He is so sweet. A nervous wreck who masks his shyness with noisy, at times completely useless, chatters. Adorable in his own little quirky comfort zone, peering out into the world with that pair of bambi brown eyes (does bambi have brown eyes?).
If this sounds like the writing of someone on the verge of falling in love, then I must be.
(but don’t worry Tim, I’m still set on honouring that promise of being celibate for 1 year. I'm just having a little fun with these butterflies in my stomach.)
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
This Christmas
I did it last night.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
If you're thinking When Harry Met Sally, I'm afraid the next few lines will disappoint though. It's not that kind of yes :)
Called the parents last night to say merry christmas and it was, euh, lovely. My dad was unusually fun to talk to and he sounded pretty excited at the prospect of me staying in Montreal next year. Then mum came online...
"Did you go to Christmas mass?"
"Ermm, no."
Immediately I could imagine this giant wave of panic taking over her and hear its powerful crashing sound travelling through the air between us.
Where was I on Christmas eve anyway? Probably boogie-ing the night away - loud, red-faced, and very very happy. Much happier than I would've been had I been at a mass.
But of course, this whole "not attending church because it conflicts with my beliefs and thus it gives me peace" rationale does not make any sense to mum. Not even when I pleaded my case, "But I DO believe in God, it's just not the one called Jesus Christ!"
Mum had seen it coming though, so this time she shot me her last bullet, "But you have been baptised, you're Catholic!"
Too bad for her, because I always have answer for everything. "But I was 1 year old then, I couldn't say no!"
And at that point, she gave up, and not long after, she hung up.
I am pretty sure she won't bug me about going to church again from now on.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
If you're thinking When Harry Met Sally, I'm afraid the next few lines will disappoint though. It's not that kind of yes :)
Called the parents last night to say merry christmas and it was, euh, lovely. My dad was unusually fun to talk to and he sounded pretty excited at the prospect of me staying in Montreal next year. Then mum came online...
"Did you go to Christmas mass?"
"Ermm, no."
Immediately I could imagine this giant wave of panic taking over her and hear its powerful crashing sound travelling through the air between us.
Where was I on Christmas eve anyway? Probably boogie-ing the night away - loud, red-faced, and very very happy. Much happier than I would've been had I been at a mass.
But of course, this whole "not attending church because it conflicts with my beliefs and thus it gives me peace" rationale does not make any sense to mum. Not even when I pleaded my case, "But I DO believe in God, it's just not the one called Jesus Christ!"
Mum had seen it coming though, so this time she shot me her last bullet, "But you have been baptised, you're Catholic!"
Too bad for her, because I always have answer for everything. "But I was 1 year old then, I couldn't say no!"
And at that point, she gave up, and not long after, she hung up.
I am pretty sure she won't bug me about going to church again from now on.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Longest holiday of my life
Oh God. I don't know what it is with this place. It just makes me want to stay, stay and stay. Is it the food? Maybe (poutine is great). Is it the weather? Perhaps (snow is cool). Is it the people? Ow yeah you betcha (Canadians are the best!).
So, looks like KW is staying a bit longer. I'm thinking two years. I know it, I can feel it, this city is the perfect place to spend the last two years of my twenties. And I promise you (whoever you are) that by the end of those two years my tongue will be rolling in french like any Quebecois worth their poutine.
But first, I have to go back to Sydney; take care of a few things, get rid of a lot of things, say good-bye (properly) to a few people.
This will not be good news to my mother.
So, looks like KW is staying a bit longer. I'm thinking two years. I know it, I can feel it, this city is the perfect place to spend the last two years of my twenties. And I promise you (whoever you are) that by the end of those two years my tongue will be rolling in french like any Quebecois worth their poutine.
But first, I have to go back to Sydney; take care of a few things, get rid of a lot of things, say good-bye (properly) to a few people.
This will not be good news to my mother.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pamela Anderson files for divorce
I got angry when I read this piece of junk - the link is there as reference but don't bother clicking it. I was angry because 1. I was being such a sucker for entertainment news headlines, and 2. people like her have truly bastardised the concept of marriage by making it and divorce - its sequel - seem so easy as if they can be picked off the supermarket shelves. Reason for the failed marriage: irreconcilable differences. A.k.a. lazy.
Of course we all have differences to each other - otherwise we'd all just be carbon copies. But what's irreconcilable? Not being able to adjust to each other's hectic schedule? Not being able to tolerate each other's annoying little habits? Not being able to make a compromise on each other's values? And to think that Pam's marriage is only 70 days-old. Irreconcilable as a word shouldn't even exist. Afterall, there's nothing in this world that cannot be solved - even the cold war eventually ended, right?
I won't be surprised if it was a divorce lawyer who first came up with this so-called irreconcilable differences.
Having said that, I do feel that not all marriages should be saved. Provided that you've tried your very best - and that includes talking things over and reflecting over a period much longer than 70 days - I think that sometimes it's just better for your mind and body to just call the lawyer and get it over and done with. But even in that case, you still shouldn't cite irreconcilable difference as the reason for divorce. Try this: failure to stay in love.
Of course we all have differences to each other - otherwise we'd all just be carbon copies. But what's irreconcilable? Not being able to adjust to each other's hectic schedule? Not being able to tolerate each other's annoying little habits? Not being able to make a compromise on each other's values? And to think that Pam's marriage is only 70 days-old. Irreconcilable as a word shouldn't even exist. Afterall, there's nothing in this world that cannot be solved - even the cold war eventually ended, right?
I won't be surprised if it was a divorce lawyer who first came up with this so-called irreconcilable differences.
Having said that, I do feel that not all marriages should be saved. Provided that you've tried your very best - and that includes talking things over and reflecting over a period much longer than 70 days - I think that sometimes it's just better for your mind and body to just call the lawyer and get it over and done with. But even in that case, you still shouldn't cite irreconcilable difference as the reason for divorce. Try this: failure to stay in love.
House party at St-Hubert
Once in awhile something happens that reminds us that we're not invincible. For me that something happened last night.
Oh what a night, oh what a mess!
It turned out - and I found out the painful way - that all those Friday drinks nights at Challenger weren't sufficient training afterall. Three bottles of Boris Cool and three vodka shots later, I passed out on the host' couch, only to be woken up not long after by an urgent wave of the aforementioned liquid travelling up from stomach to throat. The last time I vomited like that was in 1996, on the last day of high school, caused mainly by three shots of tequila (I still remember).
I guess doing things in three's doesn't work well for me.
Nevertheless, there is one positive thing about last night in the form of a new experience that, despite the disgusting image it conjures up, sounds rather cool to me: puking in snow - once you finish, just bury it in more snow to cover up your trail!
Oh what a night, oh what a mess!
It turned out - and I found out the painful way - that all those Friday drinks nights at Challenger weren't sufficient training afterall. Three bottles of Boris Cool and three vodka shots later, I passed out on the host' couch, only to be woken up not long after by an urgent wave of the aforementioned liquid travelling up from stomach to throat. The last time I vomited like that was in 1996, on the last day of high school, caused mainly by three shots of tequila (I still remember).
I guess doing things in three's doesn't work well for me.
Nevertheless, there is one positive thing about last night in the form of a new experience that, despite the disgusting image it conjures up, sounds rather cool to me: puking in snow - once you finish, just bury it in more snow to cover up your trail!
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Last day of being 27
There is a reason why I called this blog 27yo.
Nobody is young forever, that I know and accept, but I do want to carry the memories of this very special year forever. Afterall, 2007 is the year that I have finally gained control of my own life. It - whatever it is - no longer tells me what to do, what to say, what to think, and how to do them, though I admit sometimes it comes creeping back in tiny doses (but it's ok sometimes we all need a break from routine).
2007's been a year of shocking revelations. About the world, people, and mostly, about myself. The mind is a powerful thing, you know, and I guess this year I finally managed to turn it on the positive.
That includes, among other things, renouncing the things I have been raised to believe in since childhood. Going to church makes me miserable, so I just stopped. Lying to my mum about going to church makes me miserable, so I just told her so. Honesty is not always the best policy, but sometimes it's the only thing that can save you from going insane with guilt.
Last night while going down the ladder of my loft bed, my foot missed a step and I fell down. My head just nearly missed one of the wooden legs of the bed and the heater. In doing so, however, I have somehow twisted my left upper arm and its adjoining shoulder. In the following five minutes that followed I just sat there shaking, too shocked to move. I was convinced I had broken something, and that it definitely wasn't the bed, nor the floor.
After the pain had subsided to the point where I was finally able to move the poor arm to lift myself off the floor, I took a sip of water - the reason why I went down from the bed at the first place - and went back up. Tucked safely back in bed, I started thinking about those people whose arms had actually been broken. Then I thought about those people who had been in serious car accidents. And then I thought about my late aunt, who died after 30 days sustaining 99% of burns to her body.
At that moment I felt lucky, very lucky. Falling down the stairs is the best birthday present I have ever given to myself.
Nobody is young forever, that I know and accept, but I do want to carry the memories of this very special year forever. Afterall, 2007 is the year that I have finally gained control of my own life. It - whatever it is - no longer tells me what to do, what to say, what to think, and how to do them, though I admit sometimes it comes creeping back in tiny doses (but it's ok sometimes we all need a break from routine).
2007's been a year of shocking revelations. About the world, people, and mostly, about myself. The mind is a powerful thing, you know, and I guess this year I finally managed to turn it on the positive.
That includes, among other things, renouncing the things I have been raised to believe in since childhood. Going to church makes me miserable, so I just stopped. Lying to my mum about going to church makes me miserable, so I just told her so. Honesty is not always the best policy, but sometimes it's the only thing that can save you from going insane with guilt.
Last night while going down the ladder of my loft bed, my foot missed a step and I fell down. My head just nearly missed one of the wooden legs of the bed and the heater. In doing so, however, I have somehow twisted my left upper arm and its adjoining shoulder. In the following five minutes that followed I just sat there shaking, too shocked to move. I was convinced I had broken something, and that it definitely wasn't the bed, nor the floor.
After the pain had subsided to the point where I was finally able to move the poor arm to lift myself off the floor, I took a sip of water - the reason why I went down from the bed at the first place - and went back up. Tucked safely back in bed, I started thinking about those people whose arms had actually been broken. Then I thought about those people who had been in serious car accidents. And then I thought about my late aunt, who died after 30 days sustaining 99% of burns to her body.
At that moment I felt lucky, very lucky. Falling down the stairs is the best birthday present I have ever given to myself.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
A bit about Montreal
Today is the third day I have not seen the sun and vice versa. I'm by no means unique though, as this same fate has also befallen upon the other Vitamin D-deprived faces that are around me. We are all wrapped in layers of wool, down, and polyester, walking as fast as the sloshy snow under our boots allow us to our destinations where we can finally take off those extra fluffy kilos.
"This is not much at all," said my flatmate, when we stood in front of the kitchen window on that first morning of snow, looking out at the snow-covered roofs and streets, "you can tell from the amount of snow on that window's ledge." She went back to sleep while I went out to the balcony itching to step on the stuff that the younger versions of my sister and I used to scratch with glee off our refrigerator's freezer compartment.
While I rejoice in the early arrival of snow - last winter snow only came in January - I feel a twinge of loss from not being able to see those beautiful autumn leaves adorning the trees and the parks that decorate the city. Montreal, a city with a mountain in its midst, is indeed beautiful in autumn when Canada's most venerated leaf - you know, the one on her flag - is scattered all over the city like magic dust.
And as we say good-bye to autumn leaves, so do we bid au revoir to Montreal's cutest residents: the grey-haired squirrels. It's time for these furry locals to go into hiding until it's warm enough for them to roam around in the outdoors again, unafraid but always alert of humans and their digital cameras. Walking through Parc La Fontaine won't be the same without them, but at least another attraction will take their place: the festive crowd that will flock to the park's largest pond to skate.
With the buildings, streets, and pavements now shrouded in white, the city has inevitably taken on a more mysterious aura. But there is one thing that has become less mysterious, at least to me, and that is the poutine - Québec's contribution to the world of cuisine. In its original version a simple dish consisting of french fries topped with cheese curds and gravy, it was initially hard for me to grasp why this less-than-sophisticated concoction of banal ingredients is so dear to the people of this region that even fast-food chains like McDonald's and KFC (renamed PFK here - Poulet Frit Kentucky) have poutine on their menu. The Québecois are, after all, descendants of the French, who are famous for their fine cuisine. But as the toxic mercury in my key-chain thermometer showed increasingly lower temperatures in the last few weeks, the image of this strange dish has appeared more and more frequent in my head and the earlier incomprehension of poutine's popularity has given way to unconditional acceptance.
I suspect that there exists a more scientific explanation to my attachment to poutine that's been growing in proportion to the number of layers I pile on my body. But I don't know what that is and I won't even try to wikipedia it. I can describe the feeling though: as the trio of french fries, cheese curds and gravy melts humbly in my mouth, I feel the warm, fuzzy, and reassuring sense of home-coming. And that - I'm pretty certain - is what ensures the poutine will stay in demand throughout the cold season!
Most of the bicycles have gone now, with just a scattered few dare-devils braving the slippery road and the stabbing cold. Everyone else... down in the metro! Being limited to catching the bus back home, I relish the speed of this form of transportation. Montreal's metro network is easy to comprehend - I guess it helps that the city is nowhere as big as New York, Paris or London - and its service on time. There are occasions, though, when delays happen and this is when it not being able to understand French in Montreal becomes a problem, because announcements over the loudspeakers are only made in French - and there are no written signs either. Is it a political statement on behalf of the transport network? Who knows, but this issue of language is certainly a source of a lot of debates.
The city is known to be divided into two distinct areas; that on the west of Boulevard Saint-Laurent being the English-speaking camp, that on the east side the French. The architecture between some of the suburbs differ markedly. The neat and orderly suburb of Westmount, for example, with street names like Redfern and Kensington, has clearly been created by people whose descendants may now also be found in the UK or Australia. The residential blocks of apartments here are well distanced from one another - and the buildings have names. The area surrounding Avenue Mont-Royal, on the other hand, has been clearly bred by the French. There is no sense of agreed uniformity in the style of the buildings except that they are roughly of similar height. And... there seems to be more cafés around! Different looks aside, I was surprised the other day when my other flatmate told me that the French-speaking residents didn't really like to have English-speaking people in 'their' bars and that from time to time fights between the two groups broke out. Interestingly, she could not give me a definitive answer when I asked her in what language did they fight in!
This underlying issue of a divided, seemingly bickering community is so far from the surface, however, when you stroll along the streets. For this is no doubt a city that attracts and retains friendly (or at least, friendly-looking) people. Getting a smile from a stranger is an everyday occurrence, so is getting unsolicited help from passers-by when you're reading a street map. "Are you lost? Where do you want to go?" This is definitely not Paris...
Having said that, there is a part of Montreal that looks like a page out of Paris' scrapbook - the historic district of Vieux Montreal (Old Montreal) - complete with narrow cobblestone streets, chalk board restaurant menus, and a cathedral called Basilique Notre-Dame. The presence of this grand old neo-gothic cathedral, however, doesn't perpetuate the christian tradition out of which it was spurred into existence. Like in other western countries, christianity is becoming an increasingly less popular commodity here. And what better way to prove one's dismissal to it than using clergical terms as swear words? Strange but true: instead of saying 'merde' - the staple word for unhappy frenchmen and frenchwomen - here one will hear the likes of 'tabarnac', 'calice', and 'hostie' from the pissed-off. Ooh I can't wait to tell my very Christian mum about this!
Nevertheless, “Tabarnac!” I found myself cursing the other night in true Quebecois style, terribly annoyed and slightly panicky, when I realised that I had missed the last metro – sometime past midnight. The 1.5 hour-long walk home that followed was the price I had to pay for having wanted to party with the hip and hedonistic kids of Montreal and not following it through – to the after-hours bars, that is, which are open well until the metro starts running again.
The freezing wind showed no mercy to my uncovered ears as I walked past the mountain - and its lighted cross on top - that watches over the city I've fallen in love with. I hurried my steps along the quiet Ave du Parc, murmuring "Come on!" in true Lleyton Hewitt style as I progressed over the avenue's cross streets.
"This is not much at all," said my flatmate, when we stood in front of the kitchen window on that first morning of snow, looking out at the snow-covered roofs and streets, "you can tell from the amount of snow on that window's ledge." She went back to sleep while I went out to the balcony itching to step on the stuff that the younger versions of my sister and I used to scratch with glee off our refrigerator's freezer compartment.
While I rejoice in the early arrival of snow - last winter snow only came in January - I feel a twinge of loss from not being able to see those beautiful autumn leaves adorning the trees and the parks that decorate the city. Montreal, a city with a mountain in its midst, is indeed beautiful in autumn when Canada's most venerated leaf - you know, the one on her flag - is scattered all over the city like magic dust.
And as we say good-bye to autumn leaves, so do we bid au revoir to Montreal's cutest residents: the grey-haired squirrels. It's time for these furry locals to go into hiding until it's warm enough for them to roam around in the outdoors again, unafraid but always alert of humans and their digital cameras. Walking through Parc La Fontaine won't be the same without them, but at least another attraction will take their place: the festive crowd that will flock to the park's largest pond to skate.
With the buildings, streets, and pavements now shrouded in white, the city has inevitably taken on a more mysterious aura. But there is one thing that has become less mysterious, at least to me, and that is the poutine - Québec's contribution to the world of cuisine. In its original version a simple dish consisting of french fries topped with cheese curds and gravy, it was initially hard for me to grasp why this less-than-sophisticated concoction of banal ingredients is so dear to the people of this region that even fast-food chains like McDonald's and KFC (renamed PFK here - Poulet Frit Kentucky) have poutine on their menu. The Québecois are, after all, descendants of the French, who are famous for their fine cuisine. But as the toxic mercury in my key-chain thermometer showed increasingly lower temperatures in the last few weeks, the image of this strange dish has appeared more and more frequent in my head and the earlier incomprehension of poutine's popularity has given way to unconditional acceptance.
I suspect that there exists a more scientific explanation to my attachment to poutine that's been growing in proportion to the number of layers I pile on my body. But I don't know what that is and I won't even try to wikipedia it. I can describe the feeling though: as the trio of french fries, cheese curds and gravy melts humbly in my mouth, I feel the warm, fuzzy, and reassuring sense of home-coming. And that - I'm pretty certain - is what ensures the poutine will stay in demand throughout the cold season!
Most of the bicycles have gone now, with just a scattered few dare-devils braving the slippery road and the stabbing cold. Everyone else... down in the metro! Being limited to catching the bus back home, I relish the speed of this form of transportation. Montreal's metro network is easy to comprehend - I guess it helps that the city is nowhere as big as New York, Paris or London - and its service on time. There are occasions, though, when delays happen and this is when it not being able to understand French in Montreal becomes a problem, because announcements over the loudspeakers are only made in French - and there are no written signs either. Is it a political statement on behalf of the transport network? Who knows, but this issue of language is certainly a source of a lot of debates.
The city is known to be divided into two distinct areas; that on the west of Boulevard Saint-Laurent being the English-speaking camp, that on the east side the French. The architecture between some of the suburbs differ markedly. The neat and orderly suburb of Westmount, for example, with street names like Redfern and Kensington, has clearly been created by people whose descendants may now also be found in the UK or Australia. The residential blocks of apartments here are well distanced from one another - and the buildings have names. The area surrounding Avenue Mont-Royal, on the other hand, has been clearly bred by the French. There is no sense of agreed uniformity in the style of the buildings except that they are roughly of similar height. And... there seems to be more cafés around! Different looks aside, I was surprised the other day when my other flatmate told me that the French-speaking residents didn't really like to have English-speaking people in 'their' bars and that from time to time fights between the two groups broke out. Interestingly, she could not give me a definitive answer when I asked her in what language did they fight in!
This underlying issue of a divided, seemingly bickering community is so far from the surface, however, when you stroll along the streets. For this is no doubt a city that attracts and retains friendly (or at least, friendly-looking) people. Getting a smile from a stranger is an everyday occurrence, so is getting unsolicited help from passers-by when you're reading a street map. "Are you lost? Where do you want to go?" This is definitely not Paris...
Having said that, there is a part of Montreal that looks like a page out of Paris' scrapbook - the historic district of Vieux Montreal (Old Montreal) - complete with narrow cobblestone streets, chalk board restaurant menus, and a cathedral called Basilique Notre-Dame. The presence of this grand old neo-gothic cathedral, however, doesn't perpetuate the christian tradition out of which it was spurred into existence. Like in other western countries, christianity is becoming an increasingly less popular commodity here. And what better way to prove one's dismissal to it than using clergical terms as swear words? Strange but true: instead of saying 'merde' - the staple word for unhappy frenchmen and frenchwomen - here one will hear the likes of 'tabarnac', 'calice', and 'hostie' from the pissed-off. Ooh I can't wait to tell my very Christian mum about this!
Nevertheless, “Tabarnac!” I found myself cursing the other night in true Quebecois style, terribly annoyed and slightly panicky, when I realised that I had missed the last metro – sometime past midnight. The 1.5 hour-long walk home that followed was the price I had to pay for having wanted to party with the hip and hedonistic kids of Montreal and not following it through – to the after-hours bars, that is, which are open well until the metro starts running again.
The freezing wind showed no mercy to my uncovered ears as I walked past the mountain - and its lighted cross on top - that watches over the city I've fallen in love with. I hurried my steps along the quiet Ave du Parc, murmuring "Come on!" in true Lleyton Hewitt style as I progressed over the avenue's cross streets.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I have a plan
It was another ordinary evening in Montreal. The time was 8.45pm, and I decided it was home time after a nice reading session at Chapters bookshop where tonight my conscience finally kicked me in the gut and made me buy something. From the dark and the very very cold outside, I descended the steps leading to Peel station. As soon as my two feet reached the platform, however, a not-so-ordinary thought came into mind.
No no, not a thought.
A brilliant idea. An exciting prospect. A soothing hope that will help me get through the next 1.5 years in Sydney.
I'm going to live out of a suitcase, moving from city to city, starting 2009. Because if there’s one thing that has made me miserable so far in life, it’s settling down.
I have always wanted to ‘get out’ of a place since I was 10. First it was the school. Then it was the country. And after I have succeeded in achieving both, I wanted to do it all over again. As time passed by, the list of things I wanted to get out of grew longer and stronger. My spirit, on the other hand, slipped in the opposite direction.
I was not born as a backpacker, though. The thought of having to move into a new place every week is terrifying. The thought of having to make new friends every week is debilitating. The thought of having to sleep in a new bed every week is agonising. And to seal the no-deal off, I don’t have the physical strength required to be a backpacker.
Luckily, where there’s a will, there’s a way. And there is always more than one way to get around a problem.
A wise friend once said and has repeated himself since, “Being happy is a matter of perspective. It’s not the environment that makes you happy, it’s you who makes you happy.” Or something along that line. That’s one way.
The other is the suitcase way.
I think I know which one I'd choose. This is not a dream, this is a plan.
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