THE DIARY OF A DREAMER

ABOVE ALL

2009-06-16T04:54:00.000+07:00

I have been faithful in going to the Sunday morning service lately (if going there twice in a row could be called faithful, that is). Knowing that my weekends in Italy will be (likely) spent travelling outside Perugia, whenever I found myself ‘trapped’ in this city on Sunday, I woke up early, fought against the drowsiness, to walk alone to the church for about 30 minutes, passing through the empty piazza and walking down inside my favorite place Rocca Paolina, where you can find a mixture of antiquity (the ancient city below the ground), and modernity (lots of escalators inside it).

Though I haven’t known anyone (yet) there, I always enjoyed the service (though sometimes, it felt longer than the ones in Indonesia). It is different, yet felt so familiar, thanks to the songs they usually sing. They have a perfect combination of old hymns and contemporary songs, similar to the ones I used to sing in Indonesia. The difference is, of course, here, they are all translated in Italian. And they’re so beautiful in my ears, that every time I came too early, I was busy copying the text into my notebook, or, while we were worshiping, I secretly recorded their voice with my cell phone.

They have a holy sacrament every week, when the congregation eat bread and drink wine from the same cup. And they don’t have a worship leader, only some musicians and singer in front, and the members of congregation, one by one, call out a song that they want us to sing, adding prayers in between. Once, the sermon was conducted in Romanian and translated in Italian, and I had to really concentrate to understand it all.

But when it is delivered in Italian, I usually can follow quite effortlessly, and manage to learn some new terms every week. Last Sunday, the sermon really struck my heart. I’d never thought that listening to a sermon in another language (especially the third language), would be so moving, but it did. The elderly preacher took the first passage of John 5, about the healing at the pool. He reminded us that too often, we acted in the same manner with the people around the paralyzed, who said to Jesus, “Sir, I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” He said, we might be sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone, without realizing that he/she might feel that she had no one. And that we needed to be more caring to the sufferings of others.

And I could relate both to the paralyzed and the people around him. At times, it also happened to me… the feeling of having nobody, or at least, no one around me, that is available when I could use companionship or encouragement. And I also realized that, being absorbed in my own problems and worries, I often acted indifferently towards others, who might be in need of my companion, assurance, encouragement, or even, merely a smile and ears that listen.

I was having a rough time with two of my few real friends here. I had been upset, angry, sad, and afraid of losing them, thinking that they were also mad at me, for some reasons. And sitting there in the back pew of the church, fighting back my tears, I realized that it was not fair to place myself as the paralyzed and them as the indifferent people around. On the contrary, it could have been me who failed to see and understand their problems, their suffering.

I’m never good at confronting people, at saying sorry, or starting a conversation after a ‘cold’ war. I’d rather let it ‘cool’ naturally. Yet that day I was so compelled to make the first move, and despite a fear to be rejected by them, I felt relieved to find my own heart filled with affection and forgiveness to them, leaving no trace of anger and disappointment that I had felt before.

That same day, two ‘almost broken’ friendships were healed. In fact, strengthened. And forgiveness, I think, is essential in loving others. Below is the Italian version of Lenny leBlanc’s ABOVE ALL, one of my favorite songs, that reminds me of how much I have been forgiven.

SEI DI PIU’

Su ogni potenza, sopra ogni re

Più di ogni cosa creata intorno a me

Su ogni sagezza e vie che l’uomo ha

Tu eri qui già nell’eternità

Sopra ogni regno e autorità

E meraviglie che solo il mondo sa

E piu dell’oro che in terra so che c’è

Nulla può valere più di te

Sei di più

Di tutto quel che ho

Vissuto per morire così solo

Fiore che è gettato via

L’hai scelto tu

Pensando a me

Solo tu

just curious

2009-06-16T03:32:00.001+07:00

maybe this is the reason the previous note was accidentally posted twice... cos it was automatically imported from my blogspot.
Let's see

EPIPHANY

2009-06-15T20:19:00.001+07:00

After over than two months residing in Perugia as a foreign student, last Friday was the first time I toured the city as a student slash tourist, i.e. having a guide slash Italian language teacher explain the historical arches, buildings and streets around Perugia, in the first outing session of our cultural class (after two months learning in a classroom only!).
Knowing more about the stories behind those buildings (dated thousands years ago), I could not help imagining how hard life must have been back then, when people lived in constant fear, of the enemies, of the war, of being killed—so much that it seems to me, all their construction technique was based on security reasons. They had narrow and winding streets to facilitate escaping on foot (and avoid the enemies’ arrows), they had a kind of stairs that they could fold afterwards, to make it harder for the enemies to invade their house, etc. And as I passed those streets and absorbed the historical facts, I wondered if back then, there was also a girl like me, with the same passions and lots of things in common, who could have been my close friend, had we lived in the same period of time.
And my imagination, like always, did not stop there. It went on and on and on. But the thing that struck me most was, I’d never felt so inspired like that before, even since I arrived here in Italy. I have passed those streets and seen those buildings lots of time before, and yet I took them for granted. They have grown familiar and usual for me, to (almost) lose their (historical) meaning, and I am so glad that now I can see them in a different point of view.
Of course, I don’t blame myself for being ‘blind’ for the first two months. Being in an adaptation process in almost every aspect of my life, plus fighting against the loneliness (that every now and then assaults me, esp. when I feel so cut out of the life of my beloved ones in Indonesia—skyping regularly ain’t enough to cover their absence around me) and having to go back and forth to the questura (immigration office) to apply for my stay permit, left no much space for any creativity or curiosity.
And I have been a slug in writing, something that I enjoy a lot and I want to do all my life. I don’t even write my journals faithfully anymore, while there is so much to tell and so many things and feelings I want to remember afterwards.
So, the outing last week was not only improving my knowledge in history, but most of all, it inspired me. It recovered my curiosity and enableb me to (once again) imagine. And despite of our laments of too much sun and being hungry, I think I would love to repeat the tour, maybe by myself, and allow myself to see once again the locks that the lovebirds put in the lamps near the market where you can view Assisi, or pass the Street of Peace, where two arguing people (or families) made peace.
It’s so amazing what an outdoor lesson can do to you after spending so many hours in the classroom. I think we should do it more.

BETWEEN ‘ippopo-TAAAAAAAA-mo’ AND ‘ippo-POOOOOOOOO-tamo

2009-04-21T04:22:00.000+07:00

I’m (starting to be) frustrated with my Italian, period.
I thought being here would boost my language skill instantly. In fact, I knew more Italians in Jakarta than in the whole Perugia, which, as far as I have seen, is packed with foreigners. Foreigners are everywhere, in my house, in my school, out in the streets…..
Not that I have anything against the foreigners here, really (I’m one of them too)… I love making new friends. In fact, I always make serious efforts to get to know my classmates better. It is so fun to observe each of them; how the native English speakers have difficulties in rolling their ‘r’, how the Chinese students get confused distinguishing ‘l’ and ‘r’ (which is fatal, cos both sounds are used widely in Italian and contrast to each other), or how the Russian and Portuguese speakers often pronounce ‘d’ as ‘dz’. The Europeans usually speak more fluently, in a faster pace than the Asian ones, who prefer the slower professor and are too fond of writing everything (that my prof often seizes their pens in order to get their attention). One of the most outstanding Chinese students is named Lin (the girl who said that she liked me instantly, remember?)---I suspect she studies for hours everyday, reading lots of books and memorizing new words every night. She is so studious and brilliant, and yet she demands me to teach her two new words everyday, thinking that I (who don’t feel studious or brilliant at all lately) know more than she does. I often have to rack my brain, cos almost every time I come out with a relatively difficult word, she already knows it. And yet, I am perplexed to find her sometimes struggling with the words that I consider simple and easy, like entusiasta, atmosfera, and other words which you can guess easily.
“How come you know all of them?” she asked me one day. “Well,” I said, a bit confused. “Cos they are similar to English, and also to Indonesian.”
And then she explained to me that between Italian and Chinese, there are no similar words, not even one. And so it opened my eyes that it must be hard for her and other Chinese students to study Italian, not mentioning the struggles in pronunciation.
Indonesians, I think, are a lot luckier. We can roll our ‘r’ easily and most of the sounds in Italian are the same with those in our own language. My biggest problem is the accent. I don’t know (yet) how to ‘press’ in the right ‘place’….and I still have to learn a lot to singsong my pronunciation… (for instance, taking from my friend Daniel’s example, not to merely say ‘nutella’, but to singsong it into ‘nu- TEEEEEEEEEEE-lla).
And now I have just found out that pressing the wrong syllable could draw incessant laughter from the Italians. In Jakarta, I was reprimanded once for saying ‘FEEE-lice’, rather than ‘fe-LIIIII-ce’. Now luckily I have a help from an Italian who is willing to yell at me every time I ‘hit’ the wrong syllable. But the problem is, my memory is too short to memorize the right ones. At first I made a hypothesis that most of the accent falls on the penultimate syllable, but then I found out that in some other words, the accent could fall in the first, or second syllable. There is no fixed rule really… all I have to do is to get my ears used to it and to imitate how the Italians speak. Now, in the class, I’m always busy marking the accent below the words as the professor speaks. And I have a plan to record the voice of a native Italian saying a list of Italian words to analyze the ‘rule’ (if there’s any). And of course, among the list there will be the beloved word IPPOPOTAMO (hippopotamus)--- and when I have gathered enough proofs, surely I’ll try to formulate the rules to it (I’m sure they exist!!!!!!!!)

ON TRANSPORTATION

2009-04-17T04:22:00.000+07:00

Though most of the time I walk to everywhere here in Perugia (that at all times feels like hiking), there’s a lot to be said about the public transportation here. I have taken most of all, which includes train, bus, and mini metro (Jakartan friends, do not assume that mini metro here is like metro mini there haha!).
Mini metro is the newest of all, the rail was launched in January 2008. I took it with my American friends, and they said it reminded them of the capsules in the Incredibles movie. My Russian classmate said that when she first saw it, she was taken aback and said to herself, “Wow.. Perugia is high-tech!”—it is handy for her because she commutes everyday from Fabriano to Perugia (which I think takes about 2 hours by train), and then from the train station, she takes Minimetro to arrive to the campus. However, according to our Italian professor, the Perugians are divided into two groups, those who love it and those who hate it—the latter group is a lot bigger. It is because the establishment of it took a lot of money, but the route is relatively limited. So those who have paid the tax for it and yet do not have the privilege to enjoy it became angry.
The city buses are handy too… and a lot of time, people just don’t pay for it… I just realized that two days ago, when I had to go to the Agenzia delle Entrate (sorry I don’t know how to translate it, it’s an office where you can get some official documents done) to get my codice fiscale (national insurance number) with all my roommies (who are all, but one, Europeans, but I wont mention any name or country here), because the house owner really pressed us to do it asap. So off we went by a city bus, and when I asked them why we did not buy the tickets first and whether we would pay it directly to the driver later on (just like I had learned and had done faithfully before that), they just grinned and said nothing in the bus. And when we finally arrived, they just got off and I followed them (because they had stayed here longer so I thought, they must had known what they were doing). On the street, one of them told me that people just do it because they never check whether the passengers have the tickets or whether they stamp it in the machine or not. But I actually did not feel right about dodging out the responsibility (yeah, call me goodie goodie) because it is the Italian government who pays for my scholarship here. Anyway, on the way back, for some unknown reasons, they all chose to buy the tickets.
The stamping regulation is also applied for the train. When I took it on my way back from Florence, I had to run because the train would be leaving in a minute. Unfortunately, I forgot to stamp it (which they call ‘validate’ here), and had to run back to the machine for being afraid to be fined. Luckily I could hop into the train before it departed and was thankful to hear again and again, the threat of 200 euro fine for those who travel without the ticket or not have their ticket validated. There was also a scene I would not forget. From my window I could see a pair of youngsters smooching as they boy would leave the girl soon. The train conductor was trying to remind them that the train was about to depart but they ignored him totally. When the train finally moved, the boy ran and tried to open the door, which the conductor sternly refused to open. So, he just missed the train from smooching too long, and I had to chuckle to witness it—it was more stupid than romantic, I think.
The next day, when I told my professor about my travel (only the stamping rule, though), he said that next time I just don’t have to worry about it because they will never fine a foreigner for not observing the rule. And like my friend once advised me, if they ever try to, just pretend you don’t understand Italian and explain in English that you have just arrived there and know nothing about the rule.
Still about the bus, even since I arrived here, I’m always stunned to see how gorgeous most of the Italian bus drivers are. I really mean it! Some of them could easily come to Indonesia and get a role in the sinetrons (kind of Indonesian soap opera). I have this crazy wish to take a picture of each of them and compile them and then put them in an album on facebook—just to let my Indonesian friends see them and convince them that I’m not exaggerating. The last bus I took was when I went to Gubbio. As I sat in it and stared at the Tom Cruise looking driver, I thought about my wish and planned the words I might have to say to him to have a permission to take his picture. Maybe something like, “Sei bello, posso fotografarti?” (you are goodlooking, may I take a pic of you?)—but I was afraid that it might sound like a cheap pick up line. So I thought I might just say “Posso?” (May I?) and then click my camera and before he realized it, I would have gotten off and run.
Well, I did not have guts to do neither of them. In fact, when we arrived in Gubbio, all I could say was, “Grazie e ciao!” (thank you and goodbye!), with the camera still inside my bag.

A FUN CLASS ON GOOD FRIDAY

2009-04-10T04:16:00.003+07:00

It is strange for me that we have a class on Good Friday in Italy, while most others have a week off for Easter (it’s not fairrrrrrr!!!).
Anyway, out of the three different classes, my favorite is the main one—grammar. And most of the grammar classes are held in the campus near my house too, so it is convenient to walk there, probably only 3 minutes. The others are oral exercises and a class on Italian culture, held in a farther campus. To reach it, I have to walk for 20 minutes, passing a busy street and then a winding path down to a kind of valley, with flowers blossoming everywhere. It’s beautiful, but after a long day, climbing up to go home is very tiring….
And I did not enjoy at all the first two encounters of my Italian culture class, because the professor talked too much, and I found it extremely hard to keep my eyes open, let alone to concentrate. After our first meeting, I had to drag my feet to the second. And today, on Good Friday, there was also her class at 11.00-13.00.
Sometimes, I am tempted to skip this class (like many other students do), esp. if it is held in the afternoon when napping or strolling around the centre is much more appealing than sitting in a classroom, but I keep telling myself that I am here to study and I have to be faithful even in small things like that. Even if it means killing my feet walking to the campus more than once in a day.
Anyway, today I had fun because the teacher found another way of teaching us. She said we would play a game, then she wrote five random words and asked us in group, to write a passage using the 5 words. And then, each group should present the story one by one. And at the end of the reading of each group, she threw a chocolate to each member of the group, and the lesson ended an hour earlier, maybe because she also wanted to go home faster since it is Good Friday.
And I was just amazed because all of my classmates seemed to be really good at writing, and their stories were beautiful, even much better than mine!

ps. here i attached the view from the window of the restroom of the farther campus

MY FIRST DAYS IN PERUGIA

2009-04-08T04:15:00.000+07:00

It’s been over a week since I first came here, and my studies at the University for Foreigners just started two days ago.
I remember that when the bus we took from Rome’s airport arrived here, upon seeing nobody out in the streets, my first impression was that Perugia must be a dead city. It was beautiful of course, but dead empty. No car, no people, just silence. But then I found out that it is because on Sunday, people here just rest and don’t usually go out. But on Friday and Saturday, people flock the piazza until past midnight---so crowded that it is impossible for any car to pass the city centre.
My first week revolved around trying to get rid of the jetlag effects and deal with the registration/enrolment procedures—which involved preparing lots of documents and standing in a long queue. And oh, the placement test too… on the third day of my arrival. I did not bring any book here so I did not study at all for it. And on that day, I was not feeling so well. To make things worse, there was a Korean student sitting behind me, reading each question with a loud voice and ruining my concentration (which was already distracted by fatigue). I wanted so bad to turn to him and yell, ‘silenzio!’, but I changed my mind for not wanting to make any enemy. There were around 5 sets of questions, which increased in difficulties, and the students should stop when they found it too difficult to do. I stopped at the fourth, which consisted of a passage, and then the students should paraphrase it. Sadly, it should be my strong points, because I love writing so much. I understood the text completely, but the words just did not come to me, and my head started to spin. So I just gave my answer sheet to one of the supervisors and then came back around an hour later to have my result and a short interview. The funny thing was, every time the supervisors called out a Chinese name and nobody raised hand, they always came to me, stared me into the eyes and called the name once again, and I had to shake my head a lot.
There are 6 levels of the Italian courses here (ranging from the lowest to the highest): A1, A2, B1, B2, C1, C2. They told me that I made it to B2 and then asked me to go enroll myself to the secretariat, where all other students also went.
Rather than spending much time in a long line, I decided to look for the office of Prof. Silvestrini, the director of the university slash a good friend of my previous Italian professor, Prof. Contardi, as he had suggested before, to just say hi and present myself as his ex-student. He was very friendly and said I could come to him whenever I needed help. He was kind of expecting that I would go to C1, but I said that the fourth set of questions was too hard for me and I did not finish it. He put me in his class and said that I might skip the next level (C1) and go directly to C2 (which lasts for 6 months), so by the time my scholarship period ends, I will have completed all levels and get my diploma.
After talking with Prof. Silvestrini, I went back to the secretariat where the line was still long, though had became a lot shorter than before. I stood there for a while, thinking that I might faint anytime, cos my head started to spin again. Luckily he appeared and without saying anything, snatched all the documents I was holding, went inside the secretariat, and came back 5 minutes later, beckoning at me to leave the line and follow him to his office once again, where he handed me my student card---all ready in less than 5 minutes! (wow, talk about power!).
There are 30 students in my class, 11 of them are Chinese—which I thought too many at first, expecting a more international class. But apparently I am luckier than Betty, who becomes one out of three non Chinese students in her class. And even Mehdi, my Afghan friend, said that he was once in a class where all other students were Chinese. Well, knowing that, I am really happy with my class, where there are also students from Germany, Cyprus, Brazil, Venezuela, Czech, Australia, Spain, Korea and Japan. On my first day, I struck my first conversation with the Czech girl and Australian boy (all in Italian—proud proud! ;), and then a Japanese girl sat beside me, pointing at my Batik gown and said that her sister loved that kind of clothing. Today, the second day, a Chinese young girl intentionally moved from her seat to sit next to me. And then, after a brief greeting, she said, “Yesterday when you introduced yourself to the class, I don’t know why, but I instantly liked you, because you seemed so sweet.” – I was so touched by her words, esp because I don’t think I’m sweet when I’m nervous!
So after all, my first days are not so rough… in fact, they went smoothly. I even got a chance to be visited by my friends (one of them I had not seen for three years!) and to travel to nearby cities (Assisi and Florence) on my first weekend in Italy. The most challenging things are the weather (which I still find too cold for me—even when there’s sun!—I always wonder how come a sunny day can still feel cold), and the winding, up and down, all similar alleys/roads. I often find myself panting, esp when dragging grocery bags. And I keep getting lost….and maps are no help at all because I can’t read them!

But umm… other than that… I’m really fine… and so thankful for facebook and skype—which allows me to connect with my family and beloved friends back home.

Buona notte!

MY FIRST FAUX PAS (OR WHATEVER YOU MIGHT CALL IT) IN ITALY

2009-03-31T04:13:00.000+07:00

For the second time, I woke up around 4 am (though last night I went to bed around midnight) and could not go back to sleep. So, I thought, rather than tossing around in my bed, maybe it’s better for me to share my (first) experience(s) in Italy while eating an apple and facebooking.
Well, I should say that I seem to be losing my confidence in speaking Italian among those who speak it so fluently. I always get tensed and nervous whenever they talk to me too fast, and it worsens my understanding. And to come up to a stranger to ask something, I still have to summon my courage first, and plan my words ahead of time. I’m so lucky to have some people here who are available to help me and of course, to have Betty with whom I can suffer the confusion together and laugh at our mistakes afterwards.

Well, here are some examples of my faux pas (which surely will keep adding on in the following days)

1.I went to the right side of the car of my friend Fabio (who picked us up at the bus station) while he went to the left side to open the door for me and Betty, and suddenly realized that I was no longer in Indonesia when he motioned to me to enter the car from the left side. And then, when he asked about the number of my lodging, I said centotrentacinque (135) instead of the correct one centocinquantatre (153). Only after he called the owner of the house, we ‘got’ the right number, which was clearly written on the identification tag of my bag!

2.When I went to the tabaccheria (tobacco shop that also sells postcards, phone cards etc), instead of saying ‘possiamo comprarla qui?’ (can we buy it —the SIM card— here?), I said ‘possiamo venderla qui?’ (can we SELL it here?)

3.Just as we were about to enter the hall of the university to meet Mr. Rondelli, the person who’s in charge of the scholarship, we were stopped by one of the elderly ladies with lots of keys in her hands. We thought it was an important thing, so we listened to her, but it turned out that she was offering us a room to rent. She insisted that we had to at least look at it because it was cheaper than the room we ‘d already rented and it was very near. Though I preferred to meet Mr. Rondelli asap, I just could not say no to her, cos she was old and I had pity on her. So up we went to her house and after looking at it, out of courtesy, we asked for her phone number though we had decided that we did not like it. And just as we were about to enter the hall for the second time, another elderly lady stopped us and said the same thing. Well, this time we knew better and continued to look for Mr. Rondelli inside.

4.Following the instructions of the two security guards, we went further to look for the secretariat office but we were stranded in another room with a waiting lounge. The people inside seemed to be busy talking with some people so I went to the only Italian looking guy seating in the lounge and asked where we could find Mr. Rondelli (in Italian). He stared blankly at me and in halting English, explained that he was German and did not speak Italian at all. He was pretty stressed out himself because he just wanted to enroll for a course and he did not know what to do or where to go because when he came to the front office to ask for some information, they only spoke Italian or Chinese. Then I decided to use my eyes rather than my mouth in finding our beloved Mr. Rondelli and finally could spot the word segreteria, which was nearby. And yes, Mr. Rondelli was there and was really nice, especially because he spoke Italian really SLOW and CLEAR—a very understanding man! In the front office, while we asked for the form to ask for the stay permit, we were helped by two patient Chinese girls –who answered in English every time I asked a question in Italian, and answered in Italian when I asked in English. Well, at least , finally half an hour later our forms were completely and appropriately filled in.

5.After that, because we did not have any food supply yet (cos we were too tired to shop the day before and just wanted to crash in bed and unfortunately had to say no to a very nice invitation to a Birthday party extended nicely by a friend of Vlad and Voica, our Romanians roomies), we did not have anything to eat for breakfast and thought we would be okay cos we had some instant noodles around 4 am. But around midday, we were hungry (Betty even said she was started to tremble), so we rushed to a pizzeria-which was not even opened yet. When finally we found a place which sells some pizza, I just pointed to one and Betty, wanting to know whether there was meat in the topping, tried to remember the Italian word for meat. But we did not know how to say ‘topping’. So we were standing there, pointing to a pizza and like two idiots, asked to the puzzled shopkeeper, ‘ Questa e’ carne?’ (is this meat?)

6.Our two Indonesian friends, Edwin and Flora, laughed at my choice of gelato flavors. They said fruity flavors didn’t match with chocolate ones. But I actually do not consider this as a faux pas cos I enjoyed it no matter what eheheh

Now my apple is finished and so I will try to get back to sleep!

KNOWING WHERE HE IS DOESN’T MEAN THAT I DON’T MISS HIM

2008-10-23T10:05:00.000+07:00

It’s been quite 5 months since he went away, leaving me with the memories and longings to see him again, to hear him laugh and tease me again, to love and be loved by him again. I know I will, but while waiting for the time to come, I have to deal with these feelings. They say that grieve lessens but does not dissipate, and until then the healing will be incomplete. How true it is.
I don’t have the least of doubt of where he is right now, though it is sometimes hard to imagine such a perfect place -- where there are no tears or sorrow--, amidst this broken, imperfect world. And when I wake up in the middle of the night, think about him and shed a tear or two, I wonder if he also misses me out there. And if the thought of me mars his perfect happiness with a tingle of pain, a pain of being separated from the loved ones, I truly hope that he never thinks of me. After all, he had always thought of me first during my almost 27 years of age.
And, thinking that where he is right now must be full with joy, indeed gives me a great consolation and enables me to grieve with hope all this time.
But I miss him still. I miss listening to him humming in the morning, I miss watching him reading on his couch, sipping coffee and commenting on my latest literary work. I miss laying my head on his shoulders and letting him know how much he meant to me, despite the lack of words exchanged.
However, instead of weeping over this great loss incessantly, I’d rather give thanks for the years, months, days, hours, and seconds that I spent together with him, in our unconditional love, the glimpse of another love, which is greater than life itself. After all, not every kid in the world has the privilege of being raised up by a good and loving father like mine.

MY DREAM LIST IN ITALY

2008-10-20T16:05:00.000+07:00

(Position DOES NOT determine degree of importance, I just jotted down whichever came first to mind)

Meet/visit/go out with/see my Italian/European friends (some I have not seen for ages, some I have just met, some I have never met but have known for years through correspondence—friendships can happen in so many ways after all). *

Meet Gianluca Pagliuca and thank him personally for planting a seed of passion for Italy in my heart, in the first place, which eventually grew stronger day by day. *****

Lick gelati italiani and baci Perugina to my heart’s content, without getting fat cos I’ll be walking around a lot. *

Watch the live concert of Neri per Caso and sing OFF stage with them (used to be ***, but now * thanks to Mario)

Go to the Trevi Fountain and throw three coins there. One, to come back again, two, for a beautiful romance, and three… for a live happily everafter, or whatever… ****

Have a one-lap riding with Valentino Rossi *****

Learn to dance Tarantella and eat Cazu Marzu in the South **

Spending night in one of the trulli di alberobello, feeling like Snow White **

Watch Rigoletto or La Boheme in Piccolo Teatro Campopisano Genoa, and have a nice passeggiata in Bogliasco **

Be a valedictorian at the end of the academic year, and make my Italian teachers proud of me—which also means that by that time I’ll be speaking Italian without having to think first and will never again feel frustrated of not being able to express myself freely in that most beautiful language in the world! ***

Visiting Cremona to see the violins and revive my passion in it (that I have to suppress now due to lacking of time)—not yet sure if I’ll take mine there, though… 20 kgs only! *

Take a gondola and enjoy a nice evening in Venezia under the stars and moonlight, with a sweet guy singing one of Patrizio Buanne’s songs for me… come prima, più di prima, t'amerò ****

Watch derby della madonnina in Giuseppe Meazza stadium, wearing Inter’s shirt and feeling like a true tifosa. Yea, FORZA INTER!! *

Visit Appiano Gentile and ask Marco Materazzi about what he really said to Zidane that got him a famous head-butt, and oh… take a picture with Javier Zanetti and Jose Mourinho! ***

Stop being shy and be more ‘aperta’ like the Italians…be a talkative person, talk to each one of them and absorb as many Italian vocabs as my brains can hold (without really breaking ‘em). ***

Get some mimosa and feel special on the woman’s day (ohh shoot! I’ll be there after 9 March, unfortunately) ****

Learn the art of ‘being elegante all the time’ and ‘cooking like Italian moms’ ***

See the snow (for the first time in my life!) falling slowly from the skies like flakes of cottons…ROMANTIC!!!!!!!

And the list can go on and on as I dream away… (which is my full-time job right now!)…ooh, la vita è veramente bella!

*Definitely will be done and I can’t wait to do so! (oohhh… 5 more months to go!)
** Might or might not come true, depends on how much time and money I’ll have
*** Needs a lot of work but still possible to achieve
**** I know… I know….I sound cheesy and corny, but that’s me!
***** Yea, right… who do you think you are? Wake up, dreamer!

ANGOLI DIVERSI

2008-09-22T11:47:00.000+07:00

HURRAYYY!!!!!!!
Finally I can listen to all the songs from the newest album of Neri per Caso, Angoli Diversi… thanks to my friend Stefania who sent them to me after knowing that I could not find the album in all the music stores I went to in Jakarta.

Ohhhh…. It’s so good to hear the great voices of Mimi, Diego, Massimo, Ciro, Mario and Gonzalo, after waiting for their new album for so long!

Listening to them sing brought back the memories when I was 19, so crazy about them that I did my best to get a chance to meet and talk to them before they held their concert in Bandung, the city where I studied. I have no regret though I had to rush out from my mid-exams and skip another class just to meet them. They were AWESOME!

Thanks to them, my passion for Italy expanded and grew stronger. Thanks to their songs, I got to learn how to pronounce the Italian words when I had just begun my autodidact learning.

By the way, is there anybody who can help me identify the singers with whom they collaborated in this album, besides Mango in ‘bella d’estate’ and Mario Biondi in ‘what a fool believes’? I don’t know many Italian singers besides Laura Pausini, Eros Ramazzotti, Georgia and Andrea Bocelli—looking forward to get to know more once I arrive there!

NON VEDO L’ORA!

ONE STEP CLOSER

2008-07-07T09:52:00.000+07:00

I remember the thought that crossed my mind while I was walking to enroll myself in an Italian evening class. I told myself, “I’m taking my first step to Rome.” Talk about faith!

Last week, as I was waiting to enter the Italian embassy to sign several documents for the scholarship, I recalled that statement and (again) told myself, “I’m one step closer to Rome.”

Indeed, Rome will be the first city in Europe I will set my feet in next year…(ayy….time, please do fly!).

I did not complain of having to spend my whole morning mostly waiting and waiting, cos I got to talk a lot with other scholarship winners. Together with those who are taking master and doctoral degrees, we are in 11, enough to form a soccer team!

And, as we shared the same excitement and worries, bonds were fast built. Most of us have to leave for Italy at different times, different cities, different universities. But there is one person who will study at the same period of time and same university with me (only different length of time, she got 6 month scholarship, I got 9), and so we plan to go together and share an apartment.

Before I met her, I asked my teacher whether it would be possible for me to stay with an Italian family, to expedite my learning their language and culture, and he said he would seek that possibility. Now I changed my mind, cos I’m just so excited to share an apartment with her.

You know why?

When we started to talk, she told me that her intention of learning Italian was because she wanted to study in a conservatoire afterwards. And, upon hearing the word conservatoire, I immediately asked, “What do you play?”

Can you guess?

Yeppp… VIOLIN!

(I am now mentally packing my stuff—violin included—to go to Perugia! And I promise, no matter how long the flight will be, or how boring the bureaucracy will be, no matter how freezing the winter will be and how strong the homesickness will be, I WILL NOT COMPLAIN of anything, while I am there!)

TIME TO SAY GOODBYE

2008-06-23T10:29:00.001+07:00

To the Italian squad from the EURO 2008 championship!
WOAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…………………….. so saaaaaaaaaaaddddd….
But my prophecy (read my previous blog post) came true… I only got to hear fratelli d’Italia once more, i.e. last night… and that was it........

(sniff..sniff.. still weeping with Pirlo and De Rossi!)

ps. maybe this is the sign i should stop fare piccole ore!

DOV’E LA VITTORIA?

2008-06-18T10:59:00.000+07:00

…had been the question I asked to the Italian soccer team during this Euro 2008, for they failed to win in the first two matches.
Last night, the long awaited victory finally showed herself, when they defeated France 2-0. Both teams failed to show their best performance, I daresay, but the second goal from Daniele De Rossi was superb, though.

Sigh… the next match against Spain (most likely!) will be terribly hard for gli azzuri.. especially because Gattuso and Pirlo will be absent due to the two yellow cards they got, and also because Toni has been infertile so far.

Ah well, at least I got to hear their national anthem once again.. (this is the first tournament in which I could sing it along from the beginning to the end… laugh at me, but I used to memorize the lyrics before going to sleep and hum to myself while dreaming of Italy.…)

Fratelli d'Italia (Italian brothers)
L'Italia s'่ desta (Italy has arisen)
Dell'elmo di Scipio (With Scipio's helmet)
S'่è cinta la testa (binding her head)
Dov’è la Vittoria? (Where is Victory?)
Le porga la chioma (Let her bow down)
Chè schiava di Roma (For the slave of Rome)
Iddio la creò (God has made her)

Stringiamoci a coorte (Let us gather in legions)
Siam pronti alla morte (Ready to die)
Italia chiamò! (Italy has called!)

SI!

TIME ENOUGH FOR TEARS

2008-06-02T09:20:00.000+07:00

This week has been the toughest I’ve ever faced, as I have attended two funerals of my beloved ones. First, my dad, and then, 6 days later, my colleague Eva.

And as I stood there watching their final seconds on earth, I could not help wishing my tears had been of a phoenix, so they would have not been so powerless to do anything for them. Thankfully both died peacefully, but the memories can be more painful than any sharp knife. There’s nothing I can say or do that can take away the pain of losing them.

Of course I am grateful to have been able beside my dad during his final days, talking to him, letting him know how much he meant to me and how I loved him, listening to him singing my favorite childhood song despite his struggle for air, while I rested my head beside his, and the pillow became wet with my tears because my heart had no room except for sorrow and fears. I still wanted to do a lot more for him, and I always wished he would be there on my wedding someday. But upon seeing his condition, I realized I had been so selfish to demand that from him—he had been always there for me. So I changed my prayers—I prayed that I would be there when he needed me, when he breathed the last (it was granted).

Still, it was killing me to see him suffer, and I learned to understand why the Father turned His face away as His only Son suffered the death, cos I felt the same too. I wanted to run away, hide myself somewhere, so I did not have to see him slumped in the hospital bed, skin and bones, with swollen legs and pale face. I‘d never seen him so weak and old like that before, and all I could do was just holding his hand crying, wanting to help but was unable to.

And all he was worried about was me, whether I got bored staying all day long with him at the hospital room, whether I had spent a lot on his medical care, whether I would get fired if I kept staying with him and skipped work too long. He was he, the best father I could have ever asked for. A simple man who only knew how to work hard and sacrifice for his family, the one who loved my mom unconditionally, and would’ve been more than willing to die for his children should’ve it been necessary. And, as if he had known my secret fears, he kept showing us a confirmation after another of his true faith, making us sure where he is now. He’s home and he’s free. And like always, he is waiting for me there with his assuring smile—until I too am called home when my time comes. And what he has now is far greater than anything I could give him here.

But I still cry over him, especially when I’m alone with the memories.

However, I knew my life had to go on, so three days after the funeral I came back to work, received the condolences, and even could laugh and trade teasing glances with my colleague Eva—and all I could think of was how pretty she looked that day—who would have thought, it was her last smile to me, cos the following morning, she became a victim of a hit and run accident, banged her head hard, had a fatal hemorrhage, and lost her consciousness. It was heart-wrenching to see the doctor take off all the sustaining machines and let her die, leaving a mother, a husband, and three kids who wailed for her, and a lot more people who would miss her so much. Gone is my motherly friend, who always helped me and stood up for me, encouraged me to pursue my dreams, took a good care of me as if I had been her family—she even secretly planned to cook for my oncoming birthday, wanting to cheer me up after the loss of my father. I don’t remember ever getting upset with her, not even once during the 6 months of working together everyday, side by side.

I wish this week were just a dream, a nightmare, and I could wake up the next morning still having them around. But it is not, cos bad things also happen to good people. Even so, I still can say, God gives, God takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

STOP RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-05-12T16:29:00.000+07:00

People, stop turn over your calendars!
Clock, stop ticking!
Earth, stop revolving!

Let me enjoy being 26 a lil bit longer, please?

SEARCHING WITHOUT HOPING TO FIND….

2008-05-06T09:15:00.001+07:00

….. and waiting for something I did not want to come true. That was the ‘title’ of my life chapter last week.

Yea, after feeling an extreme fatigue, intense headache, sore in my joints, nausea and tummy-ache, I was struck with a terror of having to repeat my nightmare two years ago, when I had a close brush with death.

So I frantically searched for red spots all over my skin, and waited for the more convincing symptom of dengue: a sudden high fever, which would cause you to grit your teeth in cold while your body is as hot as a stove, and which would turn my fears into reality: dengue fever for the second time.

Even thinking about it made me shiver with fears, and imagining those lonely hours at the hospital drove me to tears. As I lied awake in my bed, with a spinning head and without any energy left on my sweated body, I sobbed and could not help picking up a bone with God. Why me again? Why this time, when I have so much to do and I cannot tell my mom of my worries, since she has had enough from taking care of my sick dad?

But luckily the good sense got the best of me and I started to pray that God miraculously would spare me from that darned disease. Distant and rare my prayers were, He was and is and will be faithful to hear me.

The following morning, instead of getting worse, I felt so much better and relieved and soooo happy that even if somebody had dared to step on my feet on purpose, slap me on both cheeks and insult me flat out, I don’t think I could’ve gotten angry. Amazing how gratitude can make you much more patient, eh?

(I’m also so grateful for those caring people who love me enough to share my worries and burdens, amidst my paranoid state of mind!)

….AND ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL

2008-04-30T09:30:00.002+07:00

So it is with my Italian course. It was fun from the beginning to the end, period.
If you think three months are too short to bring people together, to care and respect for each other, you’re dead wrong.
During the last three months, I’ve grown to love my classmates and teacher at the Italian Institute a lot—it is like having a family to share the two evenings in every week with, while mine is far away from Jakarta.

Of course, before we got to know each other better, it was a lil bit awkward. The professor even complained once about how serious we were, how not-smiley we were when trying to comprehend the grammar. And he commanded us to be more relaxed, to smile and laugh more, and just to enjoy ourselves.

And, since he walks what he talks, it didn’t take long before his sense of humor infected all of us, who later on became experts in giggling, snickering, and laughing, til he started calling our class a manicomio (lunatic asylum).

At first we were probably a little bit shocked (not too bad, though) with a teacher who often calls us brutta, matta, asina, bugiarda, vipera, zitella (ugly, crazy, stupid, liar, viper, spinster) and whose favorite sentences are vuoi sposarmi? (would you marry me?), and mi dai un bacio? (would you give me a kiss?), whose famous line in Indonesian is: Saya guru paling ganteng, paling manis, paling pintar di seluruh jagat raya! (I’m the handsomest, sweetest, best teacher in the whole universe!), and who loves to suggest his students to wear mini-gonna (mini-skirts). Even though we might’ve shaken our heads at his jokes, played the devil’s advocate every time he boasted about himself, and, more often than not, said no to his marriage proposal(s), none of us doubted that he is a superb teacher—a teacher to the core.

He made his own modules, and came to the classroom well-prepared. He knew how to explain the complicated grammatical rules in a way that is easy to be remembered and understood, and though at first he seemed to scare most of the students by yelling their names to answer some questions, we finally knew that it was part of his sense of humor, that he meant no harm, and that he knew what he was doing, shaping us to become smarter. He also knew how to balance the knowledge and fun, and made both get along well by a lot of fun intermezzos, like singing some songs together, recite a poem, reading a lot of jokes, and listening to his life story. Once, he even dragged a young Italian guy he found at the library to our class, to be grilled by our ‘shameless’ questions (are you married…would you marry me… would you give me a kiss…would you give me your heart--kind of thing), which that poor guy could fortunately dodge out of some (oh, I think it’s too premature… I can’t live without my heart…).
And oh, then I fully realized that we had become so much like our beloved teacher! (After all, it is just natural that we repeat what we have often heard, right?)

Maybe it is an evidence that we actually are fond of him (though of course, we would rather die than admitting it in front of him!), but we did show him how much we loved and respected him last night, when we celebrated his 55th birthday.

Even a week before the exam we had plotted to organize something special for him, and assigned certain persons to be in charge of the gift, wine, food, music, and invitees…(and, since most of the ladies are fashionable, we decided to wear cocktail dresses). The heavy rain killed our hope to hold a garden party after the class. Instead, we gathered in the lobby and partied there (no lesson at all!). Accompanied by the beautiful music from the harp, we sang the Happy Birthday song (in Italian version of course) together. What a night to remember, with lots of joy and laughter. I just hope that it would also be memorable for our professor, and would at least reduce his many ‘nightmares’ of living in Jakarta. I overheard one of the teachers teased him, “So after all this, can you still say you don’t like Indonesia?” and he just smiled. And I hope, that smile means, “No, I’ve changed my mind now.”

Above is the picture of our gift for him. More pictures will follow later, after I gather them from other classmates (who, apparently, have better cameras and were more diligent in taking pictures)

MY ONE REMAINING BIGGEST DREAM

2008-04-27T09:40:00.000+07:00

It feels like yesterday, when I rushed to the Italian Institute to enroll myself in a language course (just like I’d always wanted to do, but never had a chance), and then waited impatiently until there were enough people to start a new class.

And I still remember those feelings I felt, while I was walking there to have my first lesson, that Thursday night, about three months ago. There were butterflies in my stomach, and tingling sensations which crept all over my bones, and to every tip of my fingers; the same feelings like I had when I touched my own violin for the first time (after wanting it so bad), or after a call from a publisher who told me that they liked my script and wanted to publish it (after waiting for that good news so long) -- feelings I often feels when I’m………. in love.

And I guess I am.

I’m in love with music, writing, and Italian language. Those are my three biggest dreams and desires. Funny how people often mistook it.
They teased me of having a crush with a male violinist when I stood amazed at the beautiful melody he played and told myself, “Someday I’ll be playing it too.”
They thought I was writing my own romance and experiences in my book, while I only imagined and made things up.
And having seen me so motivated in learning Italian over the years, toiling with those complicated grammatical rules by myself, they often suspected me of having an Italian boyfriend (while I’ve never had any).

Do people think it is really impossible to be so passionate about things just because the way they are?
Surely things cannot stand alone, they’re always interrelated and intertwined somehow, and one thing can lead to another, but when one thing is too dependent to the other, what happens when the other one is finally gone?

True passion survives the time test, and love is stronger than pains. It indeed is. My love for music strengthened me to practice diligently (until my nails were all cracked and dry, and my shoulders and hands were sore and rigid), my love for literature kept me writing for years (despite those rejection slips I got), and my love for Italy –oh can’t you believe it—has made me even willing to put aside those other two!

At first I was trying to be a super woman, juggling so many things at once (two jobs, a violin course, long writing hours every night, and Italian lesson twice a week) but then I realized that I’m merely a human being with normal energy that runs out easily—so I’ve got to be wise, I’ve got to make priorities.

God has been so good to me (He is all the time!). He graciously granted me a place in the student orchestra last year, several months after my book was out in the store. Those (among other things) had been in my prayers every night. Never mind the many wrong tunes I hit in the concert, never mind the not so good sale of my book, I still counted it as my two biggest dreams come true.

And so I’m still waiting for the third one to happen. I long for the day when I can finally be in Italy, to see, feel, taste, learn, and enjoy the language and culture which have inspired me a lot, in ways that are too broad and profound to be described by words only.

Now the course is about to finish after the final exam last Thursday, but that doesn’t mean that my learning process is over. The ending of something is always the beginning of something else. I’m still hungry and thirsty to learn more and more and more, until I can speak Italian fluently and effortless, not mixing up the verb conjugations, not stammering to find the right words, or being frustrated of not knowing how to express myself properly due to the lack in vocabulary.

They say, Tutte le strade portano a Roma (all roads lead to Rome), and I can only say, “Amen, amen, amen.”

CORSO ITALIANO E UN PROFESSORE MATTO!

2008-01-20T16:30:00.000+07:00

Well, after waiting for twelve years, two months, three weeks and four days (I’ve been counting, you know)--- I finally got an opportunity to learn Italian, the most heart-charming (for me) language in the world, formally, in a class, with other students, with a real Italian teacher (rather than groping with all those grammatical rules and tenses only by looking at books, by myself)--- and it just started last week!
So, hurrrrraaaaay!
I managed to convince (with a little bit of efforts) the institute to allow me to skip to the second level—making me nervous and dread to be the most stupida in the class—but thanksfully it did not happen.
And let me tell you about my teacher, Professor Raffaele Contardi, who claimed to be the best Italian teacher in the whole universe, who already knew how to say ‘I’m a handsome man’ in Indonesian, and who snorted ‘bugiarda!’ (meaning liar) when I said I agreed with everything he’d said (and yeah, I did lie a little!).
In short words, he is a RIOT! (and by the way, I mean it as a compliment, just in case you wonder)
He would storm in the class, bombard the students with Italian words which flow so smoothly and super fast from his mouth, making me envy of his eloquence. Most of the students were just taken aback, taking five seconds or so before finally managed to utter the response, making him grow impatient—and he was not reluctant to show it. So far I think I had done pretty good, sometimes got a ’brava!’ when I could fire back fast. And most of the time he used me as his translating machine, asking ‘come si dice in Indonesiano?’ for almost every Italian word he taught us.
Though he (almost) yelled all the time, complained about the absentees, bragged about himself, flirted with some beautiful students, grilled the rather slow ones, and could not care less to slow down despite so frequent raised hands with a protesting sigh “troppo veloce...troppo veloce…(too fast..too fast..)’, and also his threat to throw us out of the window (our class is on the 2nd floor, btw) if in the next lesson we cannot introduce ourselves and rant all the words in 12 seconds, our class was full with laughter and spirit he carried within every motion he made. Once or twice I even had to dodge my head out of his always moving around hands, afraid to be slapped accidentally.
And I ENJOYED IT A LOT!
I felt that I did belong there, where my favorite language was being taught as it is used by real Italians. And all those years in waiting finally paid off (of course, this is just the beginning, because I still long for a day where I can where all the people around me use it and I can blend in the culture as well).
So two hours felt like five minutes for me. The crazy professor suggested to continue until
10pm, and I wanted so much to nod in agreement (this time I didn’t lie!), but my head was stiff motionless for the fear of being booed by other students who could not wait to go home. And so my craving to still sit there and listen and talk Italian made me feel like una studentessa matta, a crazy student.
And I guess I am. I’m too much in love with the language that it hurts too much to stop. But that’s ok, cos una studentessa matta just fits in to learn with un professore matto, or, like Toto Cutugno puts it, un Italiano vero.

THE COOLEST ITALIAN MOVIE

2008-01-08T16:29:00.000+07:00

http://tcc.itc.it/people/rocchi/fun/europe.html
check it out!
I had a big kick out of it! Never thought that Italians are so much like Indonesians, in soooo many ways! (I guess that's why i always have a soft spot for it in my heart!)
EVIVVA ITALIA!

THE AGONY OF WAITING

2008-01-07T16:29:00.000+07:00

Been only weeks, but feels like a century
Lots of questions asked, but it remains a mystery
Love, or temporary infatuation?
Hope, or merely just an illusion?
Time, won’t you soon tell
Please, make all go well
Once again, on that same crossroad
One path is narrow, the other is broad
Where should I tread?
For going forward, I dread
Time, won’t you soon tell
Please, make all go well

MY FIRST LOVE….

2008-01-04T16:28:00.000+07:00

…was sweet, and indeed hit the spot. It tasted peachy, a bit tangy too… all in all, refreshing!
Don’t be taken in too fast, my friends… I’m not being sentimentally romantic, I’m talking about a drink I had in a Chinese restaurant yesterday.
Yes, it is called First Love, such an eye-catching phrase in the menu, sweeter to read and imagine than, say, Drunken Chicken or whatsoever weird names for the other foods listed on the main menu.
Upon hearing the name of peach, I succumbed and ordered one. And I was not disappointed. So if I had been asked, “How was your first love?”, I would have answered (referring to the drink), “My first love was sweet, without the least tint of bitterness.” But in another context, I probably would not say so.
My first love (unrelated to the drink) was kind of rough, more bitter than sweet, lots to remember, but more to (wistfully) forget. And come to think of it, I look at being in love as a double-edged sword. It could protect, but also could hurt. It is also like a fruit; could be sour, could be sweet. And it is only sweet, when it is not unrequited!

CHRISTMAS REFLECTION

2007-12-23T16:27:00.000+07:00

As I listened to the pastor’s message yesterday in the morning service, I was reminded by a question I used to struggle with.
As a child, I used to wonder and remain puzzled about one particular thing that the Bible told.
Why did they kill Jesus?
(Yes, of course apart from what I had known that Jesus came to die, and it was his purpose of condescending to this lowly earth, so he might die in our place)—but still, how come they killed him?
It was just too much for my child mind to comprehend, how come people who had seen him doing good for so many people; healing them, blessing them, feeding them, teaching them, liberating them, loving them, had a heart to flog, ridicule, and eventually put him to death in a shameful way—hanging on the tree?
Didn’t they see what I see in his cross? I don’t see the shame in it, I only see love, great love that made him stay there willingly, nailed and bled, while he could have come down if he’d wanted to.
Why did they hate Jesus, so much to want to do away with him?
The pastor phrased the reason in one sentence: Jesus did not fit in their religious system. It didn’t matter that he fulfilled all the prophecies in the Scriptures, they rejected him because he did not appear the way they wanted him to.
I too, in my life, have often acted the same way as they did, to some extent. Judging the books by their covers, judging people by outward appearance only, while what matters most lies inside us. When my sight is blurred by worldly things, I miss out the most important ones.
So, while it’s Christmas, I want to ask the Lord to once again cleanse my eyes so I’ll be able to see with a childlike manner, with a childlike faith. So as I see the helpless Babe in the manger, I would not mind the manure, would not mind the dirty stall full of animals. Instead, I would be amazed to see how low God was willing to stoop for me and you. And since I don’t have gold, incense, or myrrh, all I can do is to bow down all of me in front of him, and give him all I have: my welcoming heart, warmer than the heap of hay in his manger.
HAVE A BLESSED CHRISTMAS, MY FRIENDS!

(HE) LOVES ME, (HE) LOVES ME NOT

2007-12-16T16:27:00.000+07:00

There are two kinds of guys that drove me nuts: stalker(s) and cool prince(s) charming. They both are annoying in their own way when they rub my back in the wrong direction. As being opposite to each other, they always prevail to make me grit my teeth, in annoyance, or in frustration. And maybe (or so I hope), all girls can sympathize with me to some extent.
Princes charming are aloof, untouchable, and despite their being near physically, they are still unapproachable, like a ball thrown too far, completely out of our league. When we wish they would call, or impatiently and frantically wait for any text, still the phone doesn’t ring nor beep, and the inbox remains empty. Sometimes they compel us to give them a green sign, and we reluctantly do, but still they wouldn’t bother to budge. They always create the same feeling inside me the way Latin music does, makes my feet wanna tap and swing around when I don’t have a partner to dance with. They make us thrilled for a while, but then the thrill is fading fast like a rose lacking of water.
Stalkers, in other hand, seem to be also blind (or ignorant, or indifferent?) towards our signs to shun them away. They make phone calls like daily ritual, sometimes to a frequency of taking your pills: three times a day—as if our schedule only consists of talking with them while we don’t even enjoy the conversation, and desperately think how to end it, and later, when it is getting worse and no longer bearable, we try to avoid it as often as we can. And oh boy, you’ll be amazed of how persistent they can be!
For me, friendship develops gradually—from an acquaintance, friend, close friend, more than a friend, and God willing, perhaps he is that long awaited soulmate. And so, a friend of a friend who you’ve just met one or twice is being unfair when he demands more time than what you have or are willing to spare for your own friends.
And also, there are some seasonal friends—those who were part of our stages in life and now as time has passed and you’ve changed a lot, you two might not fit in anymore to each other—and so he also has to start from the beginning again. And if he is not patient enough to go through the friendship phases I mentioned above, and trying to skip some initial phases instead, I find him very intrusively demanding, impolite, and extremely bugging. He is just like blasting rock music when what you really need is tranquility. He robs your peace by always pushing but never understanding.
However, the only question with me now is this: If a prince charming starts acting like a stalker, will he make you super-thrilled with the lavishing of attention, or will you downgrade his position to a ‘stalker category’ and lose your interest in him? I happen to have not a chance yet to test the hypothesis. But as for me, no matter how deeply I am attracted to somebody, I cannot let him have my whole time—I still need some for my family, friends and girlfriends, and most of all, being an introvert, I need time for my own self.
In this case, my previous objection towards long distance relationship starts to dissolve itself. In short words, I’m willing to try it even though I know that there will be times when all I can do is sitting alone on a bench in a garden, tearing the petals from their core one by one while sadly whispering to myself: he loves me… he loves me not… he loves me…. he loves me not…..he loves me.

SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM

2007-11-29T16:26:00.000+07:00

As most people know, writing is one out of million other things I enjoy to do, and one of a few things I take seriously. However, I only have two books on creative writing (of course I’ve read more than that).
Since a friend asked to borrow the only one I have with me now, I took it out of the shelves and reread it again since last night. Personally I don’t think it was great, but last night I thought it was good, esp. the chapter on metaphors, the subject I like the most.
HOWEVER….. five minutes ago, as I reread some files on my computer in the ‘creative writing’ folder, I came across an old document that my formed boss downloaded for me, called OWL Writing Guidance from Purdue University Online Writing Lab. And guess what… I found out that the metaphor chapter I just read in the book was just exactly a translated version of a part of that writing guidance! Not only the definition, even down to the sentence examples!
As I furiously looked for any citation or reference which would take off my offence and objection towards what I suspected as plagiarism, I felt my heart breaking cos there was none!
What makes it outrageous, the writer is one of the famous ones in
Indonesia, won a prestigious prize and was awarded as the best literary writer by a well-known magazine several years ago, and is teaching creative writing in a learning center!
I TRULY HOPE that he just forgot to put the citation/reference, and did not omit it intentionally! SAY NO TO PLAGIARISM!

SHORT ARDENT AFFAIR

2007-11-29T16:25:00.000+07:00

It was love at the first sight.
He was so cute and sweet, and he returned my affection whole-heartedly. He was crazy of my gentle strokes, and I could not stop thinking of him. I did my best to make him happy, and I think I did, to some extent.
But then I had to say goodbye and leave him. It was so ironic—I who loved him so much could not stay to be there for him, and those who could stay didn’t know how to love him as much as I did, and didn’t care too much of how he was feeling either.
And so our love affair lasted only for three days. They said I was responsible for his broken heart which was fatal. They implied that it was my too much love that killed him. But I could accuse back that it was their lacking of love which could not make him survive.
Well, he’s gone now. And these tears won’t make him back. He was fragile and defenseless anyway, and maybe it was for his own good that every suffering he’d felt was taken away so quickly, along with his short life.
Nevertheless, I still wish he were still there, getting bigger, barking louder, wiggling his tail upon seeing me, licking my toes, or climbing into my lap to be cuddled. And I promised I would love him more.

2007-09-27T16:24:00.000+07:00

ON DUCATI DAY and STONER’S METAMORPHOSIS
I know it’s a lil bit late to say this, but following my fave racer Valentino Rossi’s example of being a good sport—I just want to congratulate all Ducati fans on their triumphant day last Sunday in Motegi, Japan.
It’s also amazing to see how fast a cocoon turned into a butterfly—from a ‘Crashy’ Stoner into Casey The Winner.
Vale finally found the best rival—hopefully next season will be much more fun to watch—full adrenaline too!

MUSIC OF MY HEART

2007-09-13T16:24:00.000+07:00

I’ve been feeling musical lately.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.

BOUND TO BE HOME

2007-09-11T16:23:00.000+07:00

Most people (who I know of, at least) aren’t content to be where they are.
It’s relieving to know that I’m not the only one. Yet it’s also alarming to think that a place you’ve imagined would make you a happier person (if only you could live in it), apparently has failed to do so to others (who are already living there). A dreamer wishes to see more of the world, and yet has to fret because her humdrum routine work makes her feel as if she’s being grounded. And yet a world traveler might long for a year when he can finally settle in one place rather than moving around like a nomad. A woman in her mid-thirties might long for a long-awaited soulmate who’d come to snatch her from her ‘weird singlehood’ (as my friend Danielle put it) and make her his queen in some Timbuktu land where she once has been. And maybe they will breed a litter of kids so she won’t have to be alone anymore, won’t be confused anymore of what to do when time is abundant. And yet a young wife with a handful baby to raise thinks she’d give anything to just have 5 minute for herself, to be alone, to be quiet, without having to worry about breastfeeding her kids, putting up with mom in law, or her once romantic husband who’d grown cold. Or a youngster who dreams of being an expat, living and making money in some far away country, tasting new cuisines he only hears of in some culinary shows on TV, and yet has to be satisfied feeding himself with instant noodles, especially at the end of a month when he has spent nearly all his last month’s salary and has not yet received the next.
And those were a few examples to mention. And like I told you before, I am one of them too. Above all places in the whole universe, I want to go to Italy, and maybe some of you are already sick of hearing me say those words again and again.
Few days ago a friend of mine sent me a well-written short story depicting Milan (which made me rack my brain and flip my dictionary in my efforts to understand it---it’s in Italian). It didn’t tell about the exquisite panettone with gelato inside which would make your mouth water, nor about the exhilarating soccer match in San Siro stadium (which I want to see one day), nor about those tame doves which would surround you in front of the famous Duomo. In short, it was a story of Milan from the point of view of someone who probably had lived there all of her life. Down to earth, realistic, and at some point, poignant too. Strangely, it made me think of Jakarta: Same problems, similar dilemmas. Then why on earth do I (still) think that I would enjoy Milan (or at least tolerate it more) than I do Jakarta?
Beats me.
I’m a kind of person who’s easy to please but hard to satisfy. But I guess, most of us are. We tend to think that other places must be better, must be more pleasant or exciting than where we are now, simply because it is different than what we’re accustomed to. But once the honeymoon period is over, we are faced with the same old drudgery, and start to long for somewhere else. Again.
Is it selfish to be so?
Some self-conceited people do think so. One of them accused my selfless and talented friend of being selfish simply because he said he wanted to go abroad. Why not stay in your homeland, there are lots of souls needed your help, lots of chances to serve the Lord here—were the bases of the accusation. The thing is, that man is not God, and who is he to judge my friend whom he’d just met once? And if he also left his own country to be here, then why smirking at someone else who wanted to do what he himself had done? A dear friend of mine implied a similar accusation to me a while ago. I understand why she thinks so, though I have never been in her position. But I grieved over her failure to understand me simply because she has not been in my position.
I don’t think it’s a sin to want to be somewhere else. I believe it is fine, as long as you can still be grateful for everything you enjoy and learn here, and even for the troubles and challenging things you have to face now, not that you should pretend to enjoy what you can’t, but to realize that they are usually the things that shape you into a better person.
For me, this awareness of the impossibility of being content in one particular place is also a kind of epiphany. It shows me that nowhere in this world will really make me feel home. Cos I’m not home already, there’s always a part of me longing for somewhere else where I’m meant to be. Hey, you’re wrong—I’m not talking about Italy. This place must be much more beautiful than any place we know of, so beautiful that we hardly can imagine this place exist at all. And that’s where other problem lies, i.e. in our inability to have a proper imagination or picture of that place.
(Now I’m gonna quote C.S Lewis heavily) We actually have some symbols to help us imagine it—yet, because of their limited brain, people are usually too dumb to understand. Some of them sneer that they do not want ‘to spend eternity playing harps’ (heck, I love violin so much yet I don’t think I want to spend more than two hours playing it at a time!). Those symbols are used to express the inexpressible. Music for ecstasy and infinity, crown for divine splendor and glory, and gold for timelessness of that place (cos gold doesn’t rust). And if it is not enough, the absence of pain, fear, sorrow (and all those unpleasant feelings) is added on.
Unfortunately, I know that some people are not going to make it, no matter how hard they’ve tried (try to be good as you can, try to give as much as you can, at the most you can only be the least imperfect person in the world, but still perfection won’t allow imperfection in any amount), if they know not the right way to go there. Anyhow, the questions that remain with me now are: what if some of them are people we know, or worse, people we love and wish well? Will the remembrance of them and their absence in that place make us sad? (while it is said there will be no tears), or will we be too consumed with joy that we forget about them? (which sounds selfish to my ears). Again, my questions don’t mean that I doubt about the existence of that place. It is rather like someone who still doesn’t grasp all the formulae while she fully believes that mathematics do exist.
Alright, to those who’ve been patient to read until this far: If you happen to be longing to be somewhere else and wonder whether by wanting it you’ve become an ungrateful chap, I just want you to think it over again and never let your dreams go so easily (unless that still small voice urges you to, which I think will not happen too often, cos when we become more united with it we tend to have similar thoughts and desires), just because some people insensitively misunderstand and judge you. Cos who knows if the tug is actually inspired by something greater than your own desire and longing for adventures and experiencing new things?
But don’t delude yourself that there will be a perfect place in this imperfect world. No, not until we get to that place beyond this world, in which we finally will be able to say, ‘we’re bound to be home, and this is our home for eternity, and we don’t want to go elsewhere anymore’.

INTER OH INTER......

2007-08-26T16:22:00.000+07:00

After leading 1-0 with Dejan Stankovic’s beautiful goal, Inter could not maintain the position only four minutes before the game was over! Alas! They only got 1 point in the first match of Italian league this season.
And I was just stunned to realize that until Francesco Toldo was played after a fatal blunder of Julio Cesar that sent him off for blocking the ball outside his penalty box, there was no Italian player on Inter squad. Materazzi was not playing, and Grosso has moved to
Lyon.
And so, Inter was full of stranieri, mostly Argentines and Brazilians.
I was so disappointed by their performance, period.

ROSES ARE RED

2007-08-20T16:21:00.000+07:00

Just like my mum’s. Growing beautifully in our garden. Sometimes (or too often), our old neighbor would come in her wheel-chair to ‘rob’ it, and my mum was never too cheap to part with her flowers, thinking that it might be one of a very few things that could please someone in that golden age (what else, can you think?).
Anyway, what I want to write about is not those red roses, but the white ones, I saw them in a skinny tree out there in the pavement, sandwiched in between hard cement and white wall of somebody else’s fence. I was struck to see lots of flowers in her tiny slender stem. How could she bloom in a situation like that? How could she refresh my eyes when she did not look refreshed herself?
What a revelation. I want to be like that too, as a person. No matter how small my world feels at a time (which surely happens to all of us), no matter how suppressed I feel, I still want to be a blessing for others who see me. But sometimes, I am too cheap to even make an effort to smile, when my own heart is not in the mood for love, or whatever you might call it. Instead of blooming like those sandwiched roses, I might’ve been caused an eyesore to others with my snappy words and bad mood. And I truly regret it now.
I might be in need for positivity right now, but it is not an excuse to be negative myself.

TICKLED BY TICKS

2007-08-20T16:20:00.000+07:00

Funny how small things could create big problems. I believe I’d been tickled by ticks (read: bitten). Yeah, it did not almost kill me like mosquitoes did once, but still it is so annoying to feel the rash all over my body for almost three weeks.
I thought I’d get rid of it once I finished the doctor’s medication, but I had to come back for another one and I begged him not to give me any pills which had made my appetite ran wild, almost uncontrollable.
He nodded, yeah yeah… those pills increase your appetite. But the fact is, it made me a hungry monster all the time, thinking of what I could gobble up next. Huh. Not that I care bout my weigh. It’s just, I hate being controlled by something I should be able to control.

GRASS IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE (??)

2007-08-12T16:19:00.000+07:00

To be honest, it never crosses my mind to pass somebody’s yard and compare his grass with those on mine. Literally, I mean… but, is it really true that grass is greener on the other side of the fence?
It depends on how you view it, or with what angle you view it, really.
I’ve been chatting with some friends who are seemingly living my dreams, and yet they, to some extent, expressed a desire to trade place with me (which made me ashamed of complaining anymore).
But, how on earth could that happen? Didn’t they also dream the same dream with me? Rather than being dismayed to know that actually things we had thought green have lost its vivid color as time passed, I rejoiced knowing it.
Oh, please, don’t judge me too fast. I’m not rejoicing over my friends’ complaints or their being dissatisfied, be they have achieved their dreams while I’m still fighting for it. I rejoiced because it made me aware that every grass is actually green (cos when they dried up and became yellowish, we call them hay, right?). And, knowing that no place can ever make problems absent in our lives can teach us to be thankful for the roses, and not complain for the thorns (ehm..., please excuse my using cliché here).
So, every time I listen about someone else’s burden, instead of being discouraged like I used to (and I thought it was sympathy or empathy, whatever you may call it), I now have learned to feel relieved, that we actually have our own problems, and no one is too immune of them (and my relief doesn’t mean a nasty thing, like when people rejoice over their enemy’s defeat or fall). This sense of relief doesn’t kill any compassion or other loving feelings we ought to feel when someone dear to us is troubled. But, by not being dismayed ourselves, we are supposed to be able to help them better, and see things in a clearer way, rather than being blurred by excessive and unnecessary sentimentality.
I’m also thankful for the sadness that still tingles my heart and the tears I sometimes shed for the suffering of other people, which proves that I am still capable of loving and caring for others.

A SONG FOR ERINA

2007-07-30T16:19:00.000+07:00

WITH HOPE
This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you've gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but ...
We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no
And we can grieve with hope
'Cause we believe with hope
(There's a place by God's grace)
There's a place where we'll see your face again
We'll see your face again
And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father's smile and say well done
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home And now you're free, and ...
We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything God promised us is true, so ...
We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope
(Steven Curtis Chapman, 'Speechless')

REMEMBERING ERINA

2007-07-25T16:18:00.000+07:00

Today I just found out that my dear friend Erina (29), a young and dedicated doctor who was serving in a remote area in Papua, was killed in a car accident after she helped deliver a bleeding pregnant woman to a hospital in Fakfak. To save her last patient’s life, Erina decided to drive the ambulance herself throughout a winding and dangerous road. On the way back to Kokas (where she worked to substitute another doctor), her car slipped and fell to a ravine of 20 m depth. The nurse who was with her broke her leg and climbed up to ask for help, while Erina was injured badly and passed away on the way to the hospital.
And because I was traveling, I did not follow the news on TV or newspaper, and nobody told me about it until today (I guess they all assumed that everyone knew about it since it became a highlighted news lately). Anyway, I heard another friend talking about the death of a young female doctor in Papua several days ago, and I directly remembered Erina, wishing it was not her. Her last email to me was sent from Fakfak, on May 24 (she congratulated me on my first novel and promised to get a copy when she is back in Bandung), so I drilled my friend to find out whether it was her, but she could not remember any details, so I convinced myself that there must be lots of doctors in Papua, and it could’ve been somebody else.
This morning, before my devotional time ended, my cellphone beeped. Three sms notifying and confirming her death. I fought my tears but gave up. I remembered the times when she drove me home after our Tuesday Bible Studies, listening to her fave Josh Groban’s songs, talking about the future and her medicine studies. I remembered how she willingly helped out with the SRT project I was working on back on my SIL days. She even drove my teammates to her local clinic outside Bandung, where they could interview some of her patients for the project. I could not join them because of my dengue fever. My Mom said, on TV she saw those villagers weeping over Erina’s death, saying that she was such a loving, hard-working and attentive doctor. She was a light there. Not many doctors are willing to help poor people in remote areas. Erina was exceptional.
To think that her life was so brief and had to end so abruptly, in a tragic way, really saddened my heart. I don’t understand why God took her so soon, surely she could be used to help more people with her talents and godly desires. But who am I anyway, to ever question God’s wisdom? One thing that consoles me right now is the assurance that she is now with the Lord, smiling, and happy to have finished her duties on earth, even accomplishing her final task perfectly.
Erina, I am so proud of you. I will always remember your radiant smiles, your heart of gold, and your gentle spirit. Surely you’ll be missed a lot here, but someday we will see each other again, in heaven.
(One of the news about her death: http://www.detiknews.com/index.php/detik.read/tahun/2007/bulan/07/tgl/16/time/152105

ASIKNYA AKSI ROSSI!

2007-06-30T16:15:00.000+07:00

From 11 to 1, and Il Dottore is back in the business again!
So fun to watch MotoGP Assen with the two guys of my life, all of us were hoping to be entertained with a great race, and ended up satisfied by the cool performance of Valentino Rossi.
To be honest, for me it’s hard to choose between si Rookie and si Rossi… both are impressive lately. My head usually picks Stoner, but of course, my heart goes for Rossi always (maklumlah, kita sebangsa dan setanah air huehehehe…)
Last week my head was right, this time my heart won in the three last laps, which made everything more fun and more entertaining. And, it was so beautiful to hear Fratelli D’Italia again at the podium.
Also congrats for Hayden for tasting his first podium this season, but….VIVA VALE PER SEMPRE!

CORAGGIO!

2007-06-29T16:14:00.000+07:00

I was awakened from my slumber by a beep of my cellphone. The message reads:
When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully. You know why, only one of the two things will happen: Either He’ll catch you when you fall, or He’ll teach you to fly.
I was struck by the power of encouragement in it. Yeah, it’s something I can really use today, after getting one of the worst news in my life.
If I look back to my endless efforts, buoyant anticipation, high expectation and unwavering confidence, along with unquenchable enthusiasm and unbeatable determination to get what I really want and what I believe I really deserve more than anyone else in this world, of course, ending up not getting it, nay… even not being given a chance to prove it in the first place, is supposed to feel like a slap on my face, a pierce in my flesh, a wrench to my heart and a blow to my head.
BUT, to my surprise, I found myself so matured dealing with it, calmed beyond explanation and I haven’t even shed any tears so far. In fact, I slept soundly. What a miracle, to realize that my hope is not lost, my passion is not dead yet, and my love is not fading away, at one sentence or two from some people who don’t know me well, hence don’t have the slightest idea that they have slammed the door right before my face when I was hoping so much to enter inside, because they chose to close their eyes at my hard works.
That’s okay. I have done my best, and that’s what really counts. And no… no… their no will not end my life nor kill my hope. Rather, it is like a rod which makes a horse run faster, faster, and faster….
I believe everything is beautiful in its season. A seed has to die first to be able to grow. Lazarus had to die first to glorify the Lord when he finally was resurrected. So have I now, learning how to die. It’s not too painful when you understand that it is not the end. Rather, a beginning of new life.
Most important, I am not afraid anymore to keep dreaming big. When it’s not turned out the way I have expected, I believe it’s only a temporary sleep, not eternal death. A delay, not a cancellation. A closing of one door, but the windows are still wide open. Yeah… coraggio!!!!!!
(thanks for the sms, Ryan… it was like a drop of water when I was walking in the desert)

REMEMBERING ACEH

2007-06-17T16:13:00.000+07:00

Last night I spent some time reading the journals I made back in Aceh, 2.5 years ago (Is it really that long ago, seems like yesterday to me). Several days before my departure, my journal entry read, I got a hunch that I’m going to meet someone very special there. It’s not just a hope or prayer, it’s a faith.
But Aceh was so unpredictable.
I had anticipated social rejection, traumatized people, chaos, blood, building ruins, dead corpses and tears everywhere… (yes, I had experienced some of that too later on…), but the very first ‘problem’ that I encountered (or should I say we instead?) was…. the bathroom dilemma. We had one bathroom only for around 10 people, with limited water supply. The one I had to use had no roof, and the water container was so icky and muddy you could not help wondering, would bathing really make you cleaner, or even dirtier.
Absorbed in page after page of my own scrawls during my stay there, I was surprised to be reminded about my mixed feelings at that time; from excited and fearful anticipative to bored, overwhelmingly sad, frustrated and full of fatigue, yearning for some time alone and to get away from the crowd (but could not, cos afraid to be kidnapped by the separatists), angry and annoyed, moved, thrilled, compassionate…. and finally, counting the days til I could go home.
Yet, when I remember my time there now, I only can do it with delight and warmth in my heart. Despite all the difficulties, there were also lots of laughter, smiles, jokes, loving service and affection being shown, even among strangers who came from many different nationalities, a hard-working team which inspired me to do my best without expecting any reward.
And, instead of meeting only someone special, I met many special people, people so selfless and passionate in doing good for the suffering ones. And though, our friendship kinda ‘ended’ (except for some scanty e-mail exchange or a phone call once in a blue moon), as our term was up and we had to separate going our own ways, I found at least someone, who stayed, and stays closer to me, to my heart, to my life as we got to shared so much in the following days, even until now and I hope forever more.
(Doc Wu, you know you’re the one I’m talking about!)

REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW

2007-06-17T16:12:00.001+07:00

Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)

2007-06-17T16:12:00.000+07:00

REDEFINED POINT OF VIEW
Yesterday morning I heard a heart-wrenching but happy ending testimony of a converted ex-transvestite (let’s call him Jon), born with birth defect so horrendous that his own Dad thought of him as a curse instead of a son. He was without legs, so when he stands, he’ll just reach your waist.
He grew up being rejected, an eyesore to his Dad insomuch one day he intentionally stepped on his mouth as he was laying on the carpet watching TV. Jon was also locked up in his room every time they had any family feasts. His Dad would threat him not to make any sound so that no guest would know that he existed. Once he swallowed all the drugs he found in his room in a suicidal attempt, but he survived.
When finally he could get out and play like he wanted all those times, he could not keep up with boys who were running around, being tough, so his companies were mostly girls until he finally turned to be one of them.
‘She’ left her house and started to make a living, standing out in the streets with scanty clothes, her face now pretty with lots of make-up and seductive smile, her heart yearning for a father’s figure, man’s love she always wanted but never got. 14 years passed and she fell deeper and deeper in the black abyss. She now ‘worked’ in a pub, had a steady boyfriend, sold and used drugs, sold some girls and being sold herself.
“I knew I was so filthy, disgusting, a social thrash, good for nothing,” he admitted. His face was tearstained, his voice trembled. “I came to God once, not planning to repent, but asking Him to take my life. But instead, He came and touched me and healed my wounds.”
Her quest to find God had not been smooth either. She tried several time, all of them ended with some ‘holy’ people told him what to do. “You have to change right now, otherwise you’ll go to hell!” one of them told her so, at their first encounter. “They didn’t ask me how I ended up that way, they did not want to know. They just judged me in the first place,” he said. To me, it sounds like asking someone to go to the fiercest battle without equipping him with any weapon. So there’s only two possibilities; either he’ll die miserably, or he’ll run off. Fortunately, Jon didn’t stop there. But, the next one was even worse. Shes was invited to a youth fellowship where he saw warmth, kind of family she’d longed to be a part pf. She was moved that she shared everything with them, but when she admitted her being transvestite. “The leader of the group cut me off right away, and then told my friend not to invite me to come again. I was crushed.”
Listening to his amazing stories and watching his slideshow about his past really moved me. There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes, as well as guilt and shame in my heart for my tendency to also judge people like him by their outward appearance. How many times did I met them on the streets and shrugged my shoulder in disgust, and could not help feeling alarmed being near them? How many times they wished they had never been born, when the police raided them, or when people abused them and made them the joke? Nobody wants to be that way, including them. And instead of understanding and helping them find a solution, we shoo them away, looking at them with disdain, treating them with disrespect or indifference while up above, God loves us both equally, and He must’ve been hurt to see our arrogance and their misery, both is related to each other though most of the time, we’re not even aware of it.
I really want to see them with God’s eyes and see them through their hearts, with mine. After all, we’re all created by Him according to His good image, though unfortunately, some (or should I say all of us, to some extent?) have been ruined by the sinful nature, abusive parents, social prejudice. And clearly, some damages are worse than the other. Jon’s story has helped me a lot redefine my point of view. I’m not saying that I agree with their behavior or that I want to justify their choice of life. There are some things that are clearly black or white, wrong or right, to me, and I can’t compromise my belief just to make others happy. But, what I mean is, at least we can learn not to judge, but listen to their reasons and understand them. By understanding more, we can love more too. And through love, nothing is impossible, even if it means to straight up a messed up life.
However, the only question that remains with me now is, what can I do for them? Crying, lamenting, or writing about it doesn’t seem to help much.
Jon’s case ended happily (praise the Lord for that!). He found his God, reconciled with his Dad, and leads a new life with a new spirit. But how many have a different ending with his? And does not it strike us to think that actually we, as a community, might’ve taken a part in their bad endings, or might’ve helped them go through it and triumph?
(Yea, you might as well call me a naïve girl who wishes to change the world with her little hands, and the awareness of her helplessness often more than not, frustrates her…)

PRAISED PLAGIARISM…BLAH!

2007-06-17T16:11:00.000+07:00

This morning one of my nephews who ‘inherited’ my avidity in reading came to my room and reported, “Aunty, I found a comic book that really looks like Tin-tin at the bookstore yesterday…look!”
As I scrutinized the comic in my hand, I could not agree with him more.
Alright, the name of the main protagonist is not the same (almost similar though…), but he looks like Tin-tin, not blondie but brunette, and instead of having a dog as his company in investigating and catching bad guys, his company is a girl. The setting is being made believe to be as Indonesian as possible, but really, it’s a copy cat of Tin-tin.
It’s like a cookie taken from the same mold, not with the same ingredients and they added some other stuff here and there, and of course, the taste is not even half as good. Besides, I’ve already lost my respect. No imitation shines as good as the original one, and you just simply can’t argue with it.
There’s even an imitation of Doctor Calculus and my beloved Captain Haddock, only his vocabulary of cussing and swearing is not that impressive. As a big fan of Tin-tin, I am terribly offended!
Furiously, I flipped over the pages to look of any ‘disclaimer’, or better, any ‘acknowledgement’ for their efforts of imitating the famous Tin-tin, or anything stating, “We have got the permission from Herge blablabla” or whatever, that would probably justify it a little bit.
Instead, I found some reviews from some supposedly top dogs, bragging about it being the breakthrough in the comic world of Indonesia, ladies and gentlemen… very original, very Indonesia…local comic that deserves to be put alongside the world class ones…BLAH!!! Shed me some light here, am I the only one here who knows TINTIN??? Get out of it!
However, I still wanted to compromise. It might be different in content, I thought, so I started to read it. I only could do it til page 10, and then I tossed away that book in resentment, imagining Herge rolling restless in his tomb if only he knows about it.
Being objective, the illustration is not bad. Pretty good actually, which makes me even sadder. What a wasted, misused talent. Why not trying to make something of your own (you can do it if you try!), why committing plagiarism and forcing people to ‘praise’ it. Isn’t it enough that all our TV series are but copycats of some foreign dramas?

MY TWO BIGGEST ENEMIES

2007-06-12T16:10:00.000+07:00

… now are solitude (hence, loneliness) and boredom—those two make me a sloth, really. I want to write but I’m lazy, napping is not that refreshing anymore, and reading is not that exciting cos the stories are too thin.
All I want is a company, to just talk and be around me.
Only practicing violin makes me happy, but still my hands and shoulders could not cooperate as long as my heart wants. Oh well, maybe I should start cooking with Mom….

BETTER THAN PULITZER PRIZE

2007-06-12T16:04:00.000+07:00

Last week I wrote a super lengthy letter (around 10 pages), conventional one (with paper and ink, I mean) to one of my best friends since college. She was the most faithful listener I’ve ever met. We shared the same boarding house for almost four years, got through lots of spiritual phases together, and spent lots of time talking heart to heart, almost about anything.
I will always remember how patient she was in listening to all my incessant rambling about my crush(es), my dreams, my thoughts, my feelings, my fears…. She is one of the very few people with whom I am not afraid to show her me, just the way I am—whether I was feeling down, negative, or even sometimes, dark.
When I was in Aceh, I wrote to her everyday, in a book, and then I sent it to her when my voluntary work was done. I knew she would not write back, at least not as much as I wrote her, cos writing is not her strong point. But it never stopped me from sharing with her, and writing seems to be the most economical way to do it cos she now lives in her hometown, in a different island. Ironically, Jambi, where she lives, is basically the only big town in
SumatraI never had a chance to step in. Hopefully someday…
Anyway, yesterday she sms-ed me to inform that my package (i.e those pages, one copy of my novel, and 5 CD’s full of songs and my pics) had arrived, and she told me that my letter really encouraged her and reminded her once again that God was, and is real.
And really, knowing that my writing could make a difference in someone else’s day by encouraging her and reminding her of God’s goodness, it means the world to me. I’d rather touch and build up somebody’s life with my private writings that probably won’t make me famous or rich, than say… winning a Pulitzer prize, or even a nobel (which can be nice too, if it ever happens to me)
Yes, fame and money and satisfaction of having accomplished something taste really nice, but to think that what you write, what you tell, and what you feel (no matter what it is) have brought a smile upon a formerly cloudy face, and sparks to an almost dying flame, or some cheerfulness to a lonely heart—it tastes even better, cos it is so personal, and hence, much more meaningful.
After all, someone’s heart and soul are much more precious than any worldly acknowledgements, at least for a touchy feely person like me.

AWWW...TURNING 26! (….and being in love)

2007-06-07T18:58:00.000+07:00

The image that flashes in my mind lately is Jennifer Anniston trying to bang the door when her friends were trying to make her a surprise party, she was turning 30 in FRIENDS… when I saw it I thought it was odd, how could someone be that afraid of birthday??

But oohhh… I guess now I can share a little bit of that feeling. The last two years my birthdays were always so full of people, laughter, gifts, surprise parties with cakes, balloons, confetti and trumpets… just like I wanted them to be. But today, I had a quiet birthday, still just like I wanted it to be.

I’m 26, feeling like a woman, but at the same time, I know I am still a girl deep inside my heart, and I will always be like that.
Being a woman seems to be so full of responsibilities, and I know that the most often asked question from now on will be, “When will you get married?” instead of “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I was tempted to wonder, would turning 26 be less scary if only I had found my soulmate? But then I realized that a lover’s love will be but an icing on top of the cake, because I already got the greatest love of all—love so perfect and beautiful, selfless and flawless, poured down on me abundantly, though I don’t deserve it at all. I feel and see this love inside me, and all around me, in my parents’ smile and service, in my siblings’ affection and supports, in my nephews’ innocence, in the prayers and loving attention of my brothers and sisters in Christ, and even in the laughter, stories and friendship I had a privilege to share with some people I haven’t met yet—yes, most of them are scattered in so many different places, but yet, we are so close in our hearts, bound and united by the greatest love ever.

Yes, thinking about how time flies makes me scared, scared to let these years pass by so quickly without accomplishing my duties. Sometimes, I want to go back to the great ole’ days and wish that time stopped back when I was 22… but I know that life goes on and there is a bright future waiting for me ahead.

So, instead of being freaked out or panicked or worried unnecessarily, this morning I made a resolution. I asked my true love to find me in the river, I asked him to bring me to my knees with my soul lay bare in front of him, and I said to him once again that I would gladly take up my cross to follow him, and if our path were stony and for some reasons he chose not to carry me, I would be willing to walk with my knees, as long as he holds my hand and never lets me go, cos he is all I’ve ever needed. I am thankful for his faithfulness, for the blessings and joy, and even tears and sorrow he has allowed to come in my life—knowing that they all will shape me into a better person.

Yes, on my birthday, I’m falling in love deeper with someone who has always been loving me unconditionally, and this feeling is greater than any chemistry or romantic story. This one I definitely want to keep forever….

DOCTOR LAZARUS

2007-02-27T10:50:00.000+07:00

Dr. Lazarus used to serve in the military army, but now he sees his patients in his house. However, his army uniform still served him well when he bravely entered a burning church and saved the old priest that was trapped there, both left the building wrapped in army uniforms, unnoticed by the rioters.

Most of the people in town love him: young and old, rich or poor, from all different religious and cultural backgrounds, they all come to him when they’re sick. The medicine in his pharmacy cost much less than in other places. And quite often, he refuses to accept money from poor people, and let them come to him for free.

His wife left him for another man, a man who probably would not leave her in the middle of the night to help some dying patient. But don’t feel too sorry for this, because he already remarried to another doctor’s widow, who surely would understand him more.

Anyway, a couple of months ago, the whole town was stirred and troubled to hear that this kind-hearted doctor passed away. As whispers and hearsays spread, more and more of his faithful fans knew about it, passed the information to others, and together were deeply mourning for him. Some said they could not believe it, and some wondered where they would go when they got sick and had no money.

They themselves had not seen his body, cos rumors said that he passed away in a hospital abroad. One of the old ladies could not stand it and decided to call his nurse to ask for a confirmation about his death. And she could not be happier to hear that Dr. Lazarus didn’t die, he did go abroad due to a major health problem but the treatment went well and he survived!

And so the whole town was moved again by this good news. I personally don’t really remember his face, but I joined the people rejoicing in his ‘resurrection’. Surely a man like him deserves a long life, and many many years to come to help people with his devotion and generosity, and I pray that many young doctors will also be inspired by it and be like him.

MY DAD’S FAVOURITE POMEGRANATE TREE…

2007-02-11T20:04:00.000+07:00

..is now just a history…
Yeah, yesterday afternoon, we tasted a little bit of Jakarta flood, when the heavy rain was pouring mercilessly along with a scary super whirling wind (I’ve never seen such a wild wind like that in my life!) that made roofs fly and trees fall down, including this pomegranate that had been there since I was a child.

Dad had a hard time parting with it, he suggested us to pull back the falling tree, but we didn’t have time for that since it was too heavy and it was already blocking the small road so people would not be able to pass through. And so my brother took a saw and machete and that was the end of our pomegranate tree, which happened to be so full with buds and flowers and some fruits already.

The neighbors also are making a fuss about it. The Sundanese people need pomegranates to make ‘rujak’, a special fruit salad every time they celebrate the 7 month pregnancy. Without that fruit, the salad will not be valid. It is believed that if the food is hot, the baby will be a boy, and vice versa (no matter how much pepper you add to it!). So, our pomegranates had served our local community very well, and it also had taught my tiny feet to climb.

Well, rest in peace.

TRA PAGLIUCA E MALDINI… (this posting is ode to Gianluca Pagliuca actually)

2007-02-08T22:38:00.000+07:00

C’è concorrenza!
Eh, yes…between Pagliuca and Maldini, there is a heating rivalry of making a record in Italian soccer history as the player with the most caps in serie A. Right now Maldini is leading with 597 caps, and Pagliuca 590.
I don’t know if Pagliuca really cares about this (based on game duration, he already won because you know if you’re a goalkeeper, you are rarely replaced unless seriously injured or red-carded) but I found myself eagerly waiting for him to beat Maldini’s record! (no offense, Milanisti!).

That’s why I was so disappointed to know that all some remaining matches (including Ascoli vs Milan that I was all ready to watch!) were cancelled due to a riot in a stadium during the match of Catania vs Palermo that killed one policeman, and so the whole league is now stopped for awhile (thanks to Daniele for keeping me updated about this).

I mean, how often can you see Ascoli play on TV now they’re in the last place? I feel a little bit sentimental about Pagliuca right now because this might be the last season for him before he retires. And even since I was 14, I wrote to him every season, to wish him well. And guess what, he never failed to reply!

I’ve been a great fan of him since he played for Inter, and then moved to Bologna, and now Ascoli. I missed the period where he played for Sampdoria and was given a nickname “Re della Samp” because I was too small to understand about football back then.

I liked it when he played as the number one goalie of Italian national team, and I remembered my fervent prayers for him once, when the world cup 1998 was about to begin. Amongst the budding younger Italian goalies, he still made it to be number two before Angelo Peruzzi, and I know that unless he became the number one, there’s no way I could see him play for azzurri (cos again, a number one goalkeeper is rarely replaced during the game and even for the whole tournament, you know). And so I did not want him to sit on the bench as a substitute! I think it was a week before the world cup begun, I read that Peruzzi was injured and could not go to France, and so Pagliuca became the number one. I truly did not pray anything bad against Peruzzi, honest, but I was just so happy to have Pagliuca play again. And even when finally Italy had to loose through a penalty shoot-out against France, I think Pagliuca is a million much better than Barthez!

Really, I don’t think I will ever like any footballer as much as I like him. I like the way he jumps and climbs up his post and hangs in there for awhile watching the ball fly to high above his goal. I like the way he puffed his cheeks and kissed the post in relief when it blocked the ball from going in. I even like his decision to let himself be red-carded once in world cup 1994, for it was rather a sacrificial and heroic red card, and not a foolish one like Beckham or Zidane got. Yes he’s a bit eccentric sometimes, but never obnoxious.

Yeah, it’s been years, and oh, I really wish he would play some more years, though I’ve witnessed him jump, catch, block, kick, and punch the ball, saving his team(s) million times. I was there greeting my teeth in anger when Giuseppe Pancaro dared to spit in his face and understood when he ran after him to give him a punch, or when someone (I think it was Nicola Caccia) pulled his pants off and yet he still had other thing (the ball) to worry about. And I will not forget that snowy night in Russia when he had to be carried out of the field, badly injured. I went back to bed, tears in my eyes and nervously waited for tomorrow to come to find out how he was doing (yes, yes, yes, I only watched those on tv, sometimes at night, sometimes at dawn, but the feelings were real, you know).

And some of my friends asked me in wonder. They said, “Why do you like this guy so much? What benefits will you get if his team wins?” But they just didn’t understand, that even if he gives me nothing but the blues, I still go for him!

Until now, I still keep the collection of the cuts-outs about him that I arranged in a book, along with all the autographed postcards he sent me, and a historical handwriting note (that made me start learning Italian!)

Too bad, age creeps like a thief and so now he’s thinking of retiring soon, if Ascoli remains in serie A next season. I really hope that his son Mattia (age 7), will be a great footballer someday, as his father has been.
Viva Pagliuca!

Sidney Sheldon’s death

2007-02-05T13:04:00.000+07:00

I just heard about it on TV, and I feel sad, knowing that no more books will be written by him. The last one was “Are you afraid of the dark?” which I think was out about 2 or 3 years ago. At that time I was still working at the book store (who was recently dead too, bankrupt is the better word for it), and then I bought it for my sister’s birthday two years ago.
Huuu…no more thriller stories to anticipate!

THE TEAM I'M GONNA MISS

2006-12-05T15:33:00.000+07:00

Aren't we cute?

YM KICKED ME OUT

2006-11-24T13:52:00.000+07:00

I didn’t know why, but since two days ago I haven’t been able to log in or use YM to chat. The last person I chatted with was Ryan, and I didn’t even manage to say goodbye to him before it all went wrong. All contacts were gone, and I could not add anyone. I tried to create another ID, but it didn’t make a difference.

Well, maybe it is good to confirm my decision to not let myself be addicted to chat with someone after my working hours, and instead do something more useful. Or, it can be a sign to start using Skype now.

Anyway, my own comp is having a surgery now, so let’s wait and see what I should do after she’s back.

BANDUNG VS THANKSGIVING

2006-11-23T13:37:00.000+07:00

Apa hubungannya coba? Emang gak ada. Gua gak pernah ngerayain Thanksgiving di Bandung, tapi gara-gara makan malam thanksgiving hari ini dibatalin karena istri dan anak-anak bos gua ngedadak sakit, dan juga dokter gigi gua nelepon gak bisa nganiaya gua hari ini karena ngedadak diajak mertua kondangan, alhasil gua cuma bisa molor di kosan dan bangun ngedadak lapar. Inget kalkun, inget pai labu, inget sederet makanan enak yang setaun lalu bisa gua lahap sepuasnya karena gratis, mukulin piñata dengan semangat empat lima, duh serunya! Tapi tiba-tiba ada suara tok-tok-tok kedengeran merdu di kuping gua. Eh, si emang siomay Bandung lewat. Jadi deh gua makan siomay sampe eneg. Jadinya gini neh, sekarang gua kangen berat ama Bandung.

Kacida sonona nepika hayang nyoroscos we ngomong Sunda yeuh. Tapi kulantaran euweuh nu bisa nembalan, ayeunna kuring rek nulis make bahasa Sunda we lah, kajeun ngan ukur saparagraf oge, kajeun mun eweuh nu ngarti ge, nu penting mah urang ayeunna ngarasa puas jeung bagja. Emaaakkkk…hayang geura geura balik ka Tasik! (tapi nyimpang heula ka Bandung lah, kapalang).

Iya neh, gua kangen berat sama Bandung, titik! Gua pengen maen sama si Oliep, ngobrol sama si Dekol, ketemu temen-temen lama yang laen lagi, gak peduli betapa sekarang katanya Bandung udah sepanas dan semacet Jakarta, pokoknya gua mau tetep ke sana lagi!
Gua pengen mampir ke QB dan baca-baca buku tanpa harus beli (hehehehe), dan kalo beli pasti dapet diskon karena ada banyak mantan kolega gua di sana yang pada baek ati.

Sekarang yang ada di kepala gua cuma ngelewatin Natal di Bandung taun ini. Gua pengen ngerayain sama anak-anak BSG yang kayaknya udah seabad gak pernah gua liat lagi. Kalo bisa sih caroling lagi kayak tiga tahun yang lalu, tapi gua akan cukup puas cuma dengan nyanyi 12 Days of Christmas (tapi wajib pake gerakan!). Itu lagu Natal fave gua! Meskipun kedengarannya konyol, tapi sebenernya punya arti yang dalem. Setelah kebaktian dan minum apple cider bareng-bareng di BIC, gua pengen ngerumpi sampe tengah malem di cafe ama temen-temen gua, ngobrol ngalor ngidul ngelepas kangen, diingetin kalo kita semua masih punya mimpi yang perlu terus diperjuangin, dan juga masalah yang pasti bisa diatasi. Kadang kita lupa akan hal-hal kayak gitu karena tenggelam sama rutinitas sehari-hari, jadi perlu juga diingetin.

Ya udah deh... untung masih ada pesta thanksgiving yang diundur hari Minggu besok di Depok, jadi kekangenan gua ini bisa terobatin dikit dengan bayangan daging kalkun dan mashed potatoes yang nikmat...slurrp...slurrp...gak ada hubungannya sih, gua cuma lagi food coma ajah jadinya ngelantur kayak gini.

Happy Thanksgiving aja deh untuk mereka yang ngerayain! (meskipun kebanyakan mereka itu kayaknya gak akan ngerti apa yang gua omongin di sini, hehehe...salah sendiri kenapa males belajar bahasa Indonesia)

AAW, HIGH HEELS!

2006-11-21T11:59:00.000+07:00

Another woman stuff I can’t understand besides mascara (that takes my precious time to put it on my eye lashes only to look like a ghost when I wash my face afterwards) is high heel shoes. I just can’t understand why most women choose to suffer wearing them around.
I had a pair once, with extremely high and sharp heels that I think I can kill someone with it. They’re lovely, but I only wore them twice before threw them away. The first time was on my sister’s wedding – soon after it’s over I got off the car with them on my arms, and started trotting to the house with bare feet. Second time, I dared to do that to church which was just around the corner of my boarding house and I was tempted to walk home without them, cos it was such a torture to wear them.
Anyway, someone just gave me another pair, and my normal heel shoes are about to fall apart so I didn’t want to risk it when going to church last Sunday. So I wore these high heel shoes but just standing with bare feet during the service. And as Mariana and I were waiting for the bus in Jakarta heat (after walking a little around the mall), I whined about my dislike toward that kind of shoes. I really missed my comfortable sneakers and flipflops. Too bad they just don’t match with skirts, eh?
But anyway, I’ve just bought a lovely pair of shoes. And they are pretty, and have no heel at all. I think I will never wear any high heels anymore. I’d rather be not so pretty without them, but free to move around comfortably, than walk like a robot and wince all the time from the pain on my feet muscle!

SHOPPING AND ME

2006-11-15T14:33:00.000+07:00

are actually not good friends. It's one of least fave things to do. So, you'll enjoy shopping with me, guys, cos it is usually super fast, and not very often.

MOSQUITO V CROCODILE (WHICH ONE IS WORSE?)

2006-10-26T13:25:00.000+07:00

To be honest, I’d never seen more mosquitoes in my whole life than last night.

Mosquitoes that had lain dormant through the long drought now hatched and rose from the forest floor in clouds so thick they filled our mouths and nostrils. I learned to draw back my lips and breathe slowly through my teeth so I wouldn’t choke on mosquitoes. When they’d covered our hands and faces with red welts they flew up our sleeves and needled our armpits. We scratched ourselves raw. There were always more mosquitoes rising up from the road like great columns of smoke, always moving ahead of us, and we dreaded them.

Alright, alright, it was not that bad. I just quoted the paragraph above from Leah Price’s account on a fateful night in Congo—from the Poisonwood Bible I was eagerly reading last night. My boss’ wife lent the thick novel when I was spending nights at the hospital, knocked out by two mosquito bites that carried dengue virus, and it almost killed me. However, I only had time to read it 7 months later, with the mosquitoes buzzing around me I could not help picking up the mosquito swatter with my right hand while my other hand held the book where my eyes laid on. Really, you don’t have to be as skilled as Maria Sharapova in swaying the racket here and there, to kill thousands of them (ok, ok, here I am exaggerating again, hundreds), without even have to look at them. The racket rattled vigorously, piercing the silence in the dead of the night, and those stinking animals were falling to the ground with roasted bodies. But boy did they ever cease to exist? No! I now regretted leaving behind my repellant in Jakarta.

Now mosquitoes have risen to the top of my least fave animal list, along with the ugly crocodiles I once saw piling up on top of each other in a crocodile farm. I felt sorry for them to have such a boring life only to end up being made bags. But I even feel sorrier for any naïve girl that had been fooled by an ugly crocodile who disguised himself in a form of a charming prince.

Mosquito vs crocodile, which one is worse? You tell me, cos they both are the same revolving to me.

HENRY’S FIRST JOURNAL PAGE

2006-10-26T13:13:00.000+07:00

“today my aunty come to my house at 08.30 and my father change audiotape in his car she wants to follow me to tasikmalaya this night I watc the fast and the furious tokyo drift she has a television but broken my aunti picked up her softlence in her eyes no doubt if she don’t pick up her softlence her eyes cant breath but if she don’t pick up her soflence she can see well she always use a glasses on her eye
Signed, Henry.”

Ha, that’s some of my nephew’s first entry on his first diary in his 7 years of life. He begged for a company before going to bed and I asked him for one more minute to finish journaling, and five more to take off my contacts before lying down with him. He was so inspired that he decided to also write his own journal from now on, and of course he was astonished to see me pluck out a stuff out of my eye balls, which was a good opportunity for me to lecture him on how important it is not to watch TV too close and not spend the whole day with his playstation. However, I didn’t tell him that it was really reading that make your eyes go bad.

By the way, I don’t know his English grade is, but he got 2.5 (0 is the worst and 10 is the best) on Mandarin subject, despite his grandfather fluency in it. And sure thing, he still has to work on punctuation marks.

THE BRIDGE (s)

2006-10-19T11:29:00.000+07:00

These bridges are scary, but we survived crossing them somehow. One of them reminded me of a particular song by my fave singer Lenny LeBlanc, that we played again and again during that trip (among with other 5 tapes we took with us).

The Bridge

When I was a boy growin’ up down on the Emerald coast
Fishin’ with my brother is what I remember the most
Now we told stories and dreamed a lot
On the way down to that favorite spot
There it was so tall and gray
We were scared to death
but we couldn’t wait to cross

The bridge to the other side
To a place we were sure was paradise
And the bridge rumbled and it swayed
Even though we were afraid
We still crossed over the bridge

A few years later it was time to leave my home
Traded my school days for a life out on the road
They said I had what it took
Things you can’t learn from a book
And if I did just what they said
I could go all the way across

The bridge to the other side
To a place I was sure was paradise
And the bridge rumbled and it swayed
They said I’d had it made
When I crossed over the bridge

All that I’ve seen and done
Has left me with this thought
I pray that my children
Would find the faith to cross

The bridge to the other side
To a place that I know is paradise
And I pray that if they’re ever lost
They’ll see God made a cross…the bridge

ANIMALS ON SURVEY

2006-10-18T16:55:00.000+07:00

Among them were some bunnies in the boonies, some buddy-buddy lambs (anyway we accidentally broke a lamb’s leg with our car, oohhh!), fish in the bathroom, and a dead big fish that I french-kissed!

A DAY CLOSE TO NATURE

2006-10-16T17:54:00.000+07:00

Oh happy day! Gone was the routine of waking up at 5 am and drove a lot to do/say the same things over and over again. Now it’s the time to play! For the sake of good pictures, I forced myself to smile when it was really painful to do so (I had three canker sores in my mouth, what a misery! –my lip were all swollen like Angelina Jolie’s, only not pretty)

CAVENTURERS

2006-10-16T17:01:00.000+07:00

Here are some adventurers ready to enter the cave full of bats and their guapo. We actually paid the guide to NOT come with us hehehe….

THERE’S MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM

2006-10-12T11:30:00.000+07:00

Is another English phrase I learned during the trip. We could say it on so many occasions like giving/getting a hug, giving/getting candies or cookies, and.. farting (lol!)

Anyway, as I came across the pic of coffee trees, and found an old pic of us drinking at starbucks, I thought about the trees and what they might have said to us if only they could talk.

ONE SPECIAL EVENT

2006-10-11T16:49:00.000+07:00

A night before her bday, we had dinner at a nice restaurant where there was also a bakery. I spotted some mini cakes and I wondered if I should buy one for Gina. Linda and I made a little bit plot when she was in the bathroom, but as we were heading for the exit door (passing those mini cakes and bread) she said, “Mmm..maybe we can buy one for my bday tomorrow”.
“Darn!” said Linda. “We were just talking about that.”
Anyway, I sneaked back to the bakery and asked if they could make some ‘real’ bday cake which size was bigger than a bite, and to my surprise, they said yes (remember, we were in the middle of nowhere back then). Then I realized I had no money with me to pay the down payment, but the owners were very nice and let me get away with it. I chose a round blackforrest tart and I told them to deliver it to our room the following day, and we swap our cell phone numbers too.
Back in the hotel Linda asked whether the cake would have Gina’s name on it and I thought it was a very good idea. They only could do it if we ordered the flowery love shaped pink cake with sticky icing all over it. Anyway, it was pretty, wasn’t it? Afterall, Gina always considers me a sappy love kind of girl hehehe

GHOSTLY HUT WHERE WE STAYED

2006-10-11T11:13:00.000+07:00

The scenery and waterfalls were gorgeous, but it was freezing cold. I was wrapped in three blankets and snuggled with the gals, but still I was shivering…BRRRRRRR…

SURVEY KIT

2006-10-11T11:03:00.000+07:00

(I feel like I should talking bout my last survey trip right now but alas, I haven’t been able to upload pictures successfully these days—so here is another pictureless post)

Things that should be in my travel bag before leaving on survey:

Bubble gum; weapon against ear pain during the flight.

Mosquito repellant; makes skin dry but don’t mind it as long as I don’t get dengue fever anymore.

Face paper; important to reduce the oil on your face during all-day long activity in the heat.

Balinese sarong; just in case the place where you stay doesn’t have decent blanket or sheet.

Anti-bacterial powder: effective to reduce the itch from the bugs (too bad I forgot this on my last survey so now I have lots of scars on my leg from scratching it too hard)

Journal: most important—I’m addicted to writing on it

Books: a great way to spend the time if your plane is delayed

Snacks: good strategy to anticipate stingy airlines who will only give you a cup of water, period.

Me and My Victim (A Sleeping Beauty)

2006-10-10T09:57:00.000+07:00

Tee-hee! This is Silly-Willy-Nilly team in action on our last survey day!
“Do you have scissors?” I asked outloud, while my heart meant to say ‘comb’. We were driving back to the hotel from the library.
“What are you cutting?” Gina asked back, maybe suspicious that I would cut her hair wildly.
Anyway, she dozed off while I slowly plaited her hair. I tried my best to do it as neatly as possible like those professional hair ‘plaitters’ in Bali do, but alas, it came out a mess.
I tried to compensate (read, worsen) it by attaching a Swiss flag I got from our fruit salad the night before, and also with some colorful cotton buds.
I could hardly believe that she was confident enough to walk around the ‘oleh-oleh’ store with hair like that, though she felt like a walking thrash can (like she admitted afterwards).
And I could not stop giggling while following her like a tail. Nevertheless, the waitress at a café complimented her by saying, “Your hair looks cute, like a kid’s.”
Now, every time I need a good laugh, I just remember that moment, and giggle to my heart’s content.
Gina, you are totally a bule gilaaaaaaaaaa……………..

STONES

2006-09-18T09:56:00.000+07:00

Sadly, I think I’ve lost some friends who had been turned into stones. Can’t you believe it? I found it hard to believe but that is so true. Stones don’t respond. Stones don’t communicate. Stones don’t react. Stones are hard. Hard to understand. I wish I could make them talk, but I’m just a human. I ain’t water which (as it is said) could go through them with many persistent drops. My patience is running out. I'm afraid I have been turned into one too.

PATRICIA'S PAT

2006-09-18T09:32:00.000+07:00

I suddenly think about the language of love we discussed on our last team-building session about a month ago. I found it hard to choose which one (out of five: physical touch, act of service, quality time, words of appreciation, and gift-giving) I liked the best. It is known that words of appreciation is big in American culture, but least favorite among Asian people. I think it’s true, but I still like it (maybe ‘need’ is a better word), because I found it helpful to boost my self confidence which most of the time tends to be inadequate.
A week ago I was asked to help interpret in my org family gathering trip, hence I had to overcome one of my biggest fears, i.e. public speaking. They even set up a stage, quite far away from the tent where the seats were put and people gathered. Talking like an MC is not my stuff, let alone in English, my third language. But I was gladly surprised that I didn’t shake nor tremble. However, my nervousness came in a different shape, i.e. less concentration (at least I think I have a better memory than that day). I had no preparation too, since I had no idea of what they would talk about. Anyway, I tried my best, but it did not measure up to my standards. I forgot lots of stuff and had to ask the speakers to repeat what they’d said.
And I thought what a failure it was, my interpreting job. Until afterwards, came an elderly lady. Her name is Patricia. She works in the kitchen, cleaning and serving people in the office who need tea or coffee. She shook my hand and patted my shoulder saying, “Thank you very much for translating. The devotional message was really great and thanks to you I could understand it.” And I was too stunned to even say ‘you’re very welcome’. Had she said something like, “Good job, you’re so smart, or your English is awesome,” it probably would not have affected me that much. But knowing that what I did was useful and bless others is even far more pleasant than hearing how smart or great I sound. And I’m glad that I had an opportunity to know that at least one person could benefit from the mediocre performance I gave.
The theme of the trip was ‘many hands one heart’, and among all those different roles played with so many hands, there was also Patricia’s patting hand, and I had a privilege to enjoy that.

INVISIBLE ENEMIES

2006-09-13T09:26:00.000+07:00

How can you fight or avoid something that you can’t even see, hence you don’t know what it is, and you can only feel it once it’s too late, because it has attacked you first?

Well, no…not talking bout the evil spirit or any spiritual warfare here, but I am talking about….pollen. Yeah, every morning when I wake up I ask God for a little less…snot. No kidding. I am tired of feeling alarmed of what I’m gonna feel today, whether I once again will suffer from this obnoxious rhinitis, and my beautiful day will be ruined because I can’t even breathe the air with my clogged nose.

Oh Lord, I hope this day is good.

A SHORT NOTE FOR JV

2006-09-13T09:25:00.000+07:00

(A friend that I used to miss a lot)

Sometimes I caught myself secretly hoping that somehow your computer crashed and that’s why you suddenly stopped writing your brief but frequent emails like you used to.
Or, that someone stole your cellphone and you lost my number so you could not contact me anymore.
Or, you banged your head so hard that you suffer a severe amnesia and that’s why you forgot me, and the promise you made about three months ago.
Or, stepping out of your comfort zone, you would tell me that you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.
But how can I understand silence? You have taught me that silence is not always gold. Your silence is loud and deafening. And I don’t like it.
(Anyway, I pray that none of the three top things above happened or will ever happen to you. I just want to believe that you don’t keep in touch with me because you can’t (though you want to), and not because you don’t want to (though you can))

Real pics of Rome

2006-08-22T16:28:00.000+07:00

taken by Sarah and Daniel :)

Some pics of my long week-end

2006-08-22T15:52:00.000+07:00

My parents and my brother came to Jakarta for a short visit. Together with my sister’s family, we went to see the ice sculpture and a dolphin show. We also took a cable car (that they call gondola), it was fun to be together with my big family.
But alas, it was so hard to get a good pic of the dolphins!

OMIGOSH!

2006-08-22T14:33:00.000+07:00

My deep apology for thinking so badly about the postal system (which is often bad, anyway).

I almost gave up a hope that Sarah’s gift for my birthday was only super late, though I knew she sent it at the end of May. I still prayed that it was only late, not lost or stolen on the way, but it never came.
But last Friday, our team had a reorganization day (a term that means putting back the scattered books, papers and other stuff to their proper place)—and Kristina found an unopened package from Switzerland, hiding among the documents and papers and books that I didn’t have time to even look at. Apparently, someone brought it from the main office and put it on my desk when I was traveling, and it got buried there for 2 months!
Sarah knows me very well that she anticipated my enthusiasm towards the coming (I mean last) World Cup that she sent me a cute blue shirt with big ITALIA letters, Italian logo and my fave player number (9-Luca Toni!) along with a cool football magazine in Italian.
Imagine how difficult it was for me to find an Italian T-shirt before watching the final game! Ooohhh…(but now I have two!)
But no probs, I am so happy that I found it, and the Italian stuff will never be too ‘stale’ for me because I will love it forever.
She has been showering me with all Italian football stuff, again and again, knowing that I am such an Italy-freak (and I’m not ashamed to show it to the world!)

I really thank people who can understand my fondness to something, and who can appreciate and respect what I really love and crazy about and thus hold dear, even though they might not feel the same with me.

ANOTHER REJECTION SLIP CAME

2006-08-08T09:54:00.000+07:00

And did my heart break in pieces? Nope
Did my eyes shed a tear because of that? No, not really
Did it make me want to give up writing stories? Not at all!

Well, I am proud of how I take it. Yes I used to hope a lot that my script would be published (and probably then I would earn enough money to fly me to Italy). But too long a waiting (more than 6 months) really helped reduce the pain of being (again) rejected.

But I still remember how it was so enjoyable to write that story. I enjoyed it from the first page up to the end. I did lots of research and interviews and readings and really put my best on it (without being rushed by the deadline). My Dad was the first reader, and he seemed to be impressed. My doctor friend Wulan was also willing to be the next, and she said she had the big kick out of it. Gina was there since the idea was conceived (on a crazy bus ride one afternoon), and she was there yesterday to give me a consoling hug when I told her the bad news. She said it motivated her more to continue reading it again (it is rather hard for her to read a novel in Indonesian)-she doesn’t care about the fact that it’s a rejected writing, considered still below the standard of the biggest publishing company in Indonesia.

Italy feels so far, for a brief moment. But as I sit staring at the bracelet and listening to the Italian music from a CD that Intan gave me as one of her birthday gifts for me, I feel consoled, cos they do seize the distance.

And you know what? I think it’s time to write another story!

16 YEARS HAVE PASSED, AND NOW I HAVE DIFFERENT EYES

2006-08-08T09:37:00.000+07:00

Gina came to visit my hometown last week-end, so we went to a volcano with my family. The first and last time I was there was 16 years ago, when I was still 9. Back then it was much more challenging to climb up to the top, yet my parents and I made it. I don’t remember feeling sore after that, but Mom said it took three days to recover from sore limbs.
Now there are steps that make it easier to the top and see the crater, still it was a struggle for me, since I didn’t really feel well. My parents are now too old for such a thing, so they waited at the foot of the mountain.
I got very sick soon after I got there, so I just laid down and couldn’t really enjoy the crater. I didn’t think it was as beautiful as before, either because I have seen better places, or because it is not as it was.
Poor Gina, I was not such a fun companion because of that stinky gastritis!

AN SMS FROM ROME

2006-08-04T10:40:00.000+07:00

Sarah is in Rome for her summer holiday this year, and I envied her so much. Well, it was a fleeting feeling because I know how she wishes I were with her there. We used to talk a lot about going to Italy together.
“Greet Francesco Totti for me,” I said.
“Totti or Pope?” she asked.
“Nah, just Totti,” I answered. I’m not a big fan of Pope, anyway.
On the second day she was still thinking about me, by sending another sms, asking who my most fave player was. She said she was looking for another birthday gift, because the one she previously sent, unfortunately, never showed at my door (due to the unreliable service of our postal system). I told her not to bother, because like Teresa said, it’s the thought that really counts.
Suppose I were in Rome, I will not sing the song Home like Michael Bubble does.

Another summer day, has come and gone away,
So is Paris and Rome
But I just wanna go home

Because I don’t think I will ever want to go home if I were in Rome. So, I’ll change the last sentence (I sang other verses just the same when I am on the survey trips, and when couldn’t help missing home).
The first time I’ll do there, is running to the famous Fontana di Trevi, throwing three coins (who knows the Prince will suddenly come riding his white horse?), and shed a tear or two there. And after I’m finished with all the sentimental stuff, I’ll run to Olimpico to be a freaky tifosa. Maybe then I’ll be lucky enough to see Totti or De Rossi.

A STORY OF OLLIE, THE BIG-HEARTED GOALIE

2006-08-04T10:27:00.000+07:00

As I spent some time at home reading the stale sport news, I came across a great story I missed out (for remember, I missed all the quarter finals, and it started then).
Among lots of stars with ill-behaviors, Oliver Kahn was like a rose among the thorns.
The world cup slogan, A Time to Make Friends, seemed to be so real to him, who chose to change a heated rivalry into a beautiful friendship.
Ollie was well-known as a great but stubborn, selfish, and arrogant star. Some had thought the guy would rather kill himself than not be the number one, but to our surprise, he was still willing to join Der Panzer in the last World Cup. The one who was awarded the best player in World Cup 2002 (imagine, a goalkeeper got that!) humbled himself low enough to just sit on the bench and watched and feel sad (if you’re a substitute goalie on a big tournament, you’ll know so well you will not play at all unless the main goalie is dead), after became the number one, plus the captain (which was taken from him by Michael Ballack), for so long.
“It was the lowest phase in my career,” he admitted.
His biggest enemy then was not one of the strikers from the opposite teams, for he knew he would not be the one saving the net which had been his home. No, not them, but Jens Lehmann, the one who took his main place on the team because age had taken its toll.
Some wanted their rivalry to be hotter by saying comments like this one, “Ohh, didn’t I see a smile on Kahn’s face when Lehmann was defeated?”, but all the cynics’ comments were silenced when Ollie stood up and came to Lehmann, shook his hand and pat his shoulder, as a sincere encouragement before the penalty shoot-outs against Argentina. And Ollie also was the one consoling Lehmann after they lost tragically against Italy on the semi-final, just two minutes before the game ended.
And Jens Lehmann, was also noble enough to respond as warm as the hand being reached out to him. He, who previously said he deserved the number one better than Ollie, gave up his place to his now true friend, knowing it would be something he wanted the most before saying goodbye to his professional career as a footballer. Jens wanted Ollie to play in a game for the third position, which they finally won, not only as a sweet memory of the last game, but also of an end of enmity, and a start of a life-long fraternity.
The arrogance of Ollie is now gone, and his heart is much bigger because of that. He was awarded his old position, as a goalkeeper and a captain (for Ballack was injured), and a standing ovation from all of the audience.
What example he set! What a legacy! And that’s how a true star should be – sparkling with love, not enthralled by hatred or vengeance.

IL BRACCIALETTO ITALIANO

2006-08-02T23:21:00.000+07:00

Questo e' il braccialetto Cristina mi hai mandato dall'Italia per il mio compleanno. Mi piace moltissimo, e' bellissimo. Azzurro e' il mio preferito colore. Grazie, Cristina! Anche sei un tesoro per me!

This is a bracelet that my Italian friend Cristina sent me for my birthday. It's so lovely. I wore it to church last Sunday and my sister whispered to me during the service.
"It's so gorgeous."
"It's from Italy," I whispered back.
"What? Fabio Grosso sent it to you?" she shrieked.
I chuckled. "I dont know him that well."

A FORTUNATE AMATEUR WRITER

2006-07-31T13:06:00.000+07:00

That is me!
I wrote my first kid story after I heard the story of Zacchaeus and how he was changed after meeting Jesus.
And this story was translated into 3 languages, English, Italian and German, with the aids of my sweet friends: Teresa (in America), Sarah (Switzerland), Sissi (Germany), Michele and Annalisa (Italy). Except Sarah, actually I have never met the others in person. No, not yet. Yet they’re so dear to my heart because we’ve been friends and shared stories for so long. They are all my penpals with who I have corresponded for years.
And the final touch was also great. My ex-colleague in a book store where I used to work, Deasy, made some cool illustrations for it.
They all made me feel so fortunate, as an amateur writer.

FISH, SUPER SWEET TEA, AND CHAIN SMOKERS

2006-07-31T13:05:00.000+07:00

After spending ten days going from island to island, visiting village to village, I was really sick of eating fish (not too often actually, but sea food is never my favorite), sipping super sweet tea they offered at every house we visited, and murdering myself slowly, being surrounded by chain smokers. Some of them said it would be better for him to break up with his love than to break his smoking chain. Oh, my!

But I took delight in the motor boat rides back and forth to the small island. It was not too short to be dissatisfied of wanting more to still float, but not too long to start feeling the sea sick. I loved feeling the wind blowing my hair, and the fresh sea water splashing to my face through the slightly open window. And I loved staring at the deep blue ocean around our small boat. Never seen any water so blue like that.

And I couldn’t help thinking about the tsunami victims. The sea had been their source of life, but then suddenly it hit them with death. Hundreds, even thousand of death. It took their belonging and beloved ones. I wonder how long it will take until the survivors can enjoy the sea again, without any trauma or sorrow.

It’s so funny how people in Java were in panic over the potential tsunamis or earthquakes that now seemed to be able to happen everywhere, and there I was, out in the sea, wishing I could be near it as often as possible, because it was so beautiful.

The following day I had another boat ride, it was longer, but still pleasant. The color gradation of the water really took my breath away. I was so amazed to see how direct the deep blue turned into light greenish blue when there were tiny islands with corals surrounding them. Very pretty.

I had to speak in front of lots of people who were gathered formally by their leader, some ladies kissed me when we said goodbye. They were the smallest village of all, yet they took us very seriously. I was sad to learn that in all the villages we visited, the local language we were surveying is dying, because Indonesian has been invading and replacing it more and more. One thing those villagers didn’t know was, that kids who grow up as bilingual or trilingual are usually smarter than the monolinguals.

As usual, we had to sleep at many inns and houses, and it was getting worse as we went further to the more isolated areas. In some beds, I was ruthlessly bitten by some invisible bugs. I have a very sensitive skin that gets irritated or itchy very easily, so it was torturing me. And as we went into many different bathrooms, we often asked each other, “is the bathroom civilized?” before going there ourselves (the sweet tea made our bladder short, of course). It is funny how our ‘standard’ of calling the place civilized went lower and lower. As long as there was a hole and relatively closed, we called it civilized.

Well, I’m not a city girl nor a Jane. And I prefer the freshness of the sea or the green forest to a polluted city of course, but after more than a week in the boonies I found myself missing Jakarta. And after a few weeks in the office working on boring reports, I usually miss the adventures. But I think I shall be happy living in a smaller city like Bandung, for example. Ohh, after too much traveling, I don’t really know where I belong now.

ON THE BOAT

2006-07-31T13:02:00.000+07:00

I don’t have many pictures on my trip this time. It was my mistake. After taking the pictures of the plane, I stuck the camera in my backpack, and not in the equipment bag where I took it from. And because the following day we had to leave by a small plane with a maximum baggage not more than 10 kg, I had to put aside some stuff and leave it in Palu. And guess what, the camera was accidentally left within my backpack.
Ah anyway, I don’t usually get great pictures unless Sandra is with us.

By the way, we chose the small aircraft (with lots of turbulence and noise) because we didn’t want to risk losing our head, or letting any bullet pierce our heart. No, I’m not trying to exaggerate. If we went by land, we had to cross the supposedly most conflicted area in Indonesia where there might be lots of snipers, and where several people were beheaded.

Well, we finally arrived at a small town where we took a small ferry at 9 pm to float for 8 hours. We spent some time at the deck, staring at the dark night with cloudy skies. Still, many stars were sparkling, showing off their beauty up above. The darkness was so thick, so it was as if we were sailing through nothing but the emptiness. Kinda reminding me of Prince Caspian’s sail in one of the Narnia’s books, “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” where they sailed to find the 7 lords. I felt like I took part in Eustace and The Pevensies’ adventure, or one of the famous five’s.

Our cabin reminded me of the barrack at nazi’s concentration camp, maybe slightly better with colorful bed sheet and pillows and bolster and a fan. It was hard for me to climb to the top bunk bed and I spent the whole night trying not to fall as we swayed and rocked and shook.

To ease the sea-sick I was getting, I stood at the deck enjoying the cold winds. As I looked down to see the roaring white sea-foams below, I felt sad because I remembered The Little Mermaid and her tragic story, of how she turned into the foam because her love to the prince was unrequited. But looking up to the glowing stars, I felt consoled when I remembered The Little Prince and his best friend, and how one of them promised to smile whenever he sees the stars and remember his friend, who was one of the stars itself. Maybe it is so with this life. If we only see the dark side, looking down on our problems and anxieties, we will be saddened and weighed down, but when we try to see the bright side, looking up to the sky where help comes and hope sparkles, we will be comforted.

I’D RATHER FLY WITHOUT WINGS

2006-07-31T12:43:00.000+07:00

“Fly is cheap” is their motto. I learned that it doesn’t really talk about the price (which is far more expensive than other domestic flights), but reveals their character in serving the passengers.

It was my first flight with Wings Airlines (and I hope the last one). The plane was late, and I was starving to death. I thought they would serve lunch because the flight was relatively long, and the ticket was costly. Other cheap flights would, at least, give some snacks. But this one apparently was too cheap to do so. They didn’t give us anything to eat, but a small cup of mineral water.

“Well, I’m surprised,” I said. “The fare is not cheap.”
“Not cheap, you said?” said a man seated next to me. “This is robbery!”

With my rumbling stomach (even after I had some Oreo Double Delight from my generous colleague), I tried to sleep. It was so cold and they didn’t have any blanket. I just wanted to cry. I was about to doze off when the stewardess nudged me, only to ask me to get my empty cup, and it was within her reach as well.

I got off the plane furious, and took some pictures to go along with this post. Well, they’re not good pics. Well, I mean, what do you expect to get done when you’re tired, sleepy, angry and hungry?

A DAY OF UNA TIFOSA ITALIANA (I MEAN, INDONESIANA!)

2006-07-16T19:30:00.000+07:00

The first midnight in Jakarta (after Bengkulu trip), I was all ready to root for Italia…
Yea, vado pazza per ITALIA! Forza ITALIA!!! We love gli azzurri!

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Vai Luca Toni, vai!!!!!! Sei bravissimo!

YEA, IT'S ALL WORTH IT!

2006-07-16T19:14:00.000+07:00

And all the hustle bustle in finding that shirt, staying up til midnight until 5 am, the sores all over my body, the poisonous smoke of the cigarettes that I had to inhale, and the voice I was about to lose….were paid off, when Pirlo, Del Piero, Materazzi, De Rossi, and Grosso scored successfully in the penalty shoot out! (Sorry France, no support for the diving and headbutting experts!)

WELL DONE, MY FAITHFUL SERVANTS

2006-07-16T18:54:00.000+07:00

So glad this tiring (but exciting) trip is finally over!

SOME INTERMEZZO ON THE ROAD

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Hey, we also need a break!

Maybe to enjoy the dusk in the long beach, Bengkulu (first day)

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Or take part in durian orgy…hmmm yummy! In Jakarta, durians are luxuries, but in the village, they are very cheap, and so we could eat it to our hearts’ content!
(cant help feeling sorry for those who cant stand it!)

2006-07-14T17:34:00.000+07:00

I almost missed the bold and beautiful sunset on our 8th day (second Sunday)…Gina was distracted by the sugar cane seller, but I managed to rush and saw it before it disappeared, so fast! I tried several times to take picture while running, zooming and sighing. So, don’t give me credit for this one (it was taken by my colleague)

2006-07-14T17:26:00.000+07:00

We also found a river with hot spring water nearby. The water was boiling, and the rocks were hot! Our driver put an egg in it and a minute later it was done! We had our lunch there, sitting at the rocks (not the hot ones) and playing with the water with our feet. On our way back, I slipped and fell (luckily I was not holding any camera and the water was not the hot one). I scratched my knee and skinned my finger.
(A minute before that happened, I still could smile and pose with Sandra)

THE FEET OF A DANCER VS OF A SURVEYOR

2006-07-14T17:09:00.000+07:00

This is my right foot with nails neatly polished, and decorated with a friendship anklet Sarah gave me last year. And I started every dance using that foot….

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But when I am surveying, I have to forget that pretty foot, because after wading in the mud, it became like that!

And oh man! How it became itchy witchy that I kept scratching it during the night after!

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On the last day of Bengkulu trip, Sandra told me to rub my feet with the sand, hopefully they will be smooth again, and I will get my dancer feet back!

THE SURVEYOR’S STRUGGLE

2006-07-14T16:25:00.000+07:00

To be a good surveyor, you need to be tough!

Little I knew about this, when we just set out to walk along the beautiful paddy fields on that lovely morning.

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I even managed to turn around and pose for Sandra, the best picture taker I’ve ever known.

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Then one challenge started…. (balance..balance..balance…)

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And then another…….. (it’s kind of fun, though)

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And I felt like in the fear factor show (if only there had been crocodiles in that river!)

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And ah! Finally, the pictures of me working! (thanks Sandra and Kristina!)
Remember, the process also counts, not only the result!

GAJAH….GAJAH…AND GAJAH……!

2006-07-14T13:26:00.000+07:00

How cute and smiley those big animals are!

I have decided that gajah (elephant) is my fave animal. One of my Mom’s fave story about my childhood is when they took me to the zoo for the first time, and they lost me. I actually don’t remember being lost in the zoo, but Mom and Dad recounted that story many many times, of how they panicked and started searching for me, only to find me squatting in front of the elephant’s den, staring at them with bulging eyes. Amazed.

Never thought I would ride on their back someday, though it was always one of my childhood dreams.

2006-07-14T12:59:00.000+07:00

During my trip to Padang, we dropped by Bukit Tinggi and saw a zoo with a big board saying: Horse ride Rp. 5000, Elephant ride Rp. 3000. Sandra and I were rushing to the officer to ask about it, and we were stunned to learn that the elephant had died. Maybe too much being ridden.

The first time was in September last year, when I went to Thailand with my colleagues. I made a mistake of spending the rest of my baht to join a tour (that was a fiasco and didn’t include elephant’s ride), and that night I was very sad to think that I would miss the opportunity to ride an elephant while I was in Chiang Mai. Fortunately smart Sandra offered a solution and there we were….riding my fave animal in the drizzle.

I told myself that though it was very exciting, I actually wanted to sit right on their back, and not in a chair like that.
God listened to my secret wish. Watch this!