to travel from one office to another? I asked him what he wanted for Christmas. He said me. I told him I want a pony. He said he will put it on his to do list. We wondered what ponies eat. We discussed the results of the recent Australian Idol grande finale, how disappointed we are, and the show's revenue stream. We talked about the reported fund overhang in North America and the LPs such as Sequoia cashing in on Google. We analysed D's animosity towards his family, and his guilt over his animosity. We analysed my ability to let things go, but yet my elephant like memory when it comes to certain things. We talked until we located a restaurant where we could have a nice cold beer before dinner on the North side of Bondi. As we sipped our beers, we watched in silent awe the dedicated surfers pushing themselves out into the water, waiting to catch the waves as the sun sets in the horizon. We looked up together as the waiter tells us about the day's special, so many of them, from the Sydney Oyster entrees to the Special Seafood platter to share. We realised that we had order at least one of the specials considering the effort Mr Waiter had probably put in to memorise the number of Oysters and Bugs in the seafood platter, and the fact that he would have regurgitate his speech so many times through the night...

We shared our mains, sipped our beers, and enjoyed the end of yet another good day together.

Munchies

I am munching on jam tarts and some other type of cookie that my Mum orders from a lady in Taman Tun for Raya for as long as I can remember. It is very nutty and sweet. Have no idea what it is called but that is the only thing I look forward to Raya morning. She usually mails it to me so some years I am literally scraping the balang for crumbs. But this year she sent it through my brother who is in Sydney tonight. My first taste of Raya goodies. I spent the day with my brother hanging out in China Town and buying CDs at HMV, thinking about the cookies I had in the bag. I didn't want to share them with him. He was home for raya. But I am having to share anyway...sigh. D picked me up from my brother's hotel room and asked me what I was hiding. I explained my unnatural love for these 2 types of cookies and how my Mum sent me the cookies especially for me...me...me. But he tried one and he started pleading. We both have a sweet tooth. I have to get off this computer. I see him surreptitiously opening the balang...

The view of Coogee Beach from our living room window

It was really hot last night. No, not the raunchy steamy I scored hot. It was unfortunately the why don't we have goddamn air-conditioning hot. Duvet covers were thrown off within minutes of snuggling. Spooning was not as fun. As the days get longer, the nights are becoming unbearable.

I have heat rash. I think my body is desperately trying to adjust after 1 whole year of cold (winter in Europe then winter again in Australia). D is confused. "But you are Malaysian??!! I am the one who spends December in -40 degree weather" "Yes sweetie, but we have bloody air-conditioning in Malaysia. I have spent whole life in 16 degree weather" I am going out to buy a fan. Today. The biggest one I can find.

Xs

During my previous visit, D had just moved out of the temporary accommodation and into his new flat. The contents of the 2 bedroom flat comprised a rented bed, a rented sofa, a rented tv & stand, and a rented coffee table. He had to buy a fridge and a dining set. His things arrived from the port after I left. So when I arrived home last week I had to get accustomed to totally new surroundings as the furniture I had lived with the last visit had been returned.

It is not the new furniture that I find hard adjusting to. It is the fact that he had a life before me (gasp, is that possible??). He has a past. A past so very well documented by the boxes of pictures we were looking through last night. He wanted to show me pictures of his Mum (who passed away a decade ago) and the rest of his family. However, as we went through the boxes and albums, pictures of his X kept cropping up. At first I did not think much of it until it dawned on me that they actually shared 8 years together. I could not ignore those pictures as they also documented 8 years D's life. D looked the same in the pictures and if it were not for the fact that I am not blonde (and not that tall) they could have been any of the pictures we have taken during our travels these last few months. It then got me thinking:

1) Did he treat her the same way he treats me now?

2) Why is he attracted to me when it is quite obvious that we are polar opposites in appearance?

3) He looked happy in the pictures. What went wrong?

4) Does he still love her?

*****

I had to know the answer to the last question. I asked him. He said no. He said that he hadn't been for the longest time but that it was just convenient to stay in the relationship. I can relate to that because I too have been guilty of waiting longer than I should have. I wanted to ask if he would in turn stay with me because he did not like confrontations, but then I stopped myself. I know what I would say if he asked me the same question, and I know that while I am providing the required assurances, I will be thinking that I cannot tell future. I wish I could, but I can't. I wouldn't be able to be 100% honest with him or myself.

*****

It is funny how karma works. I remember not so long ago I was devastated when I found out that my X had a new love. It was, as I was informed by a well meaning friend, not a fling, but a very serious relationship. The shock was exacerbated by the hurt in knowing that when he said he didn't believe in marriage, he meant he didn't believe in marriage to me.

D has admitted that he has not told his X about me. He knows it will hurt her considering her understandably high expectations during the relationship. I should be upset that he has chosen to hide the fact from his X, but I am not. I remember that searing pain when I received confirmation that I was not the one, and it is a feeling I would not wish on my worst enemy. Even possible competition.

Clontarf to Manly

I love walking. I don't jog, I haven't played tennis in over a decade, and I cycle on a need to get from point A to B basis. I do however really enjoy plain walking, and that is why I really like Sydney. There are some amazing walks both around the harbour and the northern and eastern beaches. We live just on Coogee beach so the Bondi to Coogee Eastern Coastal Walk path is just outside our door. We usually take the 90 minute walk to Bondi on Sundays, grab a burger at Chish-and-Fips on the boardwalk, and take a leisurely walk home.


On weekends the walk can get rather busy




After the last sailing lesson last week, we thought it would be a good idea to try the famous Spit to Manly walk. We took a taxi back to the City on Saturday (We were invited to watch a basketball game between Perth and Sydney after our lesson. I have never seen so many white men on a basketball court.) so we thought it would be nice to take a stroll to Manly and take a ferry back to the City on Sunday, to celebrate our new qualified sailor status.


The map of The Spit to Manly scenic walk

We started the walk from the Marina which was at Sandy Bay/Clontarf beach. It was only after 15 minutes of walking did we find a map and was made aware that the walk from Clontarf to Manly would take nearly 2.5 hours. This, after a 7 hour sailing lesson, did not go down well with me, I must admit. Did a bit of sulking, or what D calls silent protest, but quickly snapped out of it when I caught sight of the amazing views.


Not sulking anymore

It is quite amazing trekking/climbing up from the beach at Clontarf into the nature reserve among the Eucalyptus trees and other local bush plants, then back down towards the beaches, into Forty baskets where the path turns from dirt track to paved lanes and back to the hustle and bustle of Manly beach. It was tiring as quite abit of the walk involved climbing up and stepping over rough surfaces but well worth the extra effort.

We slept like logs that night.

Sailing

I had sailing lessons last weekend. Not by choice mind you. You see, back in October, I bought D a 2 day sailing package for his 34th birthday. I ordered it through an online company called Surprise In A Box. It was either that or a new wallet. His had a tear in the coin pocket and to be honest it had started to look very, very worn. I figured a Prada/Gucci one would be a nice pressy. But I knew in my heart that a man who has 20 dollar wallet he bought at an airport would much rather have the lessons considering he has plans to get a sailing boat once he becomes stinking rich. And hey, just in case he does become stinking rich (fingers crossed), I figured lessons would come in handy. I had visions of him at the helm with me sitting portside sipping a beer. I was quite happy providing website credit card details and wait for D to regale me with his sailing stories.

He had other ideas. He insisted I take the lessons with him and presented me with the news upon my touchdown in Sydney. So that is how I found myself at Clontarf Marina at 9am on Saturday morning, waiting for our Skipper Annie, and our other crew member Anthony. We were going to begin our Introductory lessons to be carried out over 2 days, with 7 hours logged every day. The classes are very small as it is important for certification that we learn everything from navigation, tying knots and boat maintenance. So the 3 of us were going to learn to sail Topcat, a luxury 32 Catalina sailboat. I was scared. I get horribly seasick and I had never set foot on a sailboat. Powerboats yes, sailboats no. I kept kicking myself for not going to the Prada online shop instead.

*****

My vision of sipping G&T on our future sailboat essentially got shot to hellandback after we met our skipper, introduced ourselves to each other and got on the tender which was to take us from the Marina to the moored Topcat. As we got on Topcat, my newfound respect for sailors which started with my having to get up at 7am to get ready and make sandwiches, began to grow. The barking of instructions started. Opening the washboard to gain access to the galley, testing the VHF radio, taking down he plastic bags rigged up to scare away the birds, taking the sail covers off...and the list goes on. We learned soon enough the sailing lingo used during instructions. The difference between tacking and jibing (jib had only been a 3 letter J scrabble word to me before the lessons began..I can now tell between a jib and a genoa (small and big headsails). We became very quickly acquainted with the necessity to read the wind as sails are only easily hoisted with us facing the wind in the no-go zone, and we had to instruct the helmsman as the wind tack moved from close reach to beam reach. We finally hoisted the sails after much effort and away we went.

******
For as long as I can remember, I have always looked on with envy as sail boats float by, looking carefree and traveling with the wind. Taking its passengers wherever they wanted to go. I now know that it is damn hard work getting that boat to move. Well, it was for us. D and I found learning the crucial angling of the sails to make it move forward, the continuous easing and tightening of the sails to ensure optimal speed, and the constant attention to the location of the boom to ensure that we are not knocked senseless into the water rather far from our idea of relaxing sailing. We were continually tested on our ability to recognise danger markers in the water. We learned to read the charts. I still find it amazing the amount of information you can get from such plain looking charts. We even learned to make tea or rather put the kettle on a boat. We sailed in fantastic weather. We struggled as we tried in vain to reef in the sails as horrible winds built up. We watched with horror as other sailboats entered Sydney Harbour with torn sails. We had a memorable 2 days.

D and I started the course with a view of making sailing our new hobby. However, after the first day we were ready to admit that we did not find enough enjoyment in it to make it a passion. Upon learning more about the level of commitment needed, we find it hard to believe that it can only be a hobby. It takes passion to want to sail all the time. And heck of alot of suncreen.

D and I have decided that our hobby will be to find a hobby. We are thinking of horse riding lessons next.

I'm back

I'm back. Back in Sydney. Back on Coogee Beach. Back to blogging. I have been out of commission for the past few days. Jet lag believe it or not. I am just trying to sort out body clock so that I am not wide awake from 12 midnight to sun-up and sound asleep at 3pm. Good thing that Doug is so very sympathetic as he stays up with me. He will at 2am make G&Ts as i set up the scrabble board. By 2.05 we have our first 3 letter word argument, with me insisting that Canadian English does not exist and will not be tolerated in the game. We are at this moment discussing trading and leverage rules in the event we decide to buy a Monopoly board. Looking at the terms we are negotiating, I suspect that Monopoly will be a big mistake. Example: Doug: Of course we have to set trading rules as the outcome of the game can easily be established by a simple calculation of odds on the computer if we don't. So in the event one party has the one property needed to make a parcel, the other party has the option to purchase said property for not more than double the value. Me: Agreed. However, we must also allow for leveraging so an interest rate has to be set before the game. Doug: Agreed. By the way, do you have a preference for high end property? Me: I think that the best strategy is to go lower to mid range investments, although a hit on the Park Lane properties can wipe you out. Doug: Cool. Loser makes dinner.

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Other than playing scrabble all night, I have been enjoying the weather hee. Sunny but not too hot (yet). So warm, so bright, so sunny, so unlike Tilburg.

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On a tangent, try not to fly Austrian Air for long haul flights. The chairs are comfortable, but the food is bland (they do have the best bread I have ever had on a flight) and horror of horrors, they only had 2 new movies. If you are on a 22 hour flight, have a headache hence cant read the book you brought, this can be I am quite sure deemed as a crime agaisnt humanity.

What is the opposite of a green thumb?

Keukenhoff 2004


What is the opposite of a green thumb? Do you think it is a black thumb? Well, whatever it is, I have it. I adore flowers and plants. I love it when I wake up and the first thing I see on the window sill is a nice arrangement of tulips, chrysanthemums, Jacaranda roses, lilies, Catlaya orchids, Freesias, gladiolus or some other flower that looked gorgeous at the florist. I don't draw my curtains, even in the winter, because I find the sight of the evergreen plants soothe me. I adore, adore, adore spring!

Unfortunately I sometimes think I am the grim reaper of the plant world. Every plant I have ever owned just seem to give up and die. I used to try and liven up my dreary digs with indoor plants bought from the local Kwik Save. Dead in a week. I persevered for a month but they just kept on dying. Then my duty free ciggies ran out and I could not waste cash on suicidal plants. I tried again when I started work. I figured cacti would be the way to go. Bought a nice arrangement during a holiday in Cameron Highlands and proudly set it on my desk. They died 2 weeks later. I heard the cleaner mumble "Cactus also can kill, how to have children".

My black thumb is renowned. A friend gave me a nice orchid as a birthday present a few years ago hoping to regenerate that green thumb she knew to be inside me. Deep inside. My orchid was confiscated as soon as stepped into my house. My Dad has it at his kebun somewhere. Mind you, I am pretty sure that I am not the only one with this handicap in the family. My dad "replants" his kebun every year, and I mean whole trees. He says he likes to try new varieties. We know his beloved plants have gone to that special corner in heaven reserved for victims of City boys who want to get back to their roots.

I have been buying cut flowers for yonks. But in the last few months, I have been trying out yet again to rediscover that elusive green thumb. So instead of stopping by the local florist when I do my weekly shop, I walk a bit further and visit the nursery. The first time I went in, I was left pretty much alone to look through the orchids. A family friend who lives in Den Haag has a gorgeous 3 acre garden, filled with trees, evergreen shrubs, and perennials. Her house is always filled with orchids. She told me that they do not last long but are pretty hardy. I gained new inspiration from her and bought myself an orchid. I figured they were low maintenance and as they did not last long, they would die an early natural death. My guilt would be appeased. A week later I was back at the nursery. And the week after that. I gained the attention of the owner and he asked me if I was building a collection. What a funny question I thought. No, I was not. I told him about my new resolution to nurture plants, instead of providing a hospice service for cut flowers. He asked me why I chose orchids. I told him they were pretty and they lasted a full week. He then told me, horror of horrors, that orchids last for at least a month. Sometimes longer. He gave me orchid rearing tutorial and sent me off with a nice Catlaya. I was at the nursery again the next week, but it was different. I knew then that my orchids were dying prematurely. I needed something more sturdy. As I walked in the fern section, could hear the plants screaming in horror, begging for mercy from the plant gods. But I was determined.

The last time I was at the nursery, the owner steered me to the Chrysanthemum section. It is at this moment dying in my room. I think it is time to admit to myself that there are some people who nurture, and others who provide nice vases and allow cut flowers with limited time to enjoy life, be loved and admired.

The Elections: It's not over yet

Every morning, I wake up and switch on my TV to absorb a bit of CNN, Euronews or BBC 1. I say absorb because 9 out of 10 times I go back to sleep. Hey, I am a Phd candidate which means I threw out my alarm clock when I quit my real job last year.

I can't read Dutch so I can't read the newspapers here. I therefore watch alot of news on TV. Unfortunately, most of the news is International so basically in the event my little city of Tilburg is under threat of nuclear annihilation, I wouldn't have an inkling, and I will happily walk to work hoping they are serving lamb at the mensa (cafeteria). I do however know where Senator Kerry is every morning. I know the traffic conditions on the A40. And I know what exhibition is on at an art Gallery I have never heard of in Spain.

Speaking of Senator Kerry, I will be glad when this election is over. I am sick of hearing about it and of reading about it. I am the last person to carry out an in depth discussion of American politics because to be honest I don't really know much about it. I do remember thinking, in the last election campaign, that Bush has shifty eyes. I do not agree with alot of his policies, especially foreign ones, but then I have not really thought about them much. I can't control what he does, and I don't have a vote. So today they go to the polls. The official results will take a while because of the Electoral College system. I hope the best man wins.

For those who need a refresher on how the electoral college system works, I found the article below quite helpful.

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How the Electoral College Works by Kevin Bonsor

The Founding Fathers' Idea

Every four years, on the Tuesday following the first Monday of November, millions of U.S. citizens go to local voting booths to elect, among other officials, the next president and vice president of their country. Their votes will be recorded and counted, and winners will be declared. But the results of the popular vote are not guaranteed to stand because the Electoral College has not cast its vote. The Electoral College is a controversial mechanism of presidential elections that was created by the framers of the U.S. Constitution as a compromise for the presidential election process. At the time, some politicians believed a purely popular election was too reckless, while others objected to giving Congress the power to select the president. The compromise was to set up an Electoral College system that allowed voters to vote for electors, who would then cast their votes for candidates, a system described in Article II, section 1 of the Constitution. Each state has a number of electors equal to the number of its U.S. senators (2 in each state) plus the number of its U.S. representatives, which varies according to the state's population. Currently, the Electoral College includes 538 electors, 535 for the total number of congressional members, and three who represent Washington, D.C., as allowed by the 23rd Amendment. On the Monday following the second Wednesday in December, the electors of each state meet in their respective state capitals to officially cast their votes for president and vice president. These votes are then sealed and sent to the president of the Senate, who on Jan. 6 opens and reads the votes in the presence of both houses of Congress. The winner is sworn into office at noon Jan. 20. Most of the time, electors cast their votes for the candidate who has received the most votes in that particular state. However, there have been times when electors have voted contrary to the people's decision, which is entirely legal. (Like in 2000)


******

Again, I hope the best man wins.

Credit where it is due

My previous post should be credited to http://bustamann.blogspot.com. I am rather glad that it was graciously pointed out to me because 1) I am now able to waste yet more precious thesis time checking yet another blog and 2) I had wondered upon receiving the post by via email who takes time writing all this. You know, like those powerpoint presentations on Britney Spears' breast size, and excel worksheets allowing you to determine partner compatibility based on Hindu astrology. We just read them, try them out, and click on the forward button. But there is a little elf somewhere out there actually preparing the presentation (with effects and all) and coming up with the formulas for the worksheet.

I found the post hilarious because it so reminded me of the Golden Girls at home, aka Mum, Aunts and respective best friends. It especially reminded me of a dinner hosted by my Mum for a Flemish boy I brought home. Regardless of the fact that she was not too happy that I could not even attract one nice Malay boy out of millions, she still hosted an impromptu dinner for close family (60). So there they were talking to this boy, or should I say talking around him. My aunt would ask me "Sofi, what does he do?" as I sat next to him. He spoke prefect English so he answered. Then she asked me "So where is he from?" This went on while Flemmie sat very confused answering every question I was asked. The men sat around the women's circle as they knew when to back away. Every answer was met with a discussion by the Golden Girls in the Terengganu dialect. Flemmie proudly announced that he had bought a Learn Malay CD so he could learn how to communicate with everyone. My Dad coolly told him "Unless they have a section on Trengganu dialect, you might as well throw away that CD. After nearly 40 years of marriage we still don't understand them most of the time."

Mujo

I am sure this has been making the rounds, but I found it so very funny, uber funny even. A friend who sent me this now understands why I am able to find a silver lining in a mushroom cloud.

****

Mujo or mujur in Standard Bahasa means "fortunate" or "lucky". In Terengganu it means more than that. Mujo is an attitude, a testament to the optimism of the Terengganu folks. I believe that Terengganunese are optimistic. I haven't heard of any suicides there yet. No news whatsoever of people jumping down from coconut trees or drinking expired budu (preserved anchovy thick sauce) neat in order to expire themselves. You must remember that Terengganu people lived with ferries, morning papers that came in the night and other things people in the West Coast take for granted. In spite of doing without 4D shops, discos, malls or Hot Spot-enabled coffee houses, they are surviving well without any mental hospital in sight. All because they have mujo.

Like I mentioned previously, mujo encapsulate a philosophy in itself. It means one should thank God that it is not worse. Time for an illustration.
(Cut to a scene of 3 village ladies in their kemban washing clothes by the village well)

Mok Long Selamoh:         Guane doh adik mung Mek?  (How is your brother
Mek?)

Mok Teh Som :        Bakpe pulok adik dia?  (What happened to her brother?)

Mok Long Selamoh:         Laaa! Mung dok tau ke Som? (You don't know Som?)

Mok Teh Som :         Dok tau setarang  baghoh  kita. (I don't know
anything)

Mok Long Selamoh:         Adik Mek ni kena langgor lori kemareng. (Mek's
brother was knocked down by a lorry yesterday)

Mek Beso :                 Bukang lori Mok Long, beng ikang! (It wasn't a
lorry Mok Long, it was a fish van)

Mok Long Selamoh:         Mujo bukang lori! (Lucky it wasn't a lorry)

Mok Teh Som :         Pah tu? Terok ke? (Then? Was he seriously injured?)

Mek Beso :                Kaki patah sebelah...... (One leg was broken)

Mok Teh Som :         Mujo dok patoh dua dua (Lucky both legs weren't
broken)

Mok Long Selamoh :         Tu pong mujo dreba beng dang brek. (It was lucky
that the van driver braked in time)

Mek Beso :                 Mujo beng tu dok laju.. (Lucky the van wasn't
going fast..)

(Fade to black.)

If both legs were broken, the response would be "Mujo dok pecoh pala"(Lucky the head wasn't broken). If the head WAS broken, the response would be "Mujo dok mati" (Lucky he didn't die). If the worst happened and the brother died, the mujo would still surface. "Mujo lah bukang adik kita" (Lucky it wasn't my brother). You get the drift.....

Mujo. A nice word. Adopt it. Embrace it. It will preserve your sanity.

I am just about ready

I started packing this weekend. I know, I am not due to leave for Sydney until Sunday morning. I have not even received my flight ticket yet, which is as I type this being couriered from Sydney. But I am unfortunately one of those people that hate to rush, there is nothing worse to me than rushing around my room pulling out my drawers looking for that one tank top and passport while the airport shuttle is due to arrive at any minute, and I hate it when I forget things. So I opened my bags, took out the clothes that were still in there from my last trip (ah, so thats where my black trousers were), and started packing. First in, my new underwear. 6 flower patterned and colourful cotton undies, bought especially for the trip (priorities baby, priorities). Then my new bras (purple with flowers and a white T shirt bra). Then a can of Russian caviar that my housemate brought back for me from his last trip to Moscow. He gave it to me 2 weeks ago as I passed him a t shirt I brought back for him from Sydney. I will share my pressie with D. My passport goes in one of the pockets, along with phone chip. My nice summery tops that have not seen the light of day for a year. Ditto my cooling skirts. My motion sickness pills as sightseeing with D is not complete without an activity requiring safety equipment and my feeling green. My new baby blue nightie with white lace trim. My sister is not keen on sharing a room with me unless I wear something to bed. A pair of slip ons, a pair of loafers, and a pair of heels. I will wear my trainers during the flight. I have to figure out what I have in the closet that is suitable for Summer in Sydney and KL, which I will not be wearing this week, and stick them in the suitcase. Do I really need 4 black t- shirts? Yes. I have to sort out the clothes which I will be wearing this week and need to wash on Saturday morning so I can stick them in the bag too. Is 25 pairs of underwear too much? Yes. Do I have to bring a baju kurung? Yes, unless I want to hear words "lupa" and "adat" in one sentence over and over again.

Then I go through the toiletries. Will I have enough space to take along 2 full bottles of Big Hair shampooo and conditioner? Should I just bring little bottles and rely on Fudge shampoo when I run out? Should I bring my Braun tootbrush or rely on manual labour (tiring). Darn, I then have to think about the charger for the Braun, my hairdryer, and the various wires and paraphanelia for digital cam, phone, lap top. I hate packing.

After mentally picturing what I will be taking along, I wonder if I will be able to get away with the excess luggage this time. I have previously carried 80 to 100 kilos. At old Subang airport nice abang let me on as long as I gave him my phone number. He was going to be in Manchester in a few months. Another time the system was buggered at Heathrow so we were just told to shove our luggage on the trolleys provided. More often than not however, I am beside a trash can at Heathrow chucking out excess weight (text books for foreseeable resits, chocolates etc) while cursing fat men checking in at Business Class. I realy think that airlines should consider combined weight of passenger and luggage. And where did this stupid number of 25 kilos come from??? For gods sake, my hang luggage alone can weigh 25 kilos sometimes.

So I am just about packed. I do not have a system which involves little cloth bags, plastic zip up bags and clothes rolled with tissue paper. My Giordano black t-shirt will survive being squashed in next to the Milk and White chocolate paste I am also taking along. I squash everything I can think of, pray to god my suitcase will shut, hope that I do not get checked in by ground staff with PMS, and rejoice when my luggage lands with me. Now I just have to practice that passing by customs look..you know, the innocent but not overdooing it to the point of conspicously looking innocent hence must be cavity checked.

One of the terrifying, yet most exhilarating experiences I have ever had is tandem hang gliding. I did this in Interlaken, Switzerland last June. Bearing in mind I have a fear of heights, and an even greater fear of kersplatting all over ground and dying a fairly gory death, this is not an activity that I would have carried out with glee. But you see, I had just started going out with D. He is a jock, one of those people who cannot sit still for 2 minutes. He is also persistent and cannot take no for an answer. We were in Interlaken for the day, to have lunch. Unfortunately the stall providing this hang gliding experience is situated near entrance of quaint Swissy restaurant. I was signed up before I could say "Are you out of your freakin mind you crazy activity obsessed man??!!". So I had a good lunch expecting it to be my last. Even had a cup of raspberry sorbet all to myself. Did not share with anyone.

A group of nice but irritatingly gung ho chaps picked us up from the restaurant and we drove for about 10 minutes into the mountains. Once we got to the launch site (or should I say downhill slope) a few of the gung ho types quickly started setting up the gliders while the rest were in charge of harnessing us with safety straps and giving launch/safety brief. "Do not on any account stop running downhill! Just keep on running downhill and only stop when you are airborne!" Gulp.




They had to be kidding me


So I was strapped in and ready to run. Scared, but strangely excited.




They look much flimsier close up


It is fairly simple. You are strapped on with safety gear not only to the glider but also the "expert" pilot. You wait for the winds to pick at the edge of the cliff. When the pilot says run, you hang on and run down the cliff as fast as you can, and just keep on running until you feel air and you are up...gliding..thousands of feet in the air. Then it dawns on you...you are strapped on to what is essentially a big kite. That is when you ask the pilot "Uh, for some reason this did not cross my mind on solid ground, but exactly how long have you been doing this?". I was safe, he had 20 years experience under his belt.



I am hanging on for dear life

You marvel at the beauty of the Swiss lakes, the mountainside, at the still snow capped alps on the horizon. You look down and note how small everything seems, the houses, the boats on the lake, the minute sheep, and how quiet it is up there. You only hear the wind and the flapping of the glider. You are flying with the Gods. Ok, in my case a rather hunky Swiss guy and a few birds. It is exhilarating as you are taken so close to the mountains that you can see right into the living rooms of the houses underneath you. It hits you how wonderfully free birds must feel as the expert takes advantage of a strong gust of wind to sweep you up even higher, and as the huge lakes get smaller and smaller.




I am still alive

Then you realise that you are so very very far from land. This is not like looking down from 3 story building thinking, ok, if I fall, I may still survive albeit with a few broken bones. This is if kite fails, I am beyond kersplatt. Of course the motion sickness helped me overcome the fear of death from extreme heights (I was thinking if I die I would haunt D forever). The pilot was very nice and he wanted me to enjoy the experience with acrobatics and the whole shebang...I was feeling sick. It is the sick to my stomach I am going to puke sort of sick that I get when I go on those damn gondola rides at Six Flags. I didn't think you could get motion sickness while being rather motionless in the air. The fun was over and the torture of keeping sick in began. After all, I hardly knew the pilot and I did not want to embarass myself.




I was feeling so sick then


It still amazes me now how I could feel sick up there, yet still feel so great flying like we are so not meant to be flying. It was a humbling experience to say the least. We had a smooth landing. I don't know if I will do it again. If I do though, I will take something for the motion sickness. But then again, if not for my having to concentrate on not hurling, I may have been more freaked out by possible kersplatting than I was. But I do know one thing, I would not trade feeling of being as free as a bird for anything.




The unbelievable sense of relief that my pilot and I are on land again.

I know what I am about to say may shock you. It is unheard of for a Malaysian to say this, but, more often than not, I am quite happy being away from home during Raya. There I said it. I am quite content being alone, sans famile, during the Eid celebrations.

Don't get me wrong. There are many aspects of the Raya celebrations that I do miss. I can, even now, smell the Nasi Dagang cooking away the night before at Che Ngah's house. I can taste the bubur lambuk (without the budu) she will serve me the minute I enter the house. I can still hear my Mum telling me to stop munching on Che Ngah's kuih and just arrange them in the nice kuih containers. God I miss all the kuih. I even miss the old style ice cream soda (in the old fashioned brown bottles) that we keep in the fridge for special guests, not to be kept out for the little kids who only want the paket hijau. I have never had any real bad memories of Raya, in fact they have only ever been good. So why is it I am unable to enjoy it as I see many others doing?

Maybe it is because I have never felt that I fit in. I have a fairly complicated family life. To cut a long story short, lets just say that I am not from Trengganu, am not a blood relation of anyone from Trengannu, but each and every Raya for the past say 10 years is spent in Trengganu. With the family. My mum is very big into tradition and each year it is the same drill. We will stay with the same relatives, we even get the same rooms, we MUST buka puasa in Trengganu at least once and sembahyang terawih at the floating mosque (after it was built), so we have to be there at least two days before puasa. We will usually hang out at Che Ngah's house which is opposite HQ at night because she makes the best Nescafe and Puddin (aka creme caramel). Her bubur lambuk is to die for so I am there after buka puasa to have a bowl of speciality because...well, that's the drill innit. We wait for the other KLites to arrive (kiss kiss, kiss kiss), have more Nescafe, watch Astro, and hand out the presents (household stuff for aunts, clothes for all the kids). The parents will play poker/gin, the older kids will play with their mobiles, and the little ones will be running wild outside, with the "villagers". On Raya morning, the men go and pray, breakfast is prepared, the girls get dressed and jewellry is chosen (my sister again complaining about wearing the kayak ring, you know that ugly ass ring which looks like a mini diamond encrusted kayak that all grandmothers seem to have bought), and we all go down to salam to meet the returning men, ask for general forgiveness (confessions of specific sins are a no no) (kiss kiss, kiss, kiss), take pictures, and head out to Che Ngah's for breakfast Nasi Dagang. Che Ngah's, post breakfast, is also main green packet trading floor. I will of course start cursing the fact that older cousins who used to slip me a tenner 10 years ago have popped like rabbits and thus I end up having to slip them at least 5 tenner packets each (please, who are we kidding...like they actually let the kids keep the dosh). A few hours later I am in front of the TV watching yet another Erra and Awie film in my baju kurung top as it is too hot to wear kain, and I have gained 10 pounds in 3 hours. Raya over.

Sounds great doesn't it? It is, unless you continously ask yourself throughout the day "What the hell am I doing here?". Mind you, the feeling has decreased since I started work and able to make excuses for limiting time spent in this surreal "ideal family" situation. I have, since earning own keep, flown in on the last flight to Trengganu the night before Raya, get there, sleep, go through the motions the next day and fly out in the afternoon of Second Raya. I will go to work the next day. I feel a sense of relief when I get home, it is dark, the maid isn't there, I look in the fridge for those goodies Mum keeps in KL for entertaining upon the family's return, decide not to risk another telling off and call Dominos. I am always the only one home early.

I think Raya makes me uncomfortable because it is so family oriented. Heck, the whole fasting season leading up to it is. Raya to me just calls attention to the fact that I have never had a normal "family" and I still don't. It is like being in a play where the cast have known each other for eons, and you as an outsider have to step in and act the part of a character who gets the inside jokes, understands the motivations of all the other actors, pretend to be a veteran cast member while knowing that the other cast members think you don't belong. The extra effort you have to exert to make it look effortless just emphasises the fact that you are an outsider. Last year, I spent Raya in my office, doing work. This year I will be in an office, most probably doing work. And you know, I have never felt so content in my life. I can be myself all day.

Colonial Cool

There I was, watching a rerun of Friends last night, while simultaneously flipping through the most recent edition of Time Europe and munching on my dinner (Doritos Natural style nacho chips) when lo and behold, I spot an article on KL, Colonial Cool. Good ole KL. With all its fab restaurants. KL, eclectic at its best. I remember when they started work on the row of shops on Jalan Doraisamy (a.k.a. Asian Heritage Row). I remember trying out the bakery that had just opened as my office was opposite Sheraton. I remember thinking that it would be difficult to attract the cool bars becuase of the constant threat of roadblocks. How wrong I was. And how strange everything will be when I go back in January.

I just love this advert.

My TV chair

The idiot box

I watch way too much TV. Way too much for my own good. I am sure I watch more TV than the average person. I may even watch more TV than the whole population of Newfoundland. (On a tangent, D finds it fascinating that I have studied the geography of Newfoundland, when the Nuffies, as they are called, are generally a national joke in Canada).

For now, Tuesday is my favourite day. Not Saturday, when the Tilburg town centre is heaving with clubbing Uni students. Not Friday nights when The Grass Company (local posh Coffee Shop) has cheap pasta and uhm, space brownies on the cheap ( I have heard). It is Tuesday because the TV lineup goes like this: Charmed rerun, Friends rerun, SATC rerun, Gilmore Girls, SATC final season, and the OC. On Tuesdays, I get home by 7pm as usual, but instead of sitting my on my comfortable chair (see pic above) with the remote strapped to my wrist to make it easier to channel surf, I just press No 8 on my remote, rush to the kitchen to stick some meat and veg in the oven while Charmed is about to go on, run down to stick cooked meat and veg on a plate during a commercial break, grab some beers from the fridge..and spend a few mind numbing hours in front of my trusted companion.

Why do I watch so much TV here ? I don't think I watched that much TV in KL. I did not have Astro in my room and I hardly used my cheapo VCD player. Oh, but I was hardly at home... There are 29 terrestrial channels available to me here, but I can only watch a few, such as BBC 1 and 2, CNN, MTV, Discovery Channel, and a few others on Channel 5, 9, and 8 (my fave), as they have quite a few English programmes. I don't really bother with the others as they mostly have Dutch programmes. I know I should tune in to try and improve my non-existent Dutch, but heck, life is too short for me to spend 30 minutes trying to figure out the Dutch version of ER. Maybe I watch more TV because there is always something interesting to watch. With less channels, I spend less time surfing. With more channels, I tend to get this feeling that there must be something better on the other channels. So, with my limited choice I am able to convince myself that I MUST tune in to that Discovery programme which will teach me how to survive in Arctic conditions, how to build a fire, how to hydrate myself...because God knows, if ever I am lost in the mountains of Norway, that knowledge will save my life. Btw, I also know how to survive in desert if my car breaks down while offroading and how to survive in the plains of Africa, Masai style. As I said, I watch waaaayy too much TV.

I put it down to guilt. I mean, I feel guilty when I read a book. Strange, but true. My work now comprises reading and writing. Not the fun stuff though, the boring law and economics stuff. If not reading a journal article, I should be writing an analysis of article. If not writing, then I should be looking for more articles to analyse. To be honest, I am so very sick of the words venture capital and private equity. And I wish I could go home and snuggle up under the covers with a good book. But when I do, I am always thinking that I should be reading that article I downloaded from SSRN, or that new chapter my supervisor wrote for his book. So what do I do, I switch on the TV to drown out those voices in my head telling me to read "Personal Insolvency Law and the Demand for Venture Capital by John Armour". So I blame my addiction to the idiot box on my job.

My younger brother works in Switzerland. He has 60 channels at his disposal. If he is lucky he may be able to get one movie late at night which is not dubbed in German/French. I am so glad I am in Tilburg where MTV, CNN and the wonderful Discover channel is Free.

A woman has the last word in any argument.

Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

Old friends

I had a dream last night about an old friend. J was a good friend during those A-level and Uni days. We were not in the same A-Level class (he is smarter) and we did not attend the same University (as I said, he is smarter). He was in London and I in Liverpool. But it was always his place that I would bunk in during those breaks in London. It was always his roommates I would trounce at Risk (never fall for the I'm a girl and how do I play this game act). Heck we would sleep on the same bed. We would fly back home together for Summer holidays. We were good buddies. Then we sort of lost touch when we both started working. We saw each other maybe once, twice a year. I think I last saw him 2 years ago at a wedding, where I saw his wifey for the first time. She was pretty and nice, and I was really happy for him. So why did I dream about him last night? It was a strange dream. We were having coffee/tea (not sure) at a dining table, in a nice sunny room. I say *a dining table* as it is not my dining table. Never owned one. And we talked. About what I don't know as at the same time in my dream I was thinking why on earth am I having this dream? I hope this is not one of those, you know, he visited me before ....sort of dreams. (Did I mention that I am very morbid?).

So anyway this morning, I got to thinking about all those friends that I have lost touch with. You know the first *best friends* in kindergarten...then the few best friends in primary school...and the list goes on. I moved around a bit as a kid (and funnily enough still moving) so I could never one of those people I envy who still have friends they have known since playschool. Heck, in my secondary school, most of the girls'mothers shared the same Obstetrician. I still think most of them shared the same floor on that maternity ward. But I digress.

Am I a bad friend? Yes, I do have some mucho mucho good friends who I love as much as I love my siblings (I have quite a few blood/real siblings and siblings once/twice removed). But I also have friends I take foregranted, I think about keeping up with but don't, and worse still, even avoid. Am I trying to spread myself too thin and should just concentrate on the ones I would gladly donate a kidney to? I have no problems with calling a stranger a friend within hours of meeting and chatting. As they say, a stranger is just family you have yet to meet. I suppose I am able to differentiate in the many many storage cabinets of my mind the different categories of friendship. But my friends may not see it my way and would expect me, a friend, do be more like what they would expect from a friend. Like J...should I have made more of an effort to catch up with him after work, to have a teh tarik instead of heading straight out to Modestos Damansara Heights for pre-dinner drinks (ah, fond memories). Am I a bad friend?