Junicus

Nostalgia

2009-04-11T23:17:00.005-04:00

Nostalgia is looking at this blogger box and writing again. Listening to music that used to comfort you during a very different time and being surprised that it still does now. They say that smell is the most powerful connection to a distant memory. I agree. A man wearing a cologne that another man used to wear still brings me to my knees. When we have the ability to download smell off the internet we will need a more word more powerful than nostalgia.

All day I've been trying to think of a band that I can't remember (from another time). And find a CD to another band (from yet another time). All because I want to hear that song again. That song that played a thousand times when I was in that place with those people back then. I can picture it. I can feel it. But I can't hear it.

On an episode of The Sopranos, Tony said that "remember when" was the weakest form of conversation. What about thinking, picturing...am I wishing, longing? No, just remembering. Fondly. Looking back. Not on a time that was better than now. Just a time. A great time. One that gets better even as it moves further into the past. People I have lost touch with, but think of every so often. So thankful for what I've had. Even if I no longer have.

Every memory is clouded with joy and perfection. This must be a survival mechanism. One of the things I realized when I started writing was that I wanted to capture the accuracy of my feelings during the moment. The truth of what happened. How I really felt at the time because I knew I would not be able to trust the memory of it. And it's true. Looking back on things I wrote in the past I surprise myself. I don't remember myself. Somehow it's a pleasant feeling. One that makes me want to look forward instead of back.

listen

2009-02-16T19:26:00.000-05:00

Amazing Guitarist
by Wolverine

Arch

2009-02-07T16:34:00.001-05:00

Found

2009-01-24T00:22:00.001-05:00

2008-11-17T18:14:00.002-05:00

"Life, thought the naked man, was a hell, with rare moments recalling some ancient paradise."

~Italo Calvino, Difficult Loves

It snowed today

2008-10-20T17:15:00.007-04:00

It started here.

With a beginning like that, how could it not end in happily ever after?

So random, two people crossing paths. Each roaming freely for months hauling around backpacks both to end up there: in that country on that beach on that day at that time.

A passion and a love that grew so strong, so fast, so unexpected.

3 years flash by. There are more trips. Stories get written. Songs are sung. Moments of pure unadulterated joy and freedom.

And then the inevitable?

Somehow my heart was already in pieces before it ended. Every time we hurt it's every time we've been hurt. What was once a carry-on flung over my shoulder becomes a trunk that two people cannot carry.

And so it ends. In a city on a street at night.

3 weeks go by. I cry. I read. I run. I take long walks with my camera. I stare at white walls.

I know I will spin again. That is inevitable. And as for happily ever after?

I still believe.

2008-10-19T17:28:00.003-04:00

Precision Demolition

2008-10-12T22:53:00.002-04:00

I looked to my left and there it was

2008-08-13T21:11:00.001-04:00

Worry

2008-04-22T23:33:00.003-04:00

She worried about people; he worried about things. And between them, that about covered it.

"What would you think of our daughter sleeping around?" she said.

"The porch steps are rotting," he replied. "Someone's going to fall through."

They were lying in bed together, talking. They had been lying in bed together talking these twenty-five years. First about whether to have children, he wanted to (although the roof was going fast); she didn't (Down's symdrome, leukemia, microcephaly, mumps). Then, after their daughter was born, a healthy seven pounds eleven ounces ("She's not eating enough"; "The furnace is failing"), they talked about family matters, mostly ("Her friends are hoodlums, her room is a disaster"; "There's something about the brakes, the water heater's rusting out").

Worry grew between them like a son, with his own small insistencies and then more pressing demands. They stroked and coddled him; they set a place for him at the table; they sent him to kindergarten, private school, and college. Because he failed at nearly everything and always returned home, they loved him. After all, he was their son.

"I've been reading her diary. She does drugs. She sleeps around."

"I just don't think I can fix them myself. Where will we find a carpenter?"

Their daughter married her high school sweetheart, had a family, and started a health food store in a distant town. Although she recalled her childhood as fondly as anyone--how good her parents had been and how they worried for her, how old and infirm they must be growing, their house going to ruin--she rarely called or visited. She had worries of her own.

~By Ron Wallace from Micro Fiction

The funniest thing I have seen in quite some time

2008-04-21T14:24:00.001-04:00

2008-02-04T17:50:00.000-05:00

"Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust."

~Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler

talking to strangers

2008-01-05T15:44:00.000-05:00

Distractions can be pleasant sometimes.

I meant to log some project hours at the library for work today.

Instead I talked to a stranger for an hour while drinking my favourite coffee.

This is not something I usually do. I am the first to admit that I am shy. However it is something I very much enjoy. As long as the person is not a freak (which you know in the first five seconds after which you can easily dismiss them) there is something fascinating about watching someone you don't know wax on about whatever. I mean, it always starts out as pleasant enough conversation with each party contributing dialogue, but I am such a champion listener that somehow it turns into a platform for "what should be done,"; "what is right"; "what is wrong," etc. I think I have cathartic eyes.

I remember a few years ago I was on a bus. I am the person that you sit beside who doesn't speak or even look at you. The person who disappears into a separate world reading her book. But on this bus ride as soon as I sat down, the guy next to me started talking. We had a good conversation which is not something that comes naturally to me when it's with a stranger. It wasn't about anything really. Just bits and pieces for the hour long ride. He said that every time he rode that bus he always talked to the person next to him. More interesting than looking at the back of people's heads, he said. And he's right. I can't count how many times I rode that bus. But I only remember that one ride.

And I can't count how many times I've bought coffee from my local coffee joint. But I will remember today. To each of them, I am just another person they talked to. But for me they are the person that talked to me.

So, to all those individuals that live to talk to others. To those that talk to the person sitting next to them on the airplane, the person standing in front of them in the checkout line, thank you. And don't ever stop talking.

Landlocked blues

2007-11-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

If you walk away I walk away
first tell me which road you will take
I don't want to risk our paths crossing someday
so you walk that way I'll walk this way...

and the world's got me dizzy again
you'd think after 2[8] years I'd be used to the spin
and it only feels worse when I stay in one place
so I'm always pacing around or walking away

I keep drinking the ink from my pen
and I'm balancing history books up on my head
but it all boils down to one quotable phrase
"If you love something give it away"...

I've grown tired of holding this pose
I feel more like a stranger each time I come home
So I'm making a deal with the devils of fame
Sayin' let me walk away, please

You'll be free child once you have died
from the shackles of language and measurable time
And then we can trade places, play musical graves
till then walk away walk away walk away walk away

So I'm up at dawn, putting on my shoes
I just want to make a clean escape
I'm leaving but I don't know where to
I know I'm leaving but I don't know where to...

~Bright Eyes

I can't put it out

2007-11-11T14:46:00.001-05:00

I slept nine hours last night, but my eyes betray me. Big black circles. I have 86 terms to learn for an exam tomorrow. I know about 20. I have an assignment due on Tuesday. I am not yet 1/3rd done. I have a 12 page paper due on Thursday. I've written one paragraph. The stresses of a typical student, I guess. But instead of working, I find myself preoccupied with other thoughts. I revert to staring across the room. Here, in the library, rows of journals fill my view. Usually a calming environment, but I feel a fire in my belly. I'd rather be anywhere than here. Any country other than this one. It's been too long now since I left; the forces of school and work constraining my movement, controlling my time. I want to disappear again into that world of pure freedom where no one knows me and the ones that do have no idea where I am.

ahyah!

2007-09-15T10:46:00.000-04:00

Today my body aches without movement. I have band-aids wrapped around each big toe, one covering an enormous blood blister.

I went to a Karate class last night. In high school I practiced karate for three years. I won a medal in a tournament. I had some incredible teachers that did what incredible teachers do - push you hard beyond the boundaries you've drawn for yourself. And then some. I felt confident and strong. I could do knuckle push-ups. I could do hundreds of sit-ups. I felt that if anyone tried to do anything to me physically I would be able to take them down. And then some.

Then I got busy, the club fell apart, and I stopped practicing. A few years went by. I tried again in university with a different club. There was a Japanese Sensei but not enough high level belts to keep me motivated. I stopped again.

Then I went to Japan. Ah, perfect, I thought. What is better than practicing Karate in Japan? I tried another club. Not what I was looking for.

It's been 12 years since I've practiced seriously. I try again.
And find exactly what I've been looking for.
Sensei is perfect. He is an old Japanese man, tiny in stature, thick in accent. He takes the "beginners" aside and starts going through the basic punches and blocks. My arms, shoulders, elbows, wrists, hands, fingers, thumbs remember everything. But below the waist I am mush. I can't touch my toes, my knees wobble, my feet tear on the floor. But still he singles me out along with two others as having experience.

"You have practiced before?"
"Yes, a long time ago."
"Where? Here?"
"No, Nova Scotia."
"Ah, beautiful place."
"Yes."
"Come here."

Japanese spins through my head. I want to speak to him, ask him where he's from, and if he misses ramen as much as I do. His English is perfect. "Power!" "Down!" "Touch your muscle. Hard!"

As the higher level belts kumite to my right, and the beginners learn the basics to my left, a senior black belt works with me and two other girls on a kata. My legs remember all too well the awkwardness of backward stance. We start slowly, working on turns, setting up blocks, and looking before stepping. And then, full on. My kiai is loud, filling the room. The two other girls are a little shy, but I know no other way. I have found my club.

my first moose

2007-08-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

So. You don't need to go to another country to have fun while traveling. The boyfriend and I went out east--Nova Scotia, which is originally home for me. A week-long roadtrip around the province and to PEI. Both trips I've done with my family, but somehow it's different when you are in control of when to drive, when to stop, when to turn.

Driving through sheets of rain to get to the island, then the North Cape Coastal Drive. The sun is strong, giving incredible contrast between the red soil, blue sky, and green fields. I've seen this all before, but not like this. Cruising on the hilly twisty roads with hardly a car around. He the driver, me the navigator. Roles that we are each content to play. We stop whenever we see something interesting. Lighthouses, windmills, old churches, the perfect ocean-side view, dairy bars, and any sign advertising something irresistibly mouthwatering.

Pulling into a gas station off the highway. Putting 42 litres into the tank. Checking the specifications to see how many litres the tank holds. 42 litres.

We camp, get bitten by mosquitoes, learn how to build a fire, set up our tent as the sun falls down. We get drunk on marshmallows, wine, and fire.

Cape Breton, N.S. Winding our way up, and down, around, and through the Cabot Trail in a trusty Toyota Yaris rental. The Maritimes are built for drivers; the boy enjoys every minute. Acadians, fishing villages, a moose just off a hiking trail, whale watching with pilot whales, a ski-lift ride, descending into a coal mine, stuffing ourselves with delicious seafood.

Strawberry shortcake, lobster rolls, fishing coves, boats, lobster traps, a famous lighthouse. Good, fun things. It always comes down to that.

three overseers

2007-07-24T13:12:00.000-04:00

glow balls

2007-06-08T11:36:00.000-04:00

The University of Toronto's pharmacy building.

pause

2007-06-07T00:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life is like the cliffhanger of the last episode of the season -
you can hardly wait to find out what will happen next.
Other times it's like the movie epic that will not end.
You don't care about the ending so much as the fact that it will be over.
I am stuck in a movie with an infinite reel.
And I desperately need to go to the bathroom.

Yann Martel is sending books to Stephen Harper

2007-05-29T11:11:00.001-04:00

www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca

it's getting warm

2007-05-16T12:47:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was walking to work, cursing the heat, sweating through my shirt, when I was reminded of what it used to be like. In Japan, inside my hermetically sealed one-room apartment, I would blast the air conditioning, while going about my morning routine half naked. When it got time to go to work, I would step outside, be affected instantly by the heat and begin to sweat before I had even entered the elevator. I would ride my bike the five minutes to the train station, carefully trying to keep my dress pants clear of the chain, always looking a little bowlegged. At the train station, my first stop would be for a cold coffee or ice cream to cool me off while waiting for the train. Getting on the train was pure pleasure with frighteningly perfect air conditioning, like stepping into a fridge. The 25 minute journey would refresh and revitalize me. Then during the two minute walk to the school, I would sweat again. Inside the building, it was not often better, as the Japanese interpretation of turning on the air conditioning is starkly different to that of a Canadian. A few not-so-subtle questions became routine: "Is the air conditioning on?" "Is this working?" "How do you make it stronger?" After that was settled, I would venture into the classroom where I would mash buttons until something cold and strong was blowing on me. On bad days, I made it blow hot air, which resulted in me running down three flights of stairs to find someone to fix it, lest I die.
So, as I sweat here in Toronto, I am reminded that it is not really hot here, nor does it ever really become so. I may sweat through my shirt here, but in Japan, I actually dripped.

where eight wheels takes you

2007-05-14T14:52:00.000-04:00

The first skate of the season is always fun. You get to go places that you wouldn't normally go on foot. Like this bridge, for instance. I've driven by it countless times. It's much better up close.

me vs.

2007-05-09T14:11:00.000-04:00

This is my new view. The 14th floor. Every morning I wake up to the sound of banging, sawing, and men yelling in deep voices. The first morning was terrible. Now it's more pleasant to wake up to the sound of a condo being constructed than it is an alarm clock. And this is how it will be for the next four months.

I have moved in with the boyfriend. It is a temporary summer gig, but one I still find jolting. Odd, given that I spend five days out of seven with him. Another life lesson, I suppose. I still have much to learn about many things. There is however something intensely comfortable about always having a warm body next to you and feeling excited when you hear keys in the door.

I have also started not one but two new jobs. Sweet jobs. Money jobs if you will. If you're a librarian, academic libraries is kind of the sweet spot. And I'm in two of them this summer.

Good for me. But. Change is still difficult. Even if it's positive.

You know how sometimes bad things will get you down and you'll feel so crappy that you will sleep for 12 hours because it means less time facing the day? It's even worse when these feelings and actions surface when no bad thing has happened. In fact, good things have happened. Yet I start to worry. I start to fret. I wonder why I'm not the cool confident cat that everyone thinks I am/used to be.

And then for some reason, amidst the sea negativity I think about writing. I read about writing. I write. Then I feel better. This is how I prevent myself from going postal. This is my release. This is how I figure stuff out, and know that everything will always be okay. Why do I always forget this?

Since September, school, work, and life have conspired to prevent the timely release of Junicus. No more. My fingers on the keyboard will be louder than the banging outside.

She plays, I eat

2007-04-02T11:06:00.000-04:00

--Antigua, Guatemala--

I was eating at a restaurant.
She was playing in her space.
I had a table and chair.
She had a ledge and some toys.
I had the boyfriend.
She had a couple of passersby.
We both shared the same view
the same open space
staring across the street at one another.

A hilltop stop in Laos

2007-03-27T11:46:00.000-04:00

I don't remember where I was coming from or where I was going. I remember the driver stopping, but I don't remember why. I remember opening the window to take pictures of the magnificent view. I remember kids getting in the way. I remember waiting for them to move. I remember taking these pictures. I no longer remember the view.

it's all about timing

2007-03-10T19:44:00.000-05:00

--taken at a bird park in Singapore--

Synchronicity. Five syllables. Five. Odd.
Asynchronous. Four syllables. Four. Even.

Sometimes things are just off.

what do you believe in?

2007-01-07T14:38:00.000-05:00

In Bull Durham, Annie Savoy (Susan Sarandon) asks Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) what he believes in. His response:

I believe in the soul…the cock…the pussy…the small of a woman’s back…the hanging curve ball…high fiber…good scotch…I believe that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas eve, and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.

Here’s what I believe in:

I believe in an orgasm a day. I believe that parents are role models and should practice what they preach. I believe in reading until my eyes hurt. I believe everyone should grow up with a brother or sister to play with. I believe people should fill their passports with stamps before they expire. I believe that making love to someone you love is a gazillion times better than fucking someone you like. I believe in strawberries, ice cream, cheese, and shrimp. I believe most people are way too uptight about sex. I believe in eating for pleasure. I believe in drinking for pleasure. I believe that windows should not be used as mirrors. I believe in socks with no holes. I believe that being rich is a bad thing. I believe everyone should strap on a backpack and wander around alone in a country whose language you don’t understand. I believe in walking instead of driving. I believe in listening over speaking. I believe in guys asking girls out. I believe in taking pictures. I believe in writing, no matter what. I believe that making people laugh, especially kids is the most fun one can have in life. I believe that time truly stops when you’re making out with someone. I believe in aliens. I believe that people know they are in love the minute they catch themselves watching their partner sleep. I believe that when people lose contact with old friends, it’s because the connection that was no longer exists. I believe that most of us are lazy. I believe that dreams can come true. I believe that loving someone is the most difficult wonderful tortuous beautiful thing I’ve ever done or will do. I believe in holding babies. I believe in stubble on a guy’s face. I believe in honesty and truth. I believe in hot chocolate on a cold winter day. I believe that words can fix everything. I believe in kicking a soccer ball. I believe in petting strange dogs. I believe that every child should know how to swim and ride a bike by age seven. I believe that what I believe today can change tomorrow.

brilliant

2007-01-04T15:01:00.000-05:00

I am almost positive that if you look up the word "brilliant" in the dictionary, you will find this picture.

Was Cher right?

2007-01-03T02:15:00.000-05:00

Is it all in his fucking kiss?

Mi-ya-gi (hard g)

2006-12-30T08:35:00.000-05:00

Remember all those movies you watched as a child that gave you warm fuzzies inside and made you feel like you could do anything? And then you revisit some of them 10, 15 years later and realize that at the time you watched them you were just a naïve, little child?

The Karate Kid is not one of those movies. It still fucking rocks.

almost dressed for success

2006-12-28T15:35:00.000-05:00

I used to wear black shorts to school. That I had made. I also once wore a green jogging suit in Jr. High. No one told me not to do these things. How I not only survived without getting beat up, but thrived remains a highly-kept bully secret.

I was in Home Ec class, when it was still called Home Economics. Before I finished high school, it had been re-named Family Studies. I have no idea what they call it now. There were three components to the class: cooking, health and well-being something rather, and sewing. Everyone had to take it, even the guys. Conversely, we also all had to take Industrial Arts, which I rather enjoyed, more so than Home Ec. The toys you got to play with were just so much more satisfying than cooking utensils and sewing machines.

In Grade 7, the sewing project was an apron. In grade 8, it was something else that I cannot possibly remember, and in grade 9, (or perhaps I am remembering incorrectly and it was really grade 8,) a pair of shorts.

Naturally, since the teenage years are a dark period for all, the material I chose for my shorts was black. They had an elastic waist. I don’t remember them being particularly difficult to make, and I was obviously pleased enough with the results to actually wear them regularly to school. I’m sure everyone else was laughing. If not outwardly, then on the inside.

In Elementary school, I wore jogging suits all the time. It was the eighties, that's how it was. By Jr. High, it was the early 90s, but again, no one told me what my peers seemed to have known instinctively. So, after wearing jeans for a while in Grade 7, I decided to go back to the jogging suit. I chose a green one. I then spent the entire day looking for the one other student that was also wearing a jogging suit. There was nobody, and I felt like everyone was staring at me. I went home that day and put the jogging suits to rest. At school, anyway. No one knew what I wore at home. And I wasn’t going to tell them.

So, the point of this thing, which I am getting to ever so slowly by reliving painful childhood memories, is the fact that until very recently I have never really been able to dress myself properly. I didn’t know what colours went with what. I had no idea what things complimented my body type, and would try something on, and literally not know whether or not it looked good. If it was comfortable, I usually bought it. This had the effect of me often looking like a punk kid, or a sack of potatoes. And to be honest, I prided myself on not really caring what I looked like, emphasizing instead, my brilliant personality. Ahem.

But, over time I learned that being complimented on a piece of clothing feels good. When you put on that one suit that you own for a job interview, looking and feeling like a million bucks, it is good for the self-esteem. When guys check out how hot your ass is in tight jeans, that too is good for the self-esteem.

Recently in school, a librarian in the field came to give a short talk to students about working in corporate libraries. Part of her spiel was “job tips,” which included advice such as, “go to a professional stylist and get a good haircut,” “don’t wear jeans, buy a suit that fits, or get one tailored,” and my personal favourite, “don’t wear broken shoes.” Apparently someone she had interviewed showed up in tattered, broken heels. I thought her bit was hilariously funny, but all the other students found it condescending. But I think it’s true. It matters how you look at a job interview, and it matters how you go about your business everyday. It’s not the only thing that matters, but it does matter enough to stop dressing like a peasant when you live and work in downtown Toronto.

So, in the summertime when the boyfriend was away, I had a lot of free time. And I wondered how exactly to go about figuring out how to dress myself well. I did what I typically do when I don’t know what’s what, and searched online. I found some information, but nothing comprehensive enough to make me break my habits. Then I went to a bookstore where I found I Don’t Have a Thing to Wear: The Psychology of your Closet. I did feel like a putz buying it, but this was something worth learning. And you know what? I finally did. Death to jogging suits. Hello to the children’s section. Yes, that’s right. Jeans that fit now cost $18, and no GST. I may be small, but you are the sucker. You laughed at my June-made shorts.

what time is it?

2006-12-16T00:24:00.000-05:00

10:08

funniest moment of the year

2006-12-13T23:44:00.000-05:00

While walking down Yonge St. with the boyfriend, a homeless guy walking in the opposite direction stops dead in his tracks, staring. Out of his mouth come the words, "You lucky guy."

I love this story

2006-12-11T14:47:00.000-05:00

"On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning"
Written by Haruki Murakami, in The Elephant Vanishes:

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

lands conquered thus far

2006-12-02T23:16:00.000-05:00

Turning the world red...one country at a time.

studying, coffee, watching

2006-11-29T12:15:00.000-05:00

Crunch time. The last few weeks of the semester. I make a comfortable study space in the boyfriend's kitchen-a nice change from the library. Writing papers, reading, making notes for exams, going to sleep late, waking up early (sometimes), organizing time, trying to find hours here and there.

In undergrad, it was all about trying to pass. Memorizing enough information to kind of understand enough to colour in the correct circle with your pencil. In library school it's about trying to get an A in the course instead of a B+. So you practice cataloguing, take copious notes from readings, and wish you hadn't skipped so many mangement classes. Everything is familiar because you minored in business, but the brain pathways are weak. They can however be revived. You just need to find time to read half the textbook before the open-notes exam.

This morning was spent sipping my favourite coffee on the busy corner of Yonge and College. What a place to people watch. The old man dressed up head to ankle. A nice hat and suit, but sneakers on his feet. I imagine that if I asked him why he would say, "Nobody looks at your feet if you wear a nice hat." The homeless guy on the sidewalk sprawled in front of mailboxes in a sleeping bag. Students with backpacks. The backpacker with an SLR in his hands. An older Asian couple carrying bags from shops in Chinatown. Young women carrying bags from shops downtown. I could sit here all day.

2006-11-20T00:27:00.000-05:00

I didn't get a Wii today.

a la perfection

2006-11-14T23:01:00.000-05:00

The annual trip to Montreal was a success.

French was kind of spoken.

A tourist place was visited: Biodome.

A movie was watched at Cinema du Parc: Shortbus.

Copacabana was visited. $4 drinks, a $100 night.

And most importantly, all the mandatory meals were eaten: hotdog poutine from La Banquise, fondue from La Fonderie, Alto's delivery of poutine, pizza and cheesesticks, chicken sandwiches from Coco Rico, Chinese food from Maison VIP, and smoked meat sandwiches from Schwartz's.

It's good to venture outside of Toronto sometimes.

writing again

2006-10-31T21:15:00.000-05:00

In July, 2003 I posted this:

I wanted to be a writer a long, long time ago. When I was 8 years old, or something. But every one wanted to be a writer then...I've tried to keep a journal, but to no avail. But this blog is something that gets me writing every day. Even if it isn't good writing, it's still writing, which I think is a good thing.

It is time to write again. I'm hoping this book will help.

2006-10-29T21:29:00.000-05:00

"It seems to me that one should only read books which bite and sting one. If the book we are reading does not wake us up with a blow to the head, what's the point of reading?...A book ought to be an icepick to break up the frozen sea within us."

-Franz Kafka

sometimes

2006-10-06T23:03:00.000-04:00

Sometimes shit happens. Sometimes it happens to you. Sometimes you are the source. You wake up in the morning feeling sick, sore, and confused, wondering what the hell happened. Was that you? Where did that come from? Only crazy people do that...

So you spend a few days, not sleeping, not eating. Just thinking. Long and hard. You take lots of deep breaths. You talk to some friends. You come to some conclusions. You make some decisions. And you feel okay. You realize that by now there is a ball in your gut formed from past experiences, and lessons learned. Things your parents taught you growing up; things you learned on your own. You know that you are capable of admitting mistakes. You know how important it is to say you're sorry. You know that only you can change things. And you are reassured by the fact that when shit happens, or even when you are the cause, things will be okay.

ch-ch-ch-changes

2006-09-06T10:51:00.000-04:00

September. The start of the school year. Cooler weather means that shoes replace sandals, and I start wearing jeans again. Two moves. The boyfriend has a new pad downtown, and I move up north.

We went to Guelph the other day, and my old alma mater. It's strange to go back to a place from your past, and realize once you're there how much you've changed. The small town that you fell in love with is still charming, but holds no excitement now. The mall within walking distance where you spent way too much money is tiny. Your house where you first lived independently is still a nice duplex, probably with a family living inside. You remember the lawn you never cut, and in winter, the sidewalk you never shoveled. Your small green room with bear borders you never bothered to take down; a remnant from the previous family's baby.

The campus is quiet the day before classes start. Some frosh are wandering around. They look so young. But you are aware that you blend in seamlessly; youthful Asian face and all. We trace the paths that I must've walked hundreds of times. The campus feels smaller now, but still comfortable. Crowds are watching the Gryphons play football. I never did go to a game.

The boyfriend is mystified that I chose to go to university here. But at the time it was everything I wanted. Quiet, and safe with lots of trees and grass. No traffic, a mall and grocery store close by. I absolutely loved it here. I wanted nothing to do with cities. Five years later, I am at the opposite end of the spectrum, living in Toronto and going to The University of Toronto. And I love the city. The thought of living in a small town now is as unthinkable as living in a big city was then.

So many changes over the years that have shaped who I am, without me being aware of it until after the fact. I keep changing my situation, and without really meaning to, end up changing myself. Moving to that city. Going back to school. Finding a new job. Loving that boy. Reading that book.

Tomorrow school starts. I'm excited and scared. I suppose change never stops feeling that way.

the rest of the trip

2006-07-15T22:15:00.000-04:00

Copan, Honduras. The first of several colonial Spanish towns. We fall in love with the hilly cobble stone streets that feature Spanish cowboys on horseback. We sample our first anafre - a kind of fondue involving melted cheese and massive nacho chips. A wander through some ancient Mayan ruins, and another National Geographic moment is completed.

Antigua, Guatemala. A bigger town surrounded by volcanos we do not climb. Europe has been here. There are so many restaurants, and not enough meals. The rain begins.

Panahachel, Guatemala. A tourist town selling tourist things, set alongside a beautiful lake, and volcanoes. The rain doesn't stop, and we spent most evenings wet, and cold, wading in water up to our ankles in flooded streets. Desperate to ride motorcycles again, we rent one, later getting caught in the rain. Smiling, we improvise, and buy garbage bags to wear as raincoats.

San Cristobal, Mexico. The best restaurant with the best nachos ever. The old VW Beetle dominates the streets. We visit a couple Mayan villages, one the memorable Chamula. Inside the church we witness a woman using a chicken(that will eventually be sacrificed) to heal a relative. Unreal.

Flores and Tikal, Guatemala. We remember Canada on her birthday, and sing the national anthem in the streets. We have movie night - The Constant Gardener. A pleasant swim off the dock in front of the hotel.

Caye Caulker, Belize. A wonderful place with a constant breeze. A gazillion little docks with a gazillion little boats line the shore. The hottest swim of my life in shallow water. We look forward to diving, but I get the flu for three days, and am out of comission.

Placencia, Belize. Laid-back and quiet. A beautiful beach with too much crap washing up on shore. So that when you swim, you come out looking like seaweed man. We play scrabble, and I get my butt kicked repeatedly. A Sunday night out, with everyone dancing to a live band. We mostly watch, because it's so interesting; eventually joining in near the end.

Belize city. The scariest place I've ever been in my life. Everybody staring you down, and nobody smiling. A couple hours of uncomfortable walking through the streets, but a comfortable bed, and comfortable company.

And another journey ends.

on the road again

2006-06-22T13:07:00.000-04:00

You hug him hard when you see him, because it has been a month or more. So, so, so comfortable.

Tegucigalpa is pleasant. Not too hot, not too dirty, not too loud. Similar to so many other capitals in so many other countries. But a mere pit stop on the way to the beach.

Utila, Bay Islands. And the list of good fun stuff begins. Diving with hydrooptix, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, and the subsequent scratching that always has me wishing for a wire brush for my ankles, the kind that you use to scrape off paint. Chilling on a wooden dock sipping vocka and orange juice, staring out into the black, black ocean. The Jade Seahorse. An outdoor bar with a treehouse, a crystal cave, stone benches, swings, a neon glowing bathroom, and many levels of steps that in the dark cause much stumbling. We drink pina coladas, and daiquiries because they cost $1.50. Barbequed fish steaks with rum and lemonade. Seakayaking, a gloriously red starfish. Some beach time, turning pink, turning brown. And so it goes...

already there

2006-06-08T10:04:00.000-04:00

And so there will be another trip. I did not think it would be happening again so soon. But next week I find myself yet again strapping on a backpack, and climbing aboard an airplane. This time, to Central America. Honduras, Guatemala, and maybe Belize. One month with the boyfriend who is already there, and who also happens to be my favourite travelling partner.

I can hear it now. The blaring car horns of inner city traffic. I can see it now. The narrow dusty streets filled with children playing barefoot. I can feel it now. The sweat dripping down my face from the high humidity. I can taste it now. The freshly cooked shrimp and lobster. I can smell it now. The colour green. It is going to be so good. One of those rare instances where the playing out of actual life exceeds your highest expectations.

how to have a great birthday

2006-05-22T16:50:00.000-04:00

1. Get your tax refund back the Friday before your birthday.
2. Time your birthday to coincide with a national holiday.
3. Have a friend drop off a 12-pack of your favorite brew on your birthday eve.
4. Wake up at 10 am on your birthday.
5. Eat an egg and cheese crepe for breakfast.
6. Have coffee and read the paper.
7. Continue reading a great book.
8. Browse through a bookstore.
9. Watch a movie with a free movie pass.
10. Take a walk through your neighborhood.
11. Get birthday emails and phone calls from your family.
12. Have a friend who's a great cook make you dinner.
13. Fondly remember last year's birthday.
14. Get a call from your boyfriend who is wandering around Panama, thinking of climbing a volcano tomorrow, and missing you.
15. Go to bed with a big fat smile on your face.

2006-05-16T21:59:00.000-04:00

"In all life one should comfort the afflicted, but verily, also, one should afflict the comfortable, and especially when they are comfortably, contentedly, even happily wrong."

-John K. Galbraith

2006-05-05T22:21:00.000-04:00

I thought they only parked like this in Japan.

the path most likely to sprain your ankle

2006-04-12T20:46:00.000-04:00

Rushing school applications in just under the April 1st deadline. One express posted to McGill. The other hand delivered to the University of Toronto. Two letters of reference, a statement of intent, transcripts. Twelve days later, an email of "congratulations, you have been accepted" from U of T. Come September, I will be in the graduate program in the Faculty of Information Studies. A career that I know is right. After having studied biomedical science and business; after whiling away time working in restaurants and retail; after applying to programs ranging from respiratory therapy, to information technology to supply chain management(getting into everything, but following through on nothing); after living abroad and travelling for two-and-a-half years, I finally know what I'm going to do. For years I haven't known, yet the road I took still got me here. And I know I enjoyed the twists, banked curves, and hairpins, much more than I would have the straight road.

joie de vivre

2006-02-21T19:39:00.000-05:00

A weekend trip to Montreal. A B&B with a king-sized bed. Being surrounded by the French language for the first time in a long time. Getting confused, and wanting to say things like, "Sumimasen. Ou est la toilette?", or "Combien desu ka?" Weird.

Visiting the boyfriend's old haunts for amazing eats. The best Chinese food of my life at Maison VIP in Chinatown. A raspberry crepe at Chez Cora's. Latkes at Ben's. A happy face breakfast at a cheap diner. Hotdog poutine. Cheese fondue at Fonderie. Alto's delivery. A quarter chicken dinner at a Portugese chicken place. Oh yum. I ask you...what is better in life than good food with good company?

White stuff. Talking until 5 in the morning to a pair of beautiful ears and eyes, amazed that that can still happen with someone you've known for 7 months. Sleeping in the king-sized bed until 2.

Shopping for the perfect leather jacket for the boy. Driving around the city. Visiting McGill. Freezing our asses off in -15 degree weather; wrapping scarves around faces so that only eyeballs poke through. $4 drinks at the bar.

Hillbilly night at The Barfly. A bucket bass, mandolins, fiddles, guitars, and getaway music in a smoky hole in the wall.

Bloody hell. Life is good.

streetcar jam

2006-01-28T00:12:00.000-05:00

10 words

2006-01-15T20:14:00.000-05:00

"Occasional collisions unexpectedly encountered determine the direction of a lifetime."

-Elias Canetti Auto-da-Fe

dazed days

2006-01-08T00:05:00.000-05:00

So many days are flying by. Will I remember them accurately later, or will they all just be a pleasant blur?

Christmas Day. With the Jewish boyfriend. His first, really. The collective haul: popcorn, chocolate, smurf sheets(didn't we all have a set when we were younger?), a clothing shopping spree, and a personalized photo calendar. We top it off by inadvertently giving each other a copy of the same book. Hardbound illustrated copies of Herman Melville's Omoo, the sequel to Typee, which belongs to the boy, that I have been reading. What a charming coincidence. It was so hard to find, that we had both ordered it from ebay. For him, forseeable. For me, a surprise.
Christmas dinner at a newly discovered restaurant; the afternoon spent amongst the hordes of people watching King Kong. Fun but too long. I had no idea how many people went to the movies on Christmas Day. Interesting.

Three consecutive days off. The Playdium on a whim as we drive past a sign pointing it out. One of those experiences that will be remembered more fondly upon reflection than while experiencing the moment itself. We bounce from game to game, shooting, driving, skiing, skateboarding, bowling, dancing(very, very badly), jetskiing, waterskiing, shooting basketball, kicking soccer balls, riding motorcycles, mountain biking. A roller coaster simulation that we have no credits left for ends the night. We leave, hot, thirsty, tired, and wanting to wash our hands. There is something to be said about the good, clean fun that kids have. That we should all have more of, really.

Another day is spent at the Ontario Science Centre, and the Body Worlds 2 exhibit. Absolutely fascinating. I approach it from having already worked on cadavers during my undergraduate degree at university. It is my second time holding human brains, livers, and kidneys in my hands. I am reminded of when I knew the name and function of every muscle, bone, organ, and nerve in the body. Attachments, and insertions, sternocleidomastoid, the corpus callosum, ventricles, and my personal favorite muscle - sartorius. The longest muscle in the body, that allows for your knee to bend while your hip is flexed, and rotated outwards.
We gaze upon lungs blackened by cancer, and with a smile I implore the boyfriend to stop smoking. He is interested in knee replacements. I ooh and ahh at the exploded man, the saggitally sliced man, and the woman with a fetus still in her womb.
I giggle when a child asks her mom, "Is it meat?" The mother answers, "Well, yes...it's your muscle." Throughout the exhibit, children juxtaposed with cadavers amuses me. A baby crawls around on the floor framed by a donor's leg muscles, tendons, ligaments, and bones. I wish for my camera. It's all a pleasant blur.

not yet

2005-12-21T23:53:00.000-05:00

A day off after working seven in a row. I sleep in not because I'm tired, but because I can. A bad idea. It is never a good thing to wake up past 1:00. Especially from a weird dream.

I start my day off slowly, getting in breakfast and a shower. I listen to some music that makes me sad. I start thinking about warmer climates, and more relaxed times. Not because it's cold, and I'm stresssed, but because life was simply different then. And I miss it. A few deep breaths, and I feel sadder.

I venture out to get some Christmas errands done. On the way out of the subway, I see a couple around my age. The guy is on the pay side of the turnstile holding the girl's face. The girl is on the exit side with tears streaming down her cheeks. They hold each other, separated by the metal turnstile. Tears well up in my eyes. What am I witnessing? A break-up? A final goodbye? Not wanting to, but circumstances forcing them to? How does it come down to this? In public, putting it off to the last possible second, until a physical barrier forces you to say goodbye.

And in an instant I know why I feel sad today.

For a future goodbye.

reading, work, Christmas

2005-12-16T01:24:00.000-05:00

A Friday night. Sipping vodka mixed with tropical orange juice from tetrapacks. The boyfriend reads 'A Civil Action' in preparation for his upcoming law exams. I read a lovely illustrated hardcover copy of Melville's Typee.
Nine hour work days. Getting used to waking up at 8 am. Easy work. Sometimes stupid work. I do especially like talking to customers about digital cameras. But I'm afraid of the ones that want to buy computers. I'm not quite geek enough. Of course I don't mind this.
Christmas slowly encroaching upon me. It feels strange. Last Christmas was spent with my brother in Malaysia. The one before that, on a plane to Beijing. Finally, I'm back in Canada but it doesn't feel any different. Too soon, somehow. It's all here though. The snow, the music, the frantic shoppers filling stores.

money seats

2005-12-10T23:15:00.000-05:00

Our first NBA game.
Memphis Grizzlies vs. Toronto Raptors.
Section 118. Row 12.
My non-zoomed view of the game.
Final score- Grizzlies 92 : Toronto 66
But we had a blast.
That's what happens when you sit in section 118, row 12.

i look good in red

2005-11-27T19:36:00.000-05:00

April 12th, 2005. That was the last day I worked. More than seven months ago. It's all over now. Gone, gone, gone is the freedom of living my life according to my plans.

I don't know how many resumes. Several job interviews. Getting second interviews at three places. Am I applying for competitive, progressive positions? No. Minimum wage retail! The goal being to get a paycheck as soon as possible.

The first job being selling crap to people in a quaint but dinky store, where according to the manager, on a rainy Sunday, no one will walk in. No thank you.

At the second interview, I'm hired on the spot. Selling linen to rich elitist snobs. 620 threadcount sheets, and hundred dollar pillows. After two days of training, and two more days of the boss asking me if I really, really, really want to work here, and am I sure I won't quit in a week, I tell him to find someone he's sure of.

A Chapters interview. This one I want badly. So much that I blow it. A group interview, with six others. A shy girl that answers all the questions last, a glasses-wearing science fiction lover that reads 5 books at once, a skinny chick in jeans that enjoys crappy fiction, a mellow male with long blond hair, a middle-aged woman in a sweater set that I bet has read every Oprah Book Club book there is, a smart girl with good answers to every question(bet she got hired.)

Two Starbucks interviews. Two managers. 20 questions that begin with, "Tell me a time when you...." I struggle through, bored out of my mind, trying to thinking of interesting stories to tell, but not really caring. I was lured here by the free pound of coffee each week, free drinks while working, and a 30% discount. When offered the job, I politely decline.

Staples. I walk in only because the sign on the door says they're hiring. Two very friendly interviews later, I'm wearing a red shirt. The geek in me is happy. I'm working in the technology department, selling gadgets, electronics, and computers.

One more interview for a "real" job. Part-time, teaching reading comprehension to grade 6-12 students that are preparing to write the SATs for entrance into American universities that their parents really want them to go to. When I walk into the school, I am immediately reminded of English schools in Japan. The fancy reception desk, the gleaming computers, the small classrooms. I feel at home immediately. I write an English test, and do a short teaching demo. No nerves, completely relaxed.

Odd that on returning to Canada, I choose retail because it's easy, and comfortable, when surprisingly teaching feels the same. For now, I await a phone call while wearing the red shirt.

Greek Zebra

2005-11-27T12:45:00.000-05:00

Black on white.
Three columns.
Something I've always wanted.

snow snow snow

2005-11-18T21:01:00.000-05:00

I will
never fail
to be amazed
by
the first snowfall of the year.

Last year's craving
will be filled this year.

the most amazing thing I saw this summer

2005-11-12T23:00:00.000-05:00

Lake Taal, in Tagaytay, The Philippines.
A lake inside a volcano inside a lake inside a volcano.

nomenclature

2005-11-10T19:37:00.000-05:00

Interesting how words change during a relationship; use of a new vocabulary that is difficult in the beginning, until eventually through time you become fluent.

"Boy" augments to "boyfriend."
"Sex" becomes "make love."
"I like you" transforms to "I love you."

Words that haven't been used in so long, it is a foreign language you once studied. Familiar, but stuck on the back of the tongue.

Je t'aime. Aishiteru. Mahal kita. Te amo.

Like learning Japanese, it's hard. But I do like using new words.

the annual poppy challenge

2005-11-09T14:01:00.000-05:00

I haven't worn a poppy in years.

This year, I set a new record for myself, losing it in less than one hour.

They really ought to do something about that.

still traveling

2005-11-01T12:49:00.000-05:00

Life has been getting in the way of writing.

Touring Nova Scotia, and Toronto with my friend Ai from Japan. Her name causing amusing problems when I speak about her in the third person(Ai and I...). The fall leaves of Cape Breton, posing for ridiculous pictures with pumpkin people, statues, and large stuffed animals. Misty Niagara Falls, breakfast at Tim Hortons, staying in hostels in Canada(weird), a view of Toronto from the CN Tower. The glass floor is still scary, even as an adult. Acclimatizing to the cold weather. A job interview for a store smaller than my apartment in Japan. Spending time with the boyfriend. The housing hunt. Is it rude to ask the landlord on the phone if the place is a hole?? And why do they charge so much for holes? Walking, walking from place to place because it's free, and I enjoy getting a feel for the city on foot. The neighbourhoods, the people, the streets, the stores. So diverse. Where the hell am I? It's great.

most likely to...

2005-10-17T22:40:00.000-04:00

Thumbing through a year's worth of Time and National Geographic, reading The Globe and Mail front to back, while the wind whistles, and the trees shake. I spot a bluejay, a common enough bird but one I haven't seen in ages.

I go through "old" things, accessible only at home. Yearbooks. My grad picture. Too short hair, big gold glasses, braces. My God. Flipping through comments left by friends that refer to memories and inside jokes I've long forgotten, but I'm sure were golden at the time. Some comments left on the inside covers:

"You are truly one of the most daring, and crazy people I know."
"I know you will make a great ER doctor."
"Tromboners forever!"
"I will forever remember your amazing comebacks."
"You can be whatever you want!"

And I wonder who they're talking to. 1997. Eight years ago. Does this human being exist anymore? Caustic to corny. Crazy to mellow. Doctor to ex-English teacher.

Last year when I was home, a pile of us high school buds got together, and I was labeled as "not having changed a bit." But I have changed. So much. Did they not see it? Did I not show it? A couple of weeks ago in Ottawa, my aunt said that my "face had changed." That I had experience in my eyes from having lived and traveled abroad. "What does that look like?" I asked her. But she couldn't pinpoint anything in particular.

In my graduating class in high school, I was voted the female most likely to succeed. My male counterpart is currently in the States working on(or perhaps finished) a pHd in some scientific related discipline(as rumor has it.) I've got a Bachelors degree. I'm not a doctor. I don't have a job and am homeless. And broke. And perfectly happy. I'm not sure what my peers were thinking or what they saw in me when I was voted with that title. Maybe my good grades, maybe the fearless loudmouth, or the cocky kid with a fondness for using words as weapons. And I'm not sure about their definition or measure of success. But eight years later, I'm content. And that's good enough for me.

Oh Canada

2005-09-20T09:28:00.000-04:00

Algonquin Park. Paddling in a canoe on a mirror of the sky. Silence interrupted when the paddle breaks the glass. Loons, squirrels, mice, chipmunks, ducks, and a beaver. At night, the blackness is brightened by the full moon. A different kind of beauty than what I've been experiencing this summer. A place to get away from it all, even though I just got here. It's intense. Being in an English environment again. Billboards, signs, flyers in newspapers, people's conversations, the television in the corner of the restaurant that draws your attention. Oh my God. I don't care about your stupid product or service or tv show or movie!

Toronto. I can't believe I used to think this place was chaotic. A busy, screaming, dirty metropolis where I would be incapable of living happily. But after Tokyo, Manila, Bangkok, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, and Hong Kong, it's a little different. It's clean. It's mellow. It's quiet.

The boy. Having a ball again. Going to law classes for kicks, Google Earth, more vodka and orange juice. What do you do when you meet someone as sarcastic as yourself? So much said in jest by both of us regarding the future or non-future that I no longer know what he or I really think or feel. I know only that I'm having fun, and that is a good thing.

A friend's wedding. The most chill-out bride I've ever seen. Dancing the night away, the five of us, friends from university. Does it get any better than that? Coming together years later, as if nothing has changed. And knowing that 5 years from now, 10 years from now, 20 years from now, no matter how much we each evolve and mature, that it will always be like that.

Ottawa. A visit with cousins that I haven't seen in a few years. Cute, funny kids that make me miss teaching. Just a little.

And finally the last leg home to Nova Scotia. The flight of an hour and a half feels so long. Hugs to my mom and dad, and the 100 kms home. I'm always struck by how dark it is. There's simply less here. Fewer people, businesses, etc. As much as I love coming home, I cannot live here. But for three weeks I'm content to chill. Then back to Toronto to face the music. Finding work. Yick.

One more thing. Wearing jeans and an old pair of Gravis sneakers while listening to your favourite music that you haven't heard in nearly five months is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

over

2005-09-11T01:03:00.000-04:00

I fly home tomorrow.
This is it.
The end of my trip.
The beginning of life back in Canada.

I will miss:

pancakes and fresh fruit juice/shakes

the warm sun, blue water, white sand

being able to walk from the beach to the bar/restaurant to where I sleep

the freedom that comes from knowing that you can do whatever and go wherever, having absolutely no obligations to anyone or anything

picking food from a menu(choice is a wonderful thing)

Swenson's - how bloody brilliant is this place??

all the time I had to read - I read twenty books this summer

bargaining while shopping

exploring somewhere new

balconies and hammocks

riding motorcycles

diving

randomness - people, places, things

I look forward to:

not doing the backpack dance - grab the shoulder straps, hoist onto left knee, half-turn to push up onto left shoulder, then right shoulder, adjust the hip belt, click. Walk, sweat, suffer.

not being bitten by insects

not having a map in my pocket

not having to constantly safeguard my passport and computer

sleeping in a bed with a firm mattress, soft pillow, and clean sheets every night

talking to people I already know

seeing the Canadian boy I met in Thailand

seeing my family and friends

public transporation having set fares, air conditioning, and comfortable seating

camping

being able to throw toilet paper into the toilet

a proper showerhead in a bathtub

drinking water out of the tap

sleeping without a fan or a mosquito net

eating lobster, poutine, tacos, whoppers, cheese, and whole wheat bread

driving a car

my friend's wedding

having my entire music and movie collection at my disposal

lots of snow this winter, and skiing

The things I look forward to outnumber the things I will miss. I believe this is a good thing.

back and forth

2005-09-02T02:44:00.000-04:00

I sit on my balcony in a ratty but comfortable hammock, my left leg propped against the railing, continuously swinging myself back and forth. Hammocks are like rocking chairs, meant to be in constant motion. I can hear the waves lapping at the shoreline. Geckos scurry up, down, across the balcony. On my left, girls chat away in their bungalow. On my right, faint music drifts from the restaurant/bar. As the sky turns from blue to white to grey to orange to red to black, I rock. I alternate between Joyce, Kipling, and staring at the sky. I'm reminded of another balcony where I used to spend hours. The view wasn't as nice then, and there was no hammock. Instead of rocking, there was a friend. I think about the beer I want to be drinking, but instead am saving money for one last dive underwater. I think about how fantastic this summer has been, and the sensory overload of everything that has happened. I think about going home soon, and the people that I want to see, and the people that I have to see. A friend from Japan is coming to Canada for two weeks in October. That's exciting. Then I have to decide where to live, and what to do. Not so exciting.

But here, now, this hammock on Koh Pha-Ngan, in Thailand, in Asia. These are wonderfully lazy beautiful days. I trod a triangle between balcony, beach, and restaurant. I wake up one morning to find a friend on my balcony, curled up in the chair, surrounded by my laundry hanging off the arms and back. I don't usually like cats, but this one was cute. While I rocked away the morning, she slept stretched out under me.

Hmmm, I think I'm taking this hammock home.

a final date

2005-08-20T06:52:00.000-04:00

In Laos now, not a country on my original list of places to go. Instead driven here by numerous backpacker stories. And it is as beautiful as they say. When it's not raining.

Time ticking down, I spend nearly 3 hours figuring out how and when to get home. Not even home, but as far as Toronto, which'll do for now. A travel agent does his best, but unsatisfied, I find something better using his free internet access. I'm still paying way more than I should; punished for booking late. On September 12th, I will fly from Hong Kong(the last stop, to satisfy my building fetish) to Chicago to Toronto. I guess technically I will be flying on Sept. 11th, when I cross the international dateline. No big deal, but something to be noted. I'm a little more relaxed now, that the partial future is set. It's always easier to plan around something, than to plan that something itself.

Travelling on my own again, it's taken a few days to find my groove. Wandering streets, getting used to traffic on the "right" side of the road, looking for shirts to replace the faded, stained rags I've been wearing - why does everything have Mickey Mouse on it?? Three currencies in my wallet - US dollars, Thai baht, and Laos kip as thick as a block of cheese. Ah, just 3 weeks left. And in 3 months I know I'll wish I was here, doing what I am now.

good fun things

2005-08-16T05:47:00.000-04:00

Sixteen days of no journal writing, no recording. Instead, busy living and experiencing.
Northern Thailand. The best hotels and cottages I've stayed in during this trip, days spent roaring on a motorcycle, smoking shishas in a Bob Dylan bar, orange juice and vodka, making sweet love until morning, enjoying cheese and salmon, smoking crap weed, laughing, talking. Food poisoning. Kissing in public, buying souvenirs from longneck and big ear hilltribe villagers(their names, not mine), belting out "Oh Canada" while cruising on the bike, shopping for hippie clothing, watching Annie Hall. Falling off the bike on a slippery mud track in the middle of rice fields. Learning how to bargain, feeding fish in a cave, a special diving mask, front bus seats, buying cds and dvds in Myanmar, and watching many many episodes of The Office, Sex and the City, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Monty Python's Flying Circus. Going to the zoo, the metaphor game, easing thirst by pretending to shop, "Red Rubber Ball", thinking of adjectives beginning with M to describe the Mekong river, an elephant-bird shirt, trying to write a movie script, a twisty, turny ride in the back of a pick-up, and reading Kafka. Good fun things. If only life was always this full.

sometimes it takes two

2005-08-08T09:28:00.000-04:00

Solo travel for 3 months. The solo part being half the point. And then all of a sudden, before you know it, you choose to invite another person along. Knowing that things will be different, and that you can't do what you did before. But you're willing to take that chance.

Days change. No writing, and reading of a different kind. You find yourself no longer having conversations if your head because there is someone to talk to. Talking, talking. It's easy to forget how hard it is to do. Words come faster. You have to listen carefully, and think fast. And sometimes it's hard, and makes you tired, but mostly you're pleasantly surprised at how much fun you're having. But still, you know, it will always be something you have to work at.

Then there are the things that you would never experience if you were on your own, and that is what you're after. On a motorcycle, seeing, breathing, smelling the land. The green. Fucking amazing. Everyone should ride these things more often, scrapping the car barrier that separates us from the real experience. Mountains, grass, trees, leaves, rice fields. So many shades of green I've never seen before. I feel like riding forever.

where's the piano?

2005-07-30T08:31:00.000-04:00

Nervousness. It's a terrible feeling, isn't it? The anticipation of what may or may not happen. Things going well, or things going terribly.

I took piano lessons for ten years. Every year there was a music festival at the local university. Every April, I would participate. Every April, I would be nervous. I hated April. Was it even April? Maybe it was May. Anyway, some time in the Spring.

We would sit there, all the piano students in that particular class in the first few rows of the auditorium, waiting to perform. All of us would be dressed up, as if we weren't uncomfortable enough. Hands sweating, or in my case cold. Knees knocking, butterflies in the stomach. Pure torture, really. Sometimes there were students that were perfectly calm, sitting there as if they were in church listening to mass. I always hated them.

In some classes, each student played the same song. These were the worst ones. You'd hear either how much better someone was than you, or how much worse. And neither was good. I actually used to play worse if someone didn't play well. And if someone played well, I'd be too disheartened to do my best. It was a no win situation. In the meantime, you'd be sitting there waiting. Cold hands, that feel like they're forgetting the piece of music that you know you know inside out and could almost play backwards, or upside down.

In time, maybe the last two years that I played in the festival, I actually learned to relax, and enjoy performing. But it took that long. Now, I don't perform, but I still get nervous.

Cold hands. Even in a country as hot as Thailand.

Bangkok

2005-07-25T00:15:00.000-04:00

I sit in the open lobby of the guesthouse, mosquitos nipping at my ankles, feeling like the uber geek that I am, traveling with a laptop. The only reason I'm down here at all is that there is no outlet in my room. I've not talked to anyone since I arrived. I need to do that sometimes. Not talk, not socialize, not interact. And in a city the size of Bangkok, it's quite easy to do.

I like it better after the second day. It takes a bit of getting used to after a mellow island paradise, where you spend most of your time lying on a beach, and even the pace at which you walk slows down. In the city it's the noise of the road, and elbowing your way through shoppers. Completing complex physics when crossing the street, and defying death once more. It's a great city to explore on foot, the map in the bag for use in emergencies only. Markets are everywhere here. So much stuff. I walk up and down Khao San Rd. It doesn't feel like I'm in Thailand. It is absolutely filled with tourists. I hear a foreigner speaking better Japanese than me(but not good enough that I can't understand) to a Japanese guy with Elvis hair she's just met. I buy 11 pirated cds for the price of 3 regular ones. I'm good, and don't touch the movies.

I'm staying in a prison cell. The first place I've been that has no windows. The pillow is too high, and too hard. Drunk idiots speaking some European language wake me up in the middle of the night. Then the roosters start crowing. And they don't stop until I'm showered and dressed. I go on the hunt looking for another place to stay, the only thing good about where I am is that it's clean. I look at four, with each getting darker and grungier than the last. I give up, but something's gotta give tonight - the pillow, the drunks, or the roosters.

dizzy

2005-07-22T23:58:00.000-04:00

Ever spend a night spinning? Like a top, round and round, where you don't know if it's you that's moving, or the world. The wine, the company, the almost full moon in the cloudy sky, and the ocean waves crashing onto the beach. All things likely never to be repeated again. And so you spin.

And it's been so long since you've spun, you almost believed it wasn't possible anymore. Years ago in another time, another place, with someone else. Where everything was upside down and backwards, and none of that mattered. You spun hard then, because it was the first time, and no one can teach you how to spin. How important it is to keep your balance, and what to do if you feel like you're falling off.

But a spinning top always loses it's spin, coming to a stop, and eventually it did. And when it did, you were lost. For a long time. You felt like if you didn't spin, you would die. But you didn't die. And years later, amazingly enough, there is spinning once again.

holes in rocks

2005-07-14T23:51:00.000-04:00

Railay, Krabi, Thailand. I am in paradise. The most beautiful place I've been to yet. Beaches are enclosed by limestone cliffs. Honeymooners(or people just madly in love?) make out on the path, and in the water. There are massages and hairbraiding on the beach. Monkeys torment the women selling food. I eat every dinner at the same restaurant - the food is just that good. One day I go rockclimbing. An esthetically pleasing form of physical activity. The limestone wall before me, white, yellow, brown, red, grey. Trees at the top. The ocean behind me, and the sound of longboats. So amazing. I fall in love with the challenge of the wall. Looking up from the bottom, it's a strain on the neck. 30-50 metres high, looking almost impossible, my only experience being indoor rockclimbing. A big group of English girls start out. Almost all of them freeze, a few feet off the ground. Afraid of falling, afraid of smashing into the wall. Not wanting to go up, only down. With encouragement from each other, some make it to the top. I get anxious waiting for my turn. Slowly, but surely, my arms(because I forget about my feet/legs) drag my body up. Shouts from the bottom tell me to use my legs more. We do six climbs in one day, ensuring that I will not be able to lift my beer to my lips that evening. From the very beginning, I trust the rope, completely. An English couple start calling me crazy June. The thing about climbing is that you know when you're going to fall, going for a hold that may not work. But you try anyway. The ant at the bottom always has your back. More experienced climbers yell to the guy climbing at 60 metres, "Stick it in a hole, and go for it!"

2005-07-10T08:09:00.000-04:00

Nine days of not moving, not traveling. Feeling something familiar, instead of experiencing something new. Kuala Lumpur. KL. I've been here before. Last time it was the first time, so I did the sightseeing thing. This time, I cocooned in my brother's apartment, reading, writing, and eating, venturing out only to visit the Petronas Towers(again - I have a building fetish), watch movies, and do a little shopping. But it's time to move on. Reluctantly, I might add. Being still has been nice. Having hot showers has been even nicer. And the air conditioning...ahh...

Planning Thailand is giving me a headache. I don't like boats, and there are a lot of islands. And why can't the amount of money you have and the length of your trip be an inverse relationship? I'm halfway. Two months in, and there can only be two months left if I budget carefully. So decisions must be made, and money counted. And all the permutations and combinations of routes home from Bangkok/Hong Kong/Nagoya/Tokyo to Vancouver/Toronto/Halifax calculated. It's dominating my brain. I think I need an island. Okay Thailand, I guess I'm ready for you.

i'm afraid of scissors

2005-07-08T08:07:00.000-04:00

I got a haircut the other day. I thought I'd be safe going to the same place my brother goes. Prices were listed for cut and wash, and cut only. I opt for the cut and wash. Little did I know I'd be getting my full money's worth. The wash began with a squirt bottle, and no sink. Interesting in the mirror watching someone else shampoo your head. Then the washing, the rubbing, the scrubbing, the massaging, the scratching. At least ten minutes. My scalp had never seen the likes of it. And then the haircut. Oh, the memory is painful to recall...hairdressers/barbers have so much power. Are they aware of it? The power to make you "beautiful," and the power to do the opposite. This one chose the latter. Hack, hack, hack. Die hair die. My glasses were off, and he started at the back. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. My hair has not been this short in years. And back then I was often mistaken for a boy. Ugh! For at least a month I will have to avoid mirrors and clean windows.

in Malaysia, dreaming about ex-trees

2005-07-07T08:04:00.000-04:00

This is Malaysia the second time around. The friendliest cabbies I've ever met, in particular an Indian with sideburns named Tamil whose nickname is Don, an amazing mix of Indian, Chinese, and Malay food, getting Coke/Pepsi at fast food places unless you specify otherwise, messed up food orders(I ate just rice for dinner once, and another time had chicken curry with no chicken), negotiating taxi fares, packages of cookies/cracker/chips that are virtually impossible to open with bare hands, and heavenly bookstores, making me think about what a great job it is to be working in a bookstore, surrounded by words, and people that love to read. And why can I not stop writing about books?

nouns vs. adjectives

2005-07-06T07:56:00.000-04:00

Last night, I went out to dinner with Alex, and three new teachers. Fresh from Canada, having gotten here just last week. After getting the fill on my background(bio-med degree, 2 years in Japan, now travelling), one guy asked me, "What do you want to do?"

"This."

I want to feel content like I'm feeling right now.
I want to always be meeting people(old, young, unique, quiet, eccentric, strong, grumpy, wise, funny) with stories to tell.
I want to taste my life as if it's my last meal.
I want to apply "traveller mentality" to real life.
I want to always act/behave in a place as if I'll never be there again.
I want to talk to people as if they'll be leaving my life tomorrow.
I want to work in a bookstore(This doesn't come from nowhere. I spent 2 hours in Borders today. I could've spent 2 days, 2 weeks, 2 years).

"What do you want to do?"
"I want to be a (insert noun here)."
I think we should insert adjectives instead.
And remove the a.
I am a former English teacher, after all.

up, mars, down

2005-06-24T09:53:00.000-04:00

Sabah, Malaysia. Borneo. Mt. Kinabalou. 4095 metres high. An 8.7 km trail of wooden stairs, stone steps, flat granite, and boulders. A 4 hour hike to the overnight camp. A 3 hour climb to the summit starting at 3 am.

Epsom is our guide. He climbs the mountain twice a week. His umbrella doubles as a walking stick, and he wears black rubber shoes with no socks. I wear $150 Merrells and toe socks. We start off, fresh and ready. My brother Alex takes off, soon disappearing from view. A little while later, we catch up as he slows down, not feeling very well. 1.5 kms in, and he pukes in the bushes. A little disconcerting, but I'm not worried. He's puked before. A quick rest, and we're off again. Up, up, up, up.

Porters, both men and women carrying unbelievable loads pass us. I hope they're paid well. We stop for lunch. A cheese sandwich, soggy chicken nuggets, and melon. Slowly but steadily we make our way up the mountain. Nearly every step forward is a step upward. It's tiring, and because of the altitude, we pant like dogs. As we go higher, the trees get shorter, and the weather gets cooler. After almost 5 kms, we finally reach the overnight camp. Our timing is good, as it just starts to drizzle some rain. We take naps in bunkbeds, and get warm. A dinner, and board games help to pass the time. We go to bed early at 8 pm to rest for the climb to the summit.

Around 3 am we set off again. There are a lot of us. Everyone in gloves, and toques, carrying flashlights, silent, saving their breath for breathing. The beginning of this climb is similar to the climb the day before. Then the rope appears. An aid necessary for scaling the granite face which is angled enough to slide down. Of course the guides walk up sans rope, as if their feet are magnets on a fridge. The pace slows down, as people walk single file. Looking backwards, our flashlights form a path that shines through the misty fog. The rock face flattens, and the rope continues to mark the trail, but there is no longer any need to hold onto it.

The wind picks up. It's now head down, body hunched over, hands in the pockets, one step in front of the other. On and on. I feel so tired, but it's too cold to stop moving. I pass people who have decided to rest. There is no shelter from the wind up here, and they look miserable. The fact that we are all paying to do this amazes me. We trudge on, Epsom promising that the summit is near. Unbelievably, the climb gets harder. Huge rocks to scramble over in a final test to reach the summit. I take one look, and sit down to rest. Alex goes on ahead. The black of the night fades, as the sun slowly begins to rise. I drag myself up the rest of the way, and finally I'm there. The summit is just rocks, and is quite crowded. I wrestle my hands out of my gloves to snap some pictures. A cloudy view, but I am too numb to be disappointed. I down a mars bar, hoping for energy.

10 minutes later, we start heading down, to make way for more people heading up. I'm so happy to be going down instead of up, that Alex soon disappears behind me. I follow the rope down, enjoying every step. Because of the fog, there are times when I can see no one ahead of or behind me. I stop for a few moments to enjoy the solitude. The feeling of being in the middle of nowhere, on top of the world. It gets warmer as I go down, and layers are shed. The granite is slippery in places, and despite careful footing, I take a hard one to my left ass. But I'm on my way down, and don't really care. 2 hours later, at base camp again. I wait 30 minutes for Alex to come back. A bum knee is the reason for his slower descent.

We eat breakfast, and then it's down again. Good fun for me. Alex buys a walking stick to use as a third knee. With his permission, I go forward, never looking back. It's fun figuring out where to put your feet for each step, knowing that the wrong step could quite possibly result in a concussion, coma, or broken leg. It's almost worth the climb up, just for the climb down. Then, just when I think I'm doing so well a girl in pink flipflops passes me. Unbelievable. I try to catch up, but can't. I'm bitter for a couple minutes, being passed by someone in pink footwear. Then it starts to rain. Mud puddles! Brown splashes, dry $150 feet.

I greet those going up with a cheery hello, a small attempt at brightening their soggy climb up. But like me on the way up, most of them are too out of breath to do more than grunt and nod. 3 hours later with barely a break, and I am down at the bottom. The sun is not shining, but it has stopped raining. I'm tired, but content and proud. It was a hard climb, but not quite as hard as I thought it would be. That said, I'm pretty sure it's the first and last time I'll ever do it.

The next day we go whitewater rafting. We moan about our sore legs. Our guide tells us that he's done the Mt. Kinabalou climbathon - a race up to the summit and back, the record being 2 1/2 hours. Insane. Amazing. Perhaps I will climb again. For the trip down, in the time it takes for a pro to go up and down.

an interesting species

2005-06-15T22:50:00.000-04:00

Island charm. I succumbed to it. As everyone I met was leaving Tioman, I heard the same words being repeated. "I don't want to go." I nodded with all of them in agreement, that it was indeed a nice place, while silently I did want to go. But on the last night, I too found myself uttering the mantra. What is it about places like these? Something in the water? Something in the sun? Something in the seafood?

But I did leave, reluctantly. On a ferry that got stuck in the low tide. Now Cherating, an east coast village with a big beach. It's more of a spot for locals to vacation than travellers. A nice change from backpacker Tioman. I'm sharing my cottage with a girl originally from Poland, now living in Germany, on a two week stopover, before going to Australia to go to unversity.

People can be so interesting sometimes.

A local named Bob takes me to a beach, whose trail includes a near vertical descent possible only with ropes. On the beach we try to save the biggest jellyfish I've ever seen, but when it floats back onto the beach, we take it for dead. He spots turtle tracks. It is egg laying season for them.

An English girl shares her palm leaf rolled joint with me, and later at a bar, gets bitten by a centipede. She was in so much pain, they drove her to the hospital, but I don't know what happened after that.

A couple staying at the place nearby have their cottage broken into. All their money is gone.

I talk to a guy I saw briefly on Tioman. He doesn't remember me at first. I remember him because he has wonderful curly hair, and an English accent.

I meet Solo on a beach, with a bandanna wrapped around his head, and a sarong wrapped around his legs.

This trip is quickly becoming more about the people that I meet, in(stead of) the places that I see.

this island thing

2005-06-12T22:47:00.000-04:00

Pulau Tioman, Malaysia. Another tropical island. Another beautiful beach. More backpackers, the advanced open water dive course, seafood restaurant meals with a view of the ocean. Falling asleep on a hammock, talking to European travellers, watching waves. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Well, it's too hot to do anything else. And after the varied excitement of Singapore, I want to do something else. I try to go for walks, but after 30 minutes, I'm dripping. After 3 hours yesterday, my head was pounding even though I'd downed 2 litres of water. As such, I'm a little bored. There's only so much reading, and writing I can do. People are nice, but talk feels too temporary. I want to get off this island. I guess I'm not quite the beach bum I thought I'd be. I asked my dive instructor if the island loses its charm if you live here. She said, "No, you just see if for what it is." I didn't ask her what "it" was. Her name is Sarah, and she's leaving the island soon. Going home to Ottawa, and marrying her Malay fiance. She actually went to the same university as I did, a year behind me, and stayed on the same floor of the same residence that I lived on during first year. She also spent a year in Japan. I love when that happens. Two people from the opposite side of the world meet on the other side, and have more in common than best friends or family members do. See? Things like that only happen on tropical islands. Maybe that's why I have to keep visiting them. If only for that.

it's easy being green

2005-06-08T22:42:00.000-04:00

I sit with the balcony doors open, allowing the sounds of the traffic below to float up into my ears. I'm in Singapore. So modern, it must be indicative of cities of the future. Stiff fines of several hundred dollars for eating or drinking on the train, not flushing the toilet, smoking and littering help to keep the city clean. Japan is clean because people are paid to clean it. In Singapore, it never gets dirty in the first place. I have to mentally remind myself not to eat/drink on the train or in the station. $500 Singapore dollars if I do, and get caught. I'm not sure how strictly it's enforced. In two days I have not seen a single person in violation.

Singapore is a very green city. Everywhere you look there are trees, bushes, flowers, and grass. My view of the street is blocked by a tree. How pleasant. I could live here, except for one thing. It's too hot. I drip buckets everyday that I'm out walking around. Relief comes in brief intervals in a shopping mall. And they have a lot here. In two days, I've been in four.

Chinese, Malays, and Indians. Language, culture, and religion combined into a wonderful blend. This mix is evident in the food court of any mall. I make my rounds twice trying to decide what to eat. I visit Chinatown and Little India, where a middle-aged Indian man tries to pick me up. I politely decline. I am quickly learning that it is advantageous to lie and say you have a boyfriend, even when you don't.

A night safari to see active nocturnal animals, a bird park, the esplanade theatre that looks like a durian, the Merlion, a walk along the river, mailing a small box home, mailing a cd of pictures to a friend, getting a typhoid vaccination because Japan doesn't administer one, Chinatown for some shopping, Little India where I find the underwater housing for my digital camera and blow a couple hundred dollars. These are my experiences here, and they bloody rock.

the clan

2005-05-30T07:32:00.000-04:00

A house with concrete floors, and a sheet metal roof. An outdoor kitchen. No running water. Showers are taken by filling a huge bucket full of water, and using a small pail to pour water over oneself. The toilet is flushed by pouring a bucket of water into it. Clothes are handwashed. This is how my relatives in The Philippines live. This is how my parents grew up.

This in particular is a visit to the small country town where my father grew up. While taking a walk, it's easy to imagine my dad as a boy, chasing dogs, going to the store, playing by the river, tripping over the same stone. Escorted by my cousin, we visit house after house, relative after distant relative, meal after snack after meal. In 4 days, I'm never given the chance to feel hungry. Relatives are everywhere in this town. If my father had stayed here, I would have been inbred for sure. It is surreal to be walking down the street, and to have my cousin point out, "See him? He's an Avila too."

On the first night there, I was sweating it out in the living room. All of a sudden, a male voice outside begins crooning a love song accompanied by his guitar. I, being paranoid because of my previous boy meets girl experience, start to panic. My cousin tells me to open the window, but I refuse. The guy singing finishes his song, and then I hear a keyboard, and a female voice begins to sing. There is now a puddle on the floor from the associated sweat that comes with stress. My cousin forces me to the window, and I open it. Three singers, a keyboard, and a guitar. Serenading me. Turns out that it's a sick, twisted Filipino tradition during your birthday. They go through a few more songs, and give me mangoes, and flowers. I relax a little, and by the time they sing Happy Birthday(a bilingual version in English and Tagalog), they're the most beautiful people I've ever seen. A couple days later, we have a picnic involving a roast pig by the ocean. They hang up a banner reading, "Happy Birthday Michelle". It takes a second before I register that it's for me. My dad has always called me by my middle name, and the relatives on his side do too. They sing happy birthday again, and sign it for me to take home. Maybe I should add to my sidebar, "My name is June but I was born in May, and my father calls me by my middle name, Michelle."

In all, I am overwhelmed by the kindness and love that they show for me. Although we've never met, I am not a stranger. As I watch and listen(because I can't speak), I start to understand my parents better. Arguments while growing up were perhaps not because of differences between us, but because of differences in culture. Western and Asian. Canadian and Filipino. The two blending together, resulting in me being raised less strictly than they were, but most strictly amongst my friends. I see strength, stubborness, and ego running through family veins. As a generally passive person with a laissez-faire attitude, I finally understand the fire inside that on occasion fights its way out. A highly evolved vulcan with no conscious need to suppress emotions, that gets surprised once in a while.

Oh, what a wonderful and amazing experience this has been. But after 20 days, I am ready for a shower with a shower head. Singapore, here I come...

only on a tropical island...

2005-05-27T08:14:00.000-04:00

A 5 1/2 hour drive across Cebu. My own personal driver. My own personal van. I'm filthy rich in this country. He dodges chickens, goats, cows, dogs, people, tricycles, buses, and cars to make good time. I never realized that the yellow line can also function as a lane. I find myself holding my breath during the hundreds of near hits, fully conscious of the fact that if he slammed on the brakes, I would go straight through the winshield. There are no seatbelts. I'm having the time of my life.

A 30 minute boat ride gets me to the island of Malapascua. A small white sand beach. Two dives. An amazing fishing village. I am stared at as if I have 5 noses, 2 mouths, and 3 eyes. I turn heads. I stop children on bicycles. Fantastic. As I walk by, a girl says hello. I say hello back. Then she says the tagalog word for "gay," one of the 15 or so words I know. Hilarious. I turn around and crack up. She waves.

I meet three Filipino boys over the course of 5 days.

Alex, an 18 year-old that offers to take me out around the island on his motorcycle, after I've taken only 3 steps onto shore. The next day, he drives me around to visit five dive shops in search of a prescription mask. We find it at the last one.

Joseph, a little older with a girlfriend in Germany. Later he tells me about his Australian girlfriend. He sings. Non-stop. While swimming, driving his bike, walking around. At first charming, but not for long. I look around for a sock to stuff in his mouth, but see only my bare feet in sandals.

Robert, a 21 year-old college student studying English. Home for vacation. Quiet-spoken. He takes me to the lighthouse where we watch a cloudy sunset. We talk a little, but not much. I exhaust all conversation topics. We are from different worlds, but I am thankful for his company. On the dark way home he says he likes me. I say, okay. I keep walking, thankful for the night. He says he wants to see me again that night, so again I say, okay. On the beach, we sit. I stare up, trying to find the dippers. He suggests we move to the hammock. I say, okay. Too late, I realize it's a hammock. Weight falls to the centre. I sit precariously on the left side. He sits politely and precariously on the right side. We sit. I yawn. Then he says, I love you. I say, you're psychotic. Well, not really. I'm just so in shock that I don't know where to begin, knowing at the same time there's no point in beginning because he thinks what he thinks and doesn't get it. So I say that I'm tired, and head to bed.

Like to love in 3 hours. I think that's a record.

an island in the sun

2005-05-22T05:41:00.000-04:00

A quarter bottle of beer down a snorkel while wearing a diving mask. Can't breathe through your mouth, or nose so the only option is to swallow. And when you can swallow no more, you spit in the snorkel, and you end up with beer in your lap.

This is the initiation into scuba diving, once you pass the open water diving course. And I passed. I killed it. 98%. Christ, what a geek.

For the past 4 days, instead of looking out onto the ocean, I've been in it. 18 metres deep. If you've never gone scuba diving, there is no way I can describe it for you. An entirely different world. Dangerously breathtaking. Literally. Along the reef, sea turtles, Nemo, schools of fish, angelfish, and so many whose names I don't know. Then the reef drops off into a blue nothingness. Looking down and looking left. The 90 degree change of view blows my mind. My instructor has been Rolph, from Switzerland who can speak 5 languages. He goes back and forth between German and English, to teach Rene(a German high school boy) and me.

Moalboal, Cebu, The Philippines. A plane from Singapore, a taxi ride into the city, a van to Moalboal, and a tricycle(motorcycle with a cart attached) to the cottages where I'm staying. A wild trip from beginning to end, but I've been enjoying the fruits of my hardship. Roosters crow in the morning, trying to get me out of bed at 5:30 am. Lunch every day has been accompanied by fresh mango juice. Dogs and cats wander around looking for something to do. One cat finds someone she likes - me, and tickles my ankles during my entire meal.

It's hard to believe that this is my life. The island life. The people are so friendly and genuine. They're all familiar to me, and I feel comfortable right away. I see my mom in all the young women taking care of guests. I see my uncles in the boys who drive the tricycles. I see my grandfather in the skinny man with sandals walking purposefully down the street. Coming from a recent trip to Korea, and living in Japan for two years, it's refreshing to be in an Asian culture where I'm not afraid of inadvertently offending anyone. Because I do know this culture. Even though I was raised in Canada, and can't speak the Filipino language. I know the food. I hear some familiar expressions. I know that it's okay to eat with my hands, and how to take a bath with a bucket of water. No one mistakes me for being Indian, but they know I'm not a local. I've told the "parents from the Philippines, born and raised in Canada, never been here before" story a few times already. But it's not a story I mind telling.

5 days in. 15 to go before the next country. Ah, how sweet...

the motherland

2005-05-17T18:53:00.000-04:00

7:41 am in Singapore. I feel surprisingly good, considering I just spent the night, and half a day at the airport. But if you're gonna do it, Singapore is the place for it. 24 hour shopping, food, movies, free internet access. And comfy chairs where you can actually get a decent night's sleep. If you can manage to get the physics right, of draping yourself over your bag(s), while balancing your hat over your face to block out the light, and folding your arms over yourself because it's just slightly chilly.

I left Japan yesterday morning. It was overwhelmingly anti-climactic. I said all my goodbyes and see ya laters. Somehow, some way, some place I know I will see the people I care about again. In an hour, I will be going to The Philippines. The place where my parents are from. Where they were born. Where they grew up. And where I have never been. A place where I look like everyone else, but can't speak the language. Where a pile of relatives I've never met will spoil me rotten. Will I feel like I'm coming "home?" Or does culture shock lie in wait? I can hardly wait to find out.

wounded soldier

2005-05-15T10:46:00.000-04:00

Two small scars. One on the back of my right hand. The other on my right forearm. Two cigarette burns from two different smokers on two different days. These are the battle wounds from one week spent in Seoul, South Korea. Visiting a friend I've known since elementary school, whose life closely parallels that of mine. Teaching English as a second language in Asia. Unfortunately she had to work most of the time, but I didn't mind going around on my own. An attempt at Seoul tower(under construction), a visit to the DMZ for a glimpse of North Korea, going out and dancing my legs sore, seeing military(US and Korean), and police everywhere, especially in front of the US embassy. Eating kimchi(oh, yum!), eating galbi(oh, yummier!), watching Nanta - an amazing drumming show with kitchen utensils(try chopping cabbage with a rhythm), going on a river cruise and taking too many pictures of bridges, the War Memorial museum. Seeing members of the same sex holding hands, linking arms, or draping their arms over each others shoulders. Friends expressing their friendship. On a drunk night out, I let my friend hold my hand. Feels slightly strange, but comfortable. That feeling of safety and contentment when you're a kid holding onto your parent's hand, that quickly changes to fear when they let go. Ah, we should all hold hands more often. Perhaps that way I wouldn't get burned by stray cigarettes...

i want to stop

2005-05-08T11:40:00.000-04:00

I've spent the last 15 hours throwing away my life. Well, two years of it. Some is so easy. Work clothes, good riddance. Some is hard. A present from a student. I feel guilty but have no space or use for it. My bed is gone. My bookcases are gone. My tables are gone. A futon lies in the middle of the floor, surrounded on all four sides by things that need to be packed, or thrown away. I'm tired, and want to go to bed. But they're coming at 10:00 tomorrow morning. To take away my home. Somehow, I have to be ready by then. Times like these, I want to settle. My own home, with a dog. No plastic furniture. A non-transient life. To stop moving. To stand still. And sit down.

capital T

2005-04-25T10:47:00.000-04:00

A friend is currently visiting from Canada. Together, the next while will be spent traveling outside my comfort zone of Nagoya. For me, a farewell to Japan. For him, a hello.

Some highlights from Tokyo:

The Tokyo Metropolitan Buildings. An elevator to the 45th floor, gives us a view of the city. Absolutely sprawling, at every angle, as far as the eye can see.

On the opposite side of the tracks, Kabukicho, where adults go to play. Drink, eat, fuck. Repeat. Just follow the lights.

The Prada building in Harajuku. The pathway there teeming with shoppers, anxious to trade their yen in for designer goods.

Ueno park. I took a similar picture last year. It's better this year.

My favorite building. The Asahi Building, in Asakusa.

A genuine treat. The bus to Tokyo rounds a bend, and all of a sudden, there it is. 2 years in Japan, and I've only experienced the view from a plane.

this is it

2005-04-12T00:49:00.000-04:00

Oh, what a weekend. So sad, so sentimental. So much fun. So much love.

More and more I realize how important it is to just bask in each moment, because situations, circumstances, people, and timing will never create the same moment again. Eating spicy food and sharing it with your friends, so that within minutes everyone feels like they can produce fire. Taking pictures, everyone's arms wrapped around each other so hard, we amost fall down. Waking up enveloped in big arms, finally knowing that there is more to this so-called casual relationship. Cherry blossoms falling on my head. Drunk karaoke with hooligans. Eating good soup. Making a new friend in a guy dressed as a panda. Dancing my guts out, and showing off in the centre of the circle more than once. Talking to absolutely everyone. Saying the last goodbyes. Knowing that I will never see most of them again. Even though some are Canadians, only through circumstance, do we become friends in Japan. Our moments together are moments in Japan, and we all know this, and don't even bother to exchange email addresses. Then there are others whose phone number, phone email, and internet email I know. The ones that will remain friends for life. The ones that will make the trip to Canada to visit. The ones that I will make the trip back to Japan to visit. The ones that I will write long stories to, and harass via email with pictures, and nonsense.
As everyone kept saying on Sat. night, it is the end of an era. Things will never be the same. We will never be the same. But I sure am glad that we had our moments together.

I have to go so bad I can taste it

2005-04-06T10:47:00.000-04:00

I'm in my last week of work.
There are no classes, no kids. Just seven 40-minute conversation lessons/day every day for two weeks.

I sit down at the table, and as the lesson progresses, I cross my legs.
Right over left.
Then left over right.
I stretch them out in front of me.
I lean forward, my palms face down on the chair, under my knees.
Repeat.

I'm so restless, it's all I can do to continue sitting there. I finally understand why Forrest ran. I need to run too. But I can't. Not yet. 4 more days. And then no work for at least six months. Maybe more. Oh, the thought is almost too much to bear, and my brain takes off, excited at the endless possibilities when the 9-5(or in my case 3-9) ball and chain is broken.

On Tuesday, April 12th at 9:31 pm, I will be smiling, singing, dancing, stripping, screaming. And then I will run. I just hope I don't trip and fall after the first stride.

people to see, parties to go

2005-03-29T21:00:00.000-05:00

Mar. 12th - a night out dancing with 2 Japanese friends, one recently back from Australia, the other back about 6 months from America. Both still in English mode, from their respective homestays. I can talk to them like I would anyone from home, no dumbing down of my language, or explaining idioms, and expressions. It's an awesome night out until morning, flopping our bodies around in time to music until 2. And then to Denny's for french toast. My friend pukes in the sink, because she can't make it to the toilet. We wait for a sleepy 3 hours until the subway starts.

Mar. 20th - seeing this awesome band, and then heading to a house party. Good friends, a comfortable floor to sit on, awake until 4.

Mar. 26th - 1 night, 3 parties. A school party where I show my face for 40 minutes, and stuff myself. Next, out with my private students. We eat way too much at a miso restaurant. Then, another school party at another restaurant. As that dies down, and people drop off, 6 of us head to a shot bar. A lot of good talk, a lot of good fun. Then to a ramen shop because the boys are hungry. Next, a club with no one in it, but they graciously pump up the music and turn down the lights for us. I don't see my bed until 8 am. I wake up, and it's dark.

Mar. 27th - I then head to Jazz Inn Lovely, where I take in an amazing show, while sipping ginger ale. A fantastic trio. A guest trumpet and alto sax. I fall in love with the trumpet player. So shy, and giggly when having to introduce herself with the mic. Then the mouthpiece hits her lips, and the horn is an extension of her body. Eyes glued shut, because vision is a hindrance. Blowing so loud, and so hard, bending backward so far, she is a tree in the wind. So fucking pure. So fucking good. I get home around midnight, bitter at having only discovered this cozy smoky jazz club now.

Mar. 27 until now - laryngitis from Mar. 26, making my job a very difficult one indeed.

Apr. 3rd - another school party

Apr. 9th - a goodbye party to end all goodbye parties. So many people are leaving, it will the the last stand.

Last year at this time was pretty much the same. Goodbye parties, hello parties, welcome parties, farewell parties. Let's go out, dancing, drinking, eating, talking, fun, fun, fun. I love it. I hate it. It's everything, and nothing. Except that this time, it's the last time.

friendly friends

2005-03-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

I went to a party the other night.

In the elevator after we left, my Japanese friends were talking about a guy.

"I don't like him," she said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"He's too friendly. If he was a foreigner, it would be okay, but he's Japanese."

How can there be a double standard for friendliness across cultures?

follow the black and white ball

2005-03-20T03:23:00.000-05:00

Ahhh...

I just spent the last 3 hours kicking a soccer ball around on brown grass.

It's worth bruising my toes.

it's raining today

2005-03-17T10:43:00.000-05:00

Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.

Oh my God.

What a difference 24 hours makes.

Yesterday I was basking in all the gloriness that is life.

Tonight, I come home broken. Wanting to fall into someone's embrace .

I stretch my arms out, encompassing air, and fall into bed.

But it's only 10:00, and as exhausted as I feel, sleep is impossible. So I think about how I'm feeling. About how a series of unfortunate, unrelated events conspired to make me feel as lousy as the rainy weather. Walking home, my shoulders droop, and my chin is stuck to my chest. I can't lift anything. It's all too bloody heavy.

Then I think about how pathetic I am. About how today really wasn't that bad, but how I haven't felt this crappy in ages. I think about the loneliness that I feel at this very moment. Knowing that tomorrow it will probably/hopefully be gone. Ugh, I hate the L word. And pride myself on not feeling it most of the time. Honestly, the joy you get from you making yourself happy is quite amazing. But like most people, I'm not immune, and find loneliness seeping into the cracks on occasion.

The thing about loneliness that I've figured out so far is this: we need intimacy. Emotional and physical. Emotional intimacy can come from friends and/or family. Physical intimacy comes from a partner. If both forms of intimacy come from one person, well now that is a relationship. Head over bloody heels. Kudos. And yes, this is a bitter single me speaking at the moment. For the better part of a year I've been getting the intimacy I (think I) need. Wondering how long before I need both forms of intimacy to come from one person. Do I? Why do I? Why can't two sources be as satisfying as one? Love is insane. Who needs that? Am I fooling anyone?

she cancels out all the others that say their hobby is shopping

2005-03-16T10:38:00.000-05:00

Today was an interesting day. I taught the most intriguing student ever. I walked into class, and she was reading a book. She put it away quickly, but I recognized the look on her face. The "I don't want to stop reading for anything, even this English class that I paid good dough for, working overtime 6 days a week. Plus, there's nothing that you could possibly say that would be better than the words I'm currently reading" look. So I asked her what she was reading. Something about the millionaire mind, and how dollars earned are not related to IQ level. This was just a launching pad into a talk about more books, feminism, art, design, architecture, dreams, the reputation of English teachers in Japan, etc. It was honestly the only time I've never checked my watch during a 40 minute lesson. Using the textbook was not an option. Instead of paying attention to her English, I listened to her arguments, and ideas. A very intelligent person. When talking about dreams, she said she was working on retiring, moving to Australia, buying a farm, having horses, and producing wine. Though she's never been to Australia, or ridden a horse. And she doesn't often drink alcohol. Then she said, "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" And I said, "No, I think you're beautiful, and most people never dare to dream that big." Then I told her to send me a postcard. Cause she'll do it. There are people you meet in life that say things they'll never do, and then there are people who do exactly what they say. And she's one of the latter. I also told her to come back next week. I only hope that I was stimulating enough.

please read

2005-03-15T09:11:00.000-05:00

I don't remember not being able to read. I could read before going to school. My father, educated in the Philippines, learned to read based on phonics. And so did I. And so did my brother.

Our house has a library. Of course, it was already there when we moved in. But we filled it. My father's nonfiction. Books on business, politics, and bettering oneself. My brother and I contributing novels when we were young: Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Christopher Pike, Eric Wilson, and assorted nonfiction that were presents from our father. How our bodies work, how to spell, a world atlas, general science, an entire encyclopedia set. And yes, I did sometimes just pick a letter, and read it. Then into high school and university, where interests forked. Me with fiction, and nonfiction. Spy books, Tom Clancy, military, true doctor stories. Adventure, and adrenaline were it. My brother with Robertson Davies, religion, Jonathan Franzen, education, and some classics.

My current 30-hour workweek(well, when I'm not working overtime) and lack of television allows for a lot of reading. In 2 years, I've read 63 books. 44 the first year. Not sure what happened to slow me down the second year. Virtually all of them have been novels. My taste in books has changed dramatically. I now go for an amazing story or amazing words. The World According to Garp by John Irving, or The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster are great stories. Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels, or anything by Margaret Atwood have me reading sentences over and over again. Once in a while, you get a book that gives you both. Something so awesome you want to burn it, and eat the ashes. Fall On Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald. I'm not sure why, but I always want to eat something that I think is good. There's even a kid in a class I teach, I would swallow whole, he's so cute. His mother knows this about me, and still I'm allowed to teach...the whole consumption thing...must be about it becoming part of you somehow. However infinitely miniscule. That amazing thing becoming you.

God, I love to read. As a kid, I read in the dark way too often, and needed glasses when I was 13. Now, on my bed a 60 watt bulb illuminates the pages. When a book is good, I read it during the 10 minute breaks between my classes. I don't like to do this though, because then during class, it's all I can do to stay in my seat, and not run back to my book. Our textbooks have all sorts of lesson topics: chores, music, movies, clothes, geography, money, weather, careers, etc, etc, etc. But not one single lesson about books. About reading. About writing. About the magic, and power of words. Oh, if we only read more, and watched less idiot box, the world would be a different place. Make time for words in your life. Spoken. Written. Read. Heard. Sang.

a kick in the pants

2005-03-11T09:13:00.000-05:00

I've written about her before.
And I can't help but write about her again. Every time I see her, she inspires the hell out of me. Last year she was 17, and trying to get into the London Conservatory of Music. This year, she's 18, and is preparing to depart for England next month. She wants to practice violin 8 hours/day, but settles for 5-6 hours. She's pretty fluent in English(none of my doing), and is going to a language school in England for the summer, before her schooling starts. I can't imagine being 18, going to school in a foreign country, and studying music with English as my second language. She's amazing.
It's not very often that one gets to sit across the table from greatness. This kid is it. I asked her about her thoughts, fears, and worries for the future. Her biggest one seems to be cooking for herself. I look forward to one day buying her cd, with the claim to fame of having taught her a few English lessons. Meanwhile I feel inspired to pick up my dusty guitar, sleep less than 9 hours/day(she sleeps 7 hours), and study Japanese. Even though I'm leaving Japan. And I want to write more, and take more pictures. Christ, does this kid know the power she holds?

the trip won't kill be but the planning will

2005-03-07T09:02:00.000-05:00

I'm in the midst of a 13 day in a row work week. Calls for overtime have been answered with a yes, accompanied by an "Oh my God, I'm tired" sigh. Work now, play later. But I just want to play. Outside of work, trip preparations are keeping me busy. I spend endless hours surfing the internet for information on destinations, and flights. Looking at forums discussing traveling tips, and planning. Pouring over Lonely Planet's guide to Southeast Asia on a shoe string. I think I'm gonna need more than a string. It's all so overwhelming. One day I'm thinking about accommodation, the next I'm thinking about scuba diving. Comparison shopping for things I think I might need. Figuring out the permutations and combinations of all the places I want to visit. A circle becoming a spider's web, as I confuse myself. Talking to travel agents that know what they're talking about, and those that only pretend to. I know that look. I use it in class sometimes. Their eyes spin when I tell them about my trip. A mixture of dread, jealousy, and fear of the task ahead of them.

Every night, I go to sleep with travel thoughts, provoking travel dreams. Falling asleep is hard, and I've started waking up BEFORE my alarm. Less than 3 months away, and I'm worried. About what? Getting lost? Getting robbed? Getting raped? Getting drugged? Getting kidnapped? Getting sold? Maybe that's why I love reading books. It's so easy to live vicariously through them, from the warm comfort of your bed. I swear, reading about Asia is almost enough.

In the beginning I had this romantic idea of sleeping in A-frame huts on the beach, the waves lulling me to sleep, tired but content from spending days scuba diving, and snorkeling. Taking pictures, writing words, and being a tourist. So...where's the fast forward button?