~From Durians to Floating Pies~

Letter 614: The Sentimental Novelist

2012-02-11T01:17:00.001+11:00

I have, not too infrequently, re-visited Adelaide since packing my bags and relocating interstate in the summer of 09/10. Whenever I came back to this city in which I studied and first trained as a medical officer, there’s always an equally opposing sense of belonging and alienation. Adelaide, it seems, has become more crowded, and although certain boutiques, certain cafes, and institutional restaurants still dot the city and its fringes, the scenery is slowly but surely changing.

Today, in a rare day back in the city of my alma mater, I got to spend some time with no one else but myself. I took the bus into the city, something which I’ve never needed to do since I used to stay in the city itself. Hopping onto the bus felt strangely discomforting, as if I was a student all over again.

The bus stopped on East Terrace, near the Oyster Bar, where freshly-shucked oysters used to be less than $12 a dozen in my pre-MBBS days. I managed to navigate the usual Friday afternoon crowd along Rundle Street, observing that there were more faces of African and Middle Eastern descent spilling onto the sidewalks these days. Some were clutching their 4 o’clock drinks and getting tipsy already, obviously blending in very well with the Australian culture.

I spent the afternoon leisurely strolling in and out of boutiques, just like how I used to spend my weekends as a student along this bustling strip of shops and eateries. These days, Rundle Street has more big name boutiques added to its repertoire compared to my student days. There’s Zimmermann, Alannah Hill, Sass and Bide, Lisa Ho etc., brands which I was accustomed to seeing in a departmental store like David Jones until I moved to Melbourne, where I came to realise most of these brands are found all across Greater Melbourne, in different suburban shopping strips.

Habitually, I kept a lookout on people I may know. Adelaide, after all, isn’t very big. Sooner or later, you’re bound to bump into someone you know. Yet, having said that, I've always felt at eased blending into anonymity with the crowd. This may seem a paradox but it’s something I find hard to explain, sometimes even to myself. I used to study in cafes for hours for this reason, and although there were times my friends have singled me out in a non-discreet café and sat down to join me for a caffeine jolt, I found this solitary escape very much palatable. It was somehow my little slice of tranquillity in the madness of medical school gossip.

When I explore the streets alone, my senses are always heightened. I’d smell something enticing, and it’d lead me to a café. I’d see a hidden doorway, and it’d lead me to a basement selling all kinds of vintage clothing at bargain prices. This evening, as I’m walking along one of the little alleys leading from North Terrace into Rundle Street, the soft, polished voice of Nat King Cole drifted from a little unassuming shop tucked away at the recess of an apartment building. It intrigued me, as it was past 9pm and the shop was still open (some things never change—like the fact that shops still close at 9pm on “late night” shopping days). I ventured into the shop, and you know how certain shops exude a groovy vibe? This was one of them. It had everything from a vast collection of CDs and vinyl records to a corner stacked with books on architecture, literature, and filmography. A clothes rack stood near the entrance, with a sign stating “Vintage Sale- 30% off”. It was a very cool and funky little shop that I would’ve spent more time browsing had the shopkeeper— a bloke in his 20s with fudge brown spiky hair, dressed in a faded green t-shirt and sporting thick, dark-rimmed glasses—not started to wheel in the rack of clothes from the front of the shop. In a haste, I grabbed 4 titles which I had my eye on (books were reasonably priced), and walked away with a huge grin and a growing reading list for 2012.

Tonight, in a city which had defined my days as a university student, I was back to being my gloriously contented old self again in my spacious motel room, clutching my 1Q84 to bed with sheer ecstasy.

Letter 613: Thoughts on the 15th Day of the Lunar New Year

2012-02-06T01:21:00.002+11:00

It's been a few years since I last spent Chinese New Year back in Malaysia, where my family is based. Commitments to medical school rotations and, later, work, had dictated that I would spend most Chinese New Years having reunion dinners with my fellow friends. Sad bunch of doctors we are.

This Chinese New Year, the wedding of one of my closest friends brought me back to the shores of the Peninsula. I'll admit I was a little grumpy about going home at this time of the year. Flights are always fully-booked many months in advance despite the sky high airfares, and navigating through the airport-- from the check-in counters to Customs and Immigration-- is almost always a nightmare. Then, there is the reluctance of actually going home, because of the way things are in Malaysia which I shall refrain from ranting or else this would turn out to be another long-winded post about how the country is going to the dogs.

During the initial few days of arriving in KL, I was still moody. Of course, the ever hot and humid weather did not help. In fact, it must be a sign that I'm allergic to Malaysia now because I broke out in an eczematous rash from all that sweating. FML. There's now even a valid, medical reason why I cannot stay in Malaysia for long.

I slept a lot. And I mean, A LOT. I got 8-10 hours of sleep during the night, and even napped for at least 3 hours during the day. I hung out with family and friends during my waking hours, but if I wasn't engaged in any social activities, I slept. I don't know whether it's fatigue catching up on me, or if I was just really lethargic in this weather. I think I even slept through most days of Chinese New Year.

I didn't feel like eating as well. I did not crave anything specific. There was a tin of kuih kapit (one of my favourite Chinese New Year snacks) sitting in the kitchenette that went for almost a week without being opened. We had reunion dinner at my aunt's place and I think I only ate 2 prawns, some fish, a piece of chopped steamed chicken, and some vegetables. And my aunt's a terrific cook. Same with my mom. I wasn't eating as much as I'd expected when presented with homecooked dishes. I felt nauseated the whole time. I ordered my favourite ice-cold Ipoh White Coffee on my first day back, and almost wanted to throw up after the first few sips. It was so thick and rich and sweet that it had become unpalatable.

Had my tastebuds changed? Even if they hadn't, I felt a change in me. I was spending more time with my family in the short span of 10 days, and although I was confronted with the intense displeasure at how I was reacting to every experience in Malaysia, I was also comforted by the presence of my family. It's been awhile since I went home, and I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to be a niece, a cousin, and a daughter, instead of someone else's doctor. I'd forgotten how my parents can be both liberal and protective at the same time, and it felt good just being with them. I'd forgotten how contented I can be just hanging out with my cousins, aunts and uncles, where there's always a good dose of food and laughter going round. I don't know how to be an aunt because I never spent enough time with my nephews, but I do know that every child likes a good play and a cuddle.

I never really thought about the actual meaning of Chinese New Year until this year. As I used to see my relatives on a regular basis, Chinese New Year meant additional food, red packets, and firecrackers. I didn't appreciate the significance of reunion dinners until now. And I don't think I've loved my family more strongly than before.

Happy Chap Goh Mei!!!

Letter 612: Kitty

2012-01-27T05:35:00.000+11:00

10 days ago, I arrived in KL to find a little kitten taking up residence in my porch, much to the abhorrence of my parents, who could tolerate cat poop no more than I could. The kitten was tiny, probably only slightly bigger than my palm (I have small hands), and fluffy, and when it curls up snugly under the car, it looks like a little blob of grey with streaks of white patches. It gets shoo-ed away whenever it was found hiding under the car, or resting on the shoe mat, or wandering in the garden in search of places to take a dump. Most of the time, it would come back, and would emit a faint, echoing meow that sounded like a plea. I don't know if it belonged to someone, or if it's a stray looking for a home. I am not a cat person, but to actually want to feed the kitten and pat it and play with it says something about that kitten. Unfortunately, I was under strict orders not to feed it in the hope that it would not return. For the last 2 days, I never saw the kitten again. I searched between the flower pots and behind the palm fronds, peered over the fence, ducked under the car, called out a few times with a pathetic sounding meow that would make cats wonder if that was actually coming from a sick cat or from a crazy human being, but the kitten was nowhere to be found. Then it struck me-- I actually miss the kitten. Like I said, I am not a cat person. Is it possible to miss the kitten so much? How can one be attached to something so strongly? Will I ever see the kitten again?

-Posted near Wilayah Persekutuan; 11 hours before departure-

Letter 611: Heart of Darkness

2012-01-17T10:34:00.000+11:00

It's been about 18 months since I last came home. As my plane descended on the tarmac, and the captain concluded his spiel of information with the usual "To all visitors, welcome to Malaysia. To all Malaysians, welcome home.", I found myself torn in between the alphabets that made up his greeting. Had I already become a foreigner in my tanah air? If not, why was I annoyed-- with no particular reason other than the fact that it was 6.30 in the morning-- at everything that surrounded me as I waited for my luggage to materialise on the carousel? On the highway, motorists were mad and inconsiderate as usual. Maybe even worse. I don't know. I've already given up on them. At the Immigration Department, first of all, there were no signboards indicating where the department was. Secondly, there were no signboards directing visitors to its carpark. Thirdly, its machine has been down since November 2011, so we could only collect our new passports after a couple of days. Fourthly, there was only ONE passport renewal booth, so you can imagine the queue. And since there was already a booth with instructions on the touchscreen, why why WHY did they need to employ TWO people next to the booth to do the same job that you could've done (i.e follow the instructions on the touchscreen to renew your passport)? Oh, right, I forgot. That's because the gomen is so very nice as to create job opportunities in order to reduce the unemployment rate in the country. See, we're better than Greece or Spain ok! Don't play play.

It seems like coming back to Malaysia is bringing out the worse in me. I've been annoyed at everything under the sun, from the moment I touched down and became the next victim of local mosquito gangs, to when I went to bed, tossing and turning because I couldn't sleep because it was so freaking hot. It's scary, the sense of detachment I feel with my own country. Everything seems so familiar yet so foreign to me. The way people speak, the way people drive, the way people stare at you because your skirt is 1 inch shorter than the unspoken socially acceptable length. Maybe I'm a pessimist, but I can no longer see the prettier side of Malaysia in the last few years. There's a reason why I don't come home that often anymore-- the more I come home, the more I see of its social disintegration and degeneration. I want to love you again, Malaysia, but maybe loving you from a distance is the better option for now.

Letter 610: Musings of an "Advanced" Trainee

2012-01-13T01:12:00.000+11:00

It is not very often that I get tiny pockets of quiet like now. It's 2 in the morning and my body's flooded with cortisol after the mad rush of the day that is just one of those days in the lives of a medical practitioner. But I'm deliriously awake-- and satisfied-- after being on my feet for 17 hours (that's why I don't have time for the gym anymore because I exercise in the wards). I had to retrieve 2 very sick patients, and it was just that feeling of finally getting it. Knowing what to do, what to pre-empt, and when to interfere. I get it. I finally get it now, after trying to perfect the craft and instinct over the last 12 months. There is no better feeling in the world than having your patient come up to you-- a good month or two after you had assisted in intubating her and retrieving her out for a massive coronary-- clutch your hands tightly, and say, with all sincerity and grace, "Thank you for saving my life." I couldn't take all credit, but I was extremely humbled by the whole sequence of events, and the fact that if we hadn't acted on early enough as we did on that fateful day, we would've lost a life.

Often, medicine is not about saving lives. There's not a hell lot of drama involved, unless you include family meetings with weird and wonderful family members. But that's ~~Psychiatry~~ an entirely different story altogether. I dislike getting involved in family drama, but hey, that's part and parcel of what we do. Kind of like fecal dis-impaction. We took an oath, and although generally no one remembers the entire Hippocratic Oath by heart, we all abide by its first rule of thumb: Primum non nocere. First do no harm. The rest of it? One learns through experience.

Now into my 4th year post-graduation, I look back and realise how little I'd learnt from med school despite the heavy duty lectures and coursework. Medical school gives you facts. Medicine gives you real life. And what I like about real life is the learning through human connection. No, it's not very scientific, but it is the artful side of medicine that seldom gets discussed among the medical profession (except perhaps Psychiatry). But I'll tell you why I like the art of medicine: I have this 2 year old boy with the curliest mop of blonde hair ever known to mankind. Every time his mom brings him in to see me, he'd waddle straight towards me and lifts up his arms, indicating that he wants to sit on my lap. So each consult would see him sitting on my lap, me taking a history from his amused mom, and him fiddling with my computer and other gadgets on my desk. At the end of the consult, he'd cry if I handed him back to his mom, and would only be placated with a little lolly. One time I had to carry all 15kg of him (see, I train my biceps in the clinic) to Accounts and sit him over the ledge of the counter, making sure me and his mom swapped positions so subtly that he'd end up back in mom's care while I surreptitiously tiptoed away to see my next patient.

Then there was another blonde 2 year old boy who would be in the running for the title of "Handsomest Kid Under 5" if there was such a contest. Whenever I called his name in the waiting area, he'd scamper up to me and give me a high-five. So high-fives have sort of become our routine greeting. Sometimes I wondered if he'd grow out of it by the age of 3, but we shall see.

I like old people too. Most of the time they're adorable. Like little kids. One slightly demented LOL keeps asking me if I've "got a man", and keeps reminding me that I "need to get a man" every time she sees me for her prescriptions. Some regulars know me well and can figuratively poke me in the ribs and say, "Don't think so hard, Junnie, or you might get a brain haemorrhage" when I'm confronted with a diagnostic conundrum they'd present with. And yes, my 88 year olds call me "Junnie". Like I'm their kid like that. Whatever. They're almost 90. 90 year olds can do whatever the bloody hell they want. Like pointing out to their friends and exclaiming, "There's my little doctor!" in glee when they happen to see me on the streets while strolling down the shops with their 4-wheel walkers, and still managing to tower over my ~~short~~ petite frame despite their osteoporotic hunches.

So you see, medicine isn't as dramatic as Hollywood has made it out to be. There is drama, there is comedy, there is soap, and there is hysterical mix of everything together at once. I came across an article titled "Top Ten Reasons Why You Should Not Go To Medical School... And The Single Reason You Should", written by a Dr Ali Binazir from Harvard. It has since been deleted on its original page, and while I found myself empathising with his reasons, I found the comments more enlightening. I am glad they have decided to leave the comments in because collectively, they reflect the realities of medicine. I cannot think of the number of times I almost wanted to give up med school and do something else with my life, but I'm not a quitter, and I persevered. I got through by some miraculous intervention of the divine, and realised that although there were times when I was suffering from bilateral hypersecretion of the lacrimal glands during the earlier years fresh out of med school, there were also joyful times. I wouldn't trade it in the world for anything now, because, as I've come to realise, sometimes it's not up to you to find your specialty. You specialty will find you in its own way. It may take a few years, or it may not, but you'll know once you've made the right decision. You will, as it's happened to me, get it.

Letter 609: The Year That Was

2012-01-04T23:34:00.000+11:00

In the year 2011:-

I laughed-- a lot more than I used to.

I cried-- a little less than I used to.

I connected-- a bit more intimately than I was expected to.

I read-- a lot more than I thought I would have time to.

In no particular order, my 2011 is defined by the following titles:

1. Robert Ludlum- The Sigma Protocol

2. Ian McEwan- Saturday

3. Ian McEwan- Solar

4. Amy Chua- Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

5. Barack Obama- Dreams from My Father

6. Michael Gates Gill- How Starbucks Saved My Life

7. Siri Hustvedt- The Summer Without Men

8. Michael Crichton- Travels

9. Paul Theroux- Fresh-Air Fiend

10. Alain de Botton- The Art of Travel

11. Francis Meyers- A Year in the World

12. Tony and Maureen Wheeler- Once While Travelling: The Lonely Planet Story

13. Jane Paech- A Family in Paris: Stories of Food, Life and Adventure

14. Helen Arnold- 1001 Escapes to Make Before You Die

15. Thomas Bellar- Lost and Found: Stories from New York

16. John Updike- My Father's Tears and Other Stories

17. George Orwell- Shooting an Elephant

18. Christopher Ondaatje- Hemingway in Africa: The Last Safari

19. Elizabeth Gilbert- Committed

20. Albert Camus- The Fall

21. Sophie Kinsella- Shopaholic and Baby

22. Sophie Kinsella- Mini Shopaholic

23. Sophie Kinsella- Twenties Girl

24. Sophie Kinsella- Undomestic Goddess

Apart from the Michael Crichton book (yes, the Harvard-trained MD of Jurassic Park fame), all other titles were culled from the local library. I am amazed at the collection of books we have. Every time I walk into the library, I tell myself I will not borrow anymore books. Every time I walk out, I have at least 2 books in my hands. Sigh. That's how the list above came to be so long. That averages out to 2 books a month for the last 12 months. No wonder I had no time to ~~blog~~ study.

Ironically, we got ourselves a Kindle. Actually, it was more The Other Half who wanted it because our library obviously does not house Chinese books. After failing to convince the tech geek that paperbacks are the shiznit, the Kindle now has an honorary position on my shelf. It's slim and light and not too bad. But I prefer reading on my iPad 2 more ;)

For 2012, I have exams to concentrate on, so the reading list is going to be very academic-based. But I'm dying to start on the following books I chanced upon at the second-hand store: Albert Einstein- Ideas and Opinions and V.S. Naipaul- Letters between a Father and Son. I mean, it's Einstein and Naipaul!!! #nerdalert If I failed my exams, at least I would've been a very well-read failure.

What is your favourite book of 2011?

Letter 608: The Last Day of 2011

2011-12-31T12:24:00.000+11:00

Summer smells like boat rides, bumper cars, candy floss, magic circus, hot dogs, lucky dips, night markets, fairy lights, psychic readings, lavender soap, face painting, mini golf, corn-on-the-cob, caravan parks, SPF 30, and rooftop beer gardens by the beach.

Próspero Año Nuevo!!!

Letter 607: Dear Santa

2011-12-21T00:33:00.000+11:00

My only wish this year is to elope to the North Pole on your sleigh. You are most welcomed to the selection of drinks in my fridge if you decide to drop in on Christmas eve. If beer and cider are not your preferred choice of tipple, the key to my cellar is located just beneath Niño's kennel, next to the set of glass doors that open to the west. There won't be any milk and cookies for you, old man. I mean, c'mon, Santa, milk and cookies are so 20th century-- as is throwing wedding parties for 500 guests.

Seriously,

Jun

PS: I will bulk bill all your medical appointments. And I promise I will not subject you to a fasting lipid profile and a fasting blood glucose test.

Letter 606: He Didn't Propose, I Didn't Say Yes...

2011-12-15T22:22:00.000+11:00

... but apparently The Thing is on. Yes, The Thing. I say that like it's some venereal disease, but in all honesty, The Thing called Marriage is far more complicated than any STD's. You would remember not too long ago that I'd ranted about my resistance to marriage and weddings. In all honesty, it took me a few weeks to reconcile with the idea of getting hitched. Which was probably why there was no bended knee, no ring, no proposal. Just a very casual Sunday night statement that materialised out of the blue from the pile of laundry in front of the TV.

I still haven't said yes-- or agreed to his statement, to be exact. One which spelled out something like We should get registered on 12/12/12, to which I threw him an incredulous look and a snort and continued folding away my panties while Bruce Willis blows up some skyscraper and causes a 4-car pile-up on the freeway while attempting to hijack a military chopper in his famed Die Hard movie re-runs in front of us.

The next few days the subject was raised again, so I thought it was a good chance to do a bit of sleuthing, see what this wedding business is like, before I committed myself to something of legal and cultural consequences. Now, the marriage part is easy. Everyone knows it-- just sign on the dotted line in front of a civil celebrant and a couple of witnesses and you're legally husband and wife. But then comes the wedding part, which freaks me out. First up, apparently one needs to get dates and venues sorted pronto!! before deciding on anything else. The more popular places and dates are booked at least 12-18 months in advance, if not earlier. Are you shitting my pants here?? 12-18 months ahead!!?? Effing hell I have no idea what I'm doing tomorrow, let alone 12 months down the track!

But no, oh no. It's disastrous if you don't start planning early. So, armed with a handful of bridal magazines on loan from the public library and no thanks to Google, despite not being officially engaged, despite not giving him my answer to his Sunday night statement, I started enquiring about venues and dates. What do you say to one wedding planner on his question How long have you been engaged? I find this whole thing quite by-the-book. Why do people normally assume you're engaged? Just because you're planning to get married doesn't mean you have to be engaged, right? I answered, We've been together 11 years. Not formally engaged. And I almost wanted to hurl, Does it make a difference?

Anyway, we got the date sorted. And no, it's not 12/12/12, but sometime in November, perfect for a Whitsunday beach wedding.

Now, our intention was to keep it small, keep it intimate, keep it simple. Only close family and friends were going to be invited. No traditional Chinese wedding fanfare of taking a dig at the groom and his groomsmen while they attempt to fetch the bride from her parents' house, no tacky, lavish, extravagant Chinese wedding dinners, no yuuuuuuummmmm seeeeeeeennnngggg long into the night. Just The Other Half (well, he's now being upgraded from The Boyfriend, but he's not exactly The Fiance either, I suppose, since we're not officially engaged), our parents, his siblings, a handful of relatives and friends. No more than 20 people on a private island in the Whitsundays.

Sounds good? Sounds perfect. But the problem is, marriage-- and, by extension-- a wedding, is not just the business of the couple involved, but of everyone else around them as well. Even Elizabeth Gilbert acknowledged that fact. Which is why when it comes to weddings, it is culturally polite to invite your aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, cousin-in-laws, nieces, nephews, second cousins, second cousins' other halves and their ketchup-squirting 2-year-olds, grandaunts, granduncles, granduncles' mistresses and their illegitimate lovechild et cetera, et cetera. And this is just family. We haven't even got to the friends part yet. Kill me NOW.

Who wouldn't panic at the mere thought of having a wedding where you don't even recognise half the people who turn up-- much less any gatecrashers-- but are expected to put on a show for them, serve them cornstarch disguised as shark fin soup, provide free-flow Hennessy VSOP to them, and then, when the circus is over, gush in mock excitement, exclaiming "Thank you so much for coming to our wedding!!! We hope you've truly, truly, enjoyed yourselves tonight!!" while shaking their hands vigorously and suppressing the urge to ask them "Who the FUCK are you by the way and what the FUCK are you doing in MY wedding anyway?! You owe me 3 bottles of Hennessy VSOP, 2 bottles of Johnny Walker Blue Label, and a bottle of vintage Louis Roederer Cristal champagne, you fuckhead!"

So, in order to overcome this aversion to an unbearably ostentatious display of holy matrimony, we have hence decided to keep it small and simple. It's our day, after all. Why can't we do it the way we want? Looking back at my older rants on marriage and weddings, if I had it my way, it would be anti-tradition to the core.

Don't forget, the marriage is not just about the couple, some may remind me again. And surely aren't weddings. I see their point, but I would also argue that in fact, the marriage belongs entirely to the couple involved. Who are the ones promising "to take care of each other in sickness and in health" and "till death do us part"? Certainly not between the couple and their guests. Who are the ones who cry in silent when one party asks for a divorce? Your melodramatic great-grandaunt who attended your wedding 3 years ago? Puh-lease.

Now, as the marriage belongs entirely to the couple, it is, of course, the onus of the couple to preserve the sanctity of their marriage to the best of their abilities. And I would say that in this case, it gives the couple the right to organise their wedding however they want it. If they want to invite only 10 people rather than the whole clan, so be it. If they want to get hitched overseas rather than do it back home where most of their families and friends are based, so be it. If they want to wear black and be glamorously goth, so be it. If they want to do it on Post-Its a la Meredith and Derek, let them be! The key here is to respect the couple's choices, rather than trying to bend it and manipulate it to suit the wants and needs of guests.

I don't do tradition. I don't even do weddings in the first place, although lately I have gradually come to reconcile with the idea of marriage until all that talk about traditional ceremonies surfaced. How do you reconcile with tradition? Ok, let me re-phrase: How do you reconcile with meretricious traditional elements like the custom that everyone turns up 3 hours late to a wedding dinner? Or the expectation that one has to invite half the town and almost every distant relative to the wedding? Seriously. How do you reconcile with these elements?

You don't. I don't. I can't. I won't.

Which is why Plan B, is to elope to Tittybong. Or Timbuktu. Seriously. Fuck this crap. Fuck this whole marriage/wedding crap.

Girl in Valencia #4: The Silent Sound of Waters

2011-12-08T23:54:00.000+11:00

Tonight, I feel like I'm winning a losing battle. I've lost something. I've searched the empty streets, peeked into the little pockets of fishbone architecture, scrutinised the dome-shaped structures at length, and yet unable to find that something I've lost. The city is uncharacteristically silent at 10.30 at night, and I'm uncharacteristically exhausted. So I sit here for a very long time, thinking of everything else and nothing else. Maybe whatever it is that I've lost tonight, I will find it again tomorrow. When I get to Barcelona.

Shot on location @ The Oceanarium, Valencia.

**More pics of my Valencian adventures can be found here.

Girl in Valencia #3: Valencian Nights

2011-12-04T22:37:00.000+11:00

Nights aren't always the best time of the day to explore a new city, not especially on the first day of arrival. But when you're in a city like Valencia, where nights are balmy and breezy and people are all having a good time on the streets-- tipsy but not overtly drunk, happy but not overtly friendly-- the nights don't seem intimidating at all. In fact, as night falls over the amber-lit streets of Valencia, the city seems warm and inviting. So, armed with my camera and an unparalleled sense of adventure and curiosity, I set out to explore the streets of Valencia:

Ciutat Vella.

Lady selling horchata (spelled "orxata") by the pavement.

Well, well, if it isn't Paris.

Tucked away in a little lane were little people sitting on little chairs, sipping little mugs of horchata.

Night lights.

The council hall (I think).

Plaza del Ayuntamiento.

Curved alleyway.

One day I shall be back for their pinxtos.

Gazing towards the scientific facade of the city from my hotel room.

Buenos noche.

Girl in Valencia #2: Valencia and I

2011-12-02T00:05:00.000+11:00

Valencia.

I didn't know her. I didn't know how she looked, or what she had to offer. Paella was on my mind, and that was about it.

Ciudad de Las Artes y Las Ciencias, they called her. City of the Arts and the Sciences. A mouthful, but it made sense when the first thing that greeted me as the bus pulled into Valencia was a blue, glass-and-steel structure shaped like a whale. It was the entrance to the Oceanarium, which represented the scientific facade of the city.

But I wasn't on a scientific mission here. I was curious about Valencia. It couldn't just be the paella that made people visit her, surely? No, no, Frederic had assured me. She serves the best horchata and agua Valencia in the whole of Spain!

And so I came to discover that horchata is a creamy concoction made of tigernuts, water and sugar, while agua Valencia is a twist on the traditional Sangria, made with white wine instead of red.

Frederic was a knowledgeable chap, but he had neglected to impart upon me Valencia's quirky little secrets, of which I blissfully discovered while savouring violet-flavoured ice-cream from the parlour at the corner of Carrer de la Pau and Plaza de la Reina:

- her scent is of warm, caramelised almond pastries wafting through the streets dotted with crowd-pleasing horchaterias;
- her looks are of sophisticated architecture intersped with a touch of vintage;
- her religion dates back to the medieval times of which her cathedral is symbolic;
- her people speak a smatter of Valencian, Castillian, Catalonian, and English (particularly her very, very hot cab drivers who wear black t-shirts and faded jeans to work);
- her nights, ah, her nights! are spent bar-hopping under avant garde artworks, musing over a culture that is neither Castillian nor Catalonian but a confluence of their whimsical traits.

This, is how Valencia and I got acquainted.

Girl in Valencia #1: Once While Travelling

2011-11-24T22:44:00.000+11:00

I think I was about 7 when I first took a plane ride. I was nervous yet as excited as a child could be on her virgin flight. My mother took a picture of me in the cabin, beaming with 2 front teeth missing. I still have that picture, hidden somewhere in a box choc-full of photo albums amassed over the years. I was truly exuberant about flying then, and I couldn't remember a time when I boarded the plane without feeling some kind of warm fuzziness in me.

The first time I cried on a plane, was the first time I left home to study abroad. The second time, was when I returned a year later. After that, following one-too-many trips back and forth from my native land to what I now consider my "preferred place of residence", all emotions became diluted in that pressurised air cabin, and a ripple of irritation invariably follows whenever I go through airport scanners and security checkpoints.

These days, I prefer ground travel. Trains and buses, in particular. You glance out your window and see the passing landscape fading into oblivion as you move on. Blink, and you'll miss the gloriously setting sun dipping into the ocean. Sleep, and you'll miss the magnificent snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Concentrate on your book, and you'll miss the sweeping coast of the Costa Blanca appearing right before your eyes.

Then there's the stuff you eat along the way, and people you meet at halfway diners. Sometimes weird, often wonderful-- both the food and the people, I mean. When you're done, you dab the corners of your mouth with a crumpled serviette and push your tray away, say a quick goodbye to your dining companions, and amble towards your bus. Your companions do likewise. No follow-ups needed. We are all but passersby in each other's lives.

Letter 605: Medico

2011-11-21T23:36:00.001+11:00

In the pursuit of perfection, we all forget we are human. We are quick to judge and harsh on dishing out disparaging comments. All too often, we forget we need each other, and that we rely on each other. The other day, I met an incredibly humble fellow human being. In his eyes I saw tolerance, and a heart as big as the ocean. And to think my first impression of him was that he was arrogant and indifferent. I was wrong, oh how I was wrong! He surprised me with the many statements he made, and it is through gradually letting my guard down that I realised he was actually quite cool. I need to stop building walls so quickly around people, but I am afraid I'll get hurt, just like the way it was with you.

Niño @ 3 months old.

Letter 604: Version 2.0

2011-11-14T22:15:00.001+11:00

Yesterday, on a perfectly ordinary Sunday that's usually spent ironing work shirts and folding away one week's worth of laundry in front of action movie re-runs on TV, he asked me a perfectly ordinary question. No, scratch that. He made a perfectly ordinary statement. One that he thinks I should agree on. And on many levels, I cannot see why I cannot agree on that statement, and yet on many levels, I can argue my way through a thousand possibilities on why I shouldn't see eye to eye with his statement.

About 3 weeks ago, I was tucking into a plate of nasi lemak with a person who saw me at some of my most vulnerable moments throughout our 2 years of residing together, when he made the assumption that it was my own undoing that I'm still not at a place where he'd been 2 months earlier. No, scratch that again. He made a statement that basically said it was all to do with me. My fault. If all I had to do was say yes, then every body would live happily ever after and breathe a sigh of relief.

I stopped short of stabbing him with my fork. My fork pierced through my beef rendang instead, when I nonchalantly pointed out that whether I said yes or not, it doesn't change a thing. He was a fellow doctor. And doctors know better than to interfere with things when what we're about to do doesn't change our management. It's like, why would you test for EBV serology when the management's still going to be supportive? It's not like you're going to give antibiotics anyway.

One of my girlfriends tried to convince me that it will change things. But I don't see how, after patiently listening to her outlandish disclosure of her own experience that it had changed things for the better, that my change will mirror hers. When you have already optimised management, how else can you improve? How will this change affect me, affect us, and the extension of our selves?

Already, someone's mentioning dates. I dread deadlines. I'm never good at keeping stress levels at bay before time's up. That is why his casually mentioned statement is scary. There's just something I need to take care of before the apocalypse approaches-- that is, to make sure I am confident, and happy, that this will work itself out.

Letter 603: Pillow Talk

2011-11-10T23:58:00.000+11:00

Most recent post aside, I rarely write about my job anymore, mostly because I've been so immersed in it that when I get a breather, I want to focus on subjects other than medicine. Looking back at my musings on medicine, I realise my chief inspiration spurning all those late-night writings came from a mixed bag of confusion, fear, sadness, anger, disappointment, contempt, physical and emotional stress. This year, since being accepted into a training program, I've noticed a difference in the way medicine is shaping me. I'm happier, I'm truly passionate about my job, and I've come to a fuzzy actualisation that I am actually in a place that is so me.

Letter 602: In the Wake of Things

2011-11-02T15:54:00.000+11:00

It is a rainy Wednesday morning, and I am curled up on the sofa with my dog on my lap, attempting to nurse my concentration span with a mug of hot cocoa in order to focus on an array of yet-to-be-read journals in front of me. There is, without doubt, a strong temptation to disregard those banal medical texts and just do what I've been wanting to do: sleep. I had only a mere 4 hours of shut-eye last night, no thanks to an unusually busy day at the hospital that stretched long into the early hours of midnight and the next morning. It is the scariest thing in the world, not knowing what to do for patients who seem to be stable but are on the brink of exponential deterioration if nothing's done in time. But the question is, what can/should/must we do? I realise no medical journals are going to give me a satisfactory answer. They are all too academic. In real life, events often sway from textbook descriptions, which is why one sometimes find it hard to manage problems accordingly. As doctors, we all take pride in having an effective management plan and executing it to perfection. For us not to have a plan, it means we're shitting our pants off because the patient is exceptionally complex and will need some sort of specialist intervention. The problem is, the nearest tertiary centre is 400 kilometres away, and phone advise isn't always helpful because no one's cast their eyes on our patients, so no one knows how sick they are-- or can become-- except us. Hence we have to deal with it then and there. Let's try this, or let's try that. Let's do this till the retrieval team arrives. That's just how Medicine evolved-- by trial and error. No doubt, great insightful discoveries have been made, but in reality, what is the margin for error?

Andalusian Adventures #10: Granada on Foot

2011-10-25T23:00:00.000+11:00

As dawn descends upon Granada, it became clear to me that Granada is so much more than the Alhambra. When people talk about Granada, they talk about one thing-- the almighty Alhambra that has come to define Granada inasmuch as the Palace of Versailles has come to define the city of Versailles. In gushing about the magnificent palace, many people forget to mention the beauty of Granada itself, a city steeped with rich, Moorish legacy. Built at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains at an elevation of 738 meters above sea level, its hilly geography means traipsing up and down sloping footpaths. To me, this form of travel (walking) offers the best introduction to a foreign land. It makes you notice every nook and corner, every hidden secret a city has to hide, every tapas bar, every potted geranium hanging from the balcony of every apartamento, and every form of existence that makes a place what it is.

**More snapshots of Granada here.

Andausian Adventures #9: Glimpses of the Great Palace

2011-10-23T23:47:00.002+11:00

The Great Palace is uncustomarily quiet. Gone are the hordes of tourists clicking their shutters away while pretending to listen to the history of the Alhambra being regurgitated in an over-familiar fashion from their well-rehearsed tour guides. Gone is the stream of children who seek refuge in the stone-carved niches and marble columns while their parents marvel at the intricacy of the arabesque awnings and pay no attention to their little critters. The whole of Spain is on strike, and so are the caretakers of the Great Palace. CERRADO POR HUELGA! Declares angry red stickers plastered all over the ticketing counters of the Alhambra. Closed for Strikes!

The Big Fat Argentinian Sisters are not impressed. We flew halfway across the world to see this place and now you tell us it's close?! Esta una desgraciado!

Lo siento, señora, lo siento, mumbles The Poor Andalusian Guide apologetically. We did not know this would happen either.

From the breast pocket of his lightweight cotton shirt, The Poor Andalusian Guide produces a camel-colored handkerchief and proceeds to wipe a few beads of sweat off his forehead. Standing under the blazing evening sun and having three Big Fat Argentinian Sisters shooting daggers towards his Poor Andalusian Soul must have made him diaphoretic.

We hang around the entrance for a few minutes. The Poor Andalusian Guide is muttering frantic phrases into his cellphone. I spot an ambulance. "Cruz Roja" sounds way cooler than the "Red Cross". But damn! No hot paramedics around. Shortly after, The Poor Andalusian Guide stride towards us with a slightly triumphant but nervous smile. The Officials have decided to open sections of the Alhambra to visitors. I suppose seeing something is better than coming all the way here and seeing nothing at all. The Big Fat Argentinian Sisters look at each other and snort. There is nothing more anyone could do but to follow The Poor Andalusian Guide into the Alhambra and explore the place as much as The Officials would allow.

Spend a day @ La Alhambra, Granada, Spain.

Andalusian Adventures #8: Consequences of Talking to Strangers

2011-10-17T22:55:00.000+11:00

"Try it," says the man who introduced himself as Frédéric on the bus earlier, pushing a palm-sized pastry towards me. "It's divine. But be warned-- this little thing packs a thousand calories in each bite."

He has a twinkle in his eyes as he challenges me to try the golden-brown, dome-shaped Andalusian sweet in front of me.

"What's it called?" I eye the alluring pastry with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief as I take a sip of my usual cafe con leche. We are stopping along the Autovia, on the way to Granada, for some morning tea.

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," Frédéric scoffs with such conviction as he lights up his fifth cigarette of the morning and puffs away at the Sierra Nevada looming before us. "Even if I told you, you wouldn't remember."

"No, tell me," I insist. "I'm in your country to learn."

Frédéric turns to look at me and gives me a deep chuckle. He mumbles some Spanish phrase which sounds vaguely like "Pinocchio" but before I could get him to repeat, he stubs out his Fortuna in the ashtray and grabs his knapsack.

"I have to go. You'll enjoy it," he reassures. "It has a custardy centre and is made of egg yolks, cream and sugar-- how bad can it be, right?" He winks.

I pick up my fork. I'll worry about the consequences of its caloric content later. Or the consequences of talking to strangers.

Frédéric was right. It is absolutely divine. And till today, I still have no idea what the hell it was.

Letter 601: Strange Perceptions of Reality

2011-10-13T23:04:00.000+11:00

There is something about growing older. It doesn't necessarily make you wiser. It makes your skin thicker, your smile wearier, your guard stronger. It doesn't make you invincible, but it makes you less vulnerable. Eventually, when you look into the mirror and see that stranger staring back at you, it will feel like you're peering at a photograph of yourself taken 20 years earlier, and wondering what had become of that kid.

Letter 600: Being

2011-10-09T23:45:00.000+11:00

I do not have a contemptuous disregard for loneliness. In face, I rather welcome the bubble of solitude, sliding too easily into its vestibule with a warm embrace. And I fear I may never step out of this cocoon of comfort after being encapsulated by it for such a prolonged period of time, for I had cultivated the habit of looking up and smiling to no one in particular every now and then.

Ear food: Joanna Wang-- Lost in Paradise

Andalusian Adventures #7: That Summer in Seville

2011-09-25T00:50:00.000+10:00

In "Introducing Seville", Lonely Planet writes "If any one place comes close to rolling together everything that’s quintessentially Andalucian, it’s Seville. Here in the region’s capital and biggest city, that special Andalucian way of life is distilled into its purest and most intense form. It has more narrow, winding, medieval lanes and romantic, hidden plazas soaked in the scent of orange blossom than half of Andalucía’s other cities put together. It’s the home of those two bulwarks of Andalucian tradition, flamenco and bullfighting, and its heritage of art and architecture (Roman, Islamic, Gothic, Renaissance, baroque) is without rival in southern Spain."

I cannot describe Seville any more perfectly than what Lonely Planet's already done. Seville is in so many ways the unblemished living history of life in Southern Spain. I regret not lingering a little longer in Seville, as many summers later, I know they would be incomparable to the summer I had in Seville.

Andalusian Adventures #6: The Alcazar of Sevilla

2011-09-23T22:09:00.000+10:00

Some say the Alcazar is a miniature version of the grand dame Alhambra. Others opine that the Alcazar is far more beautiful in its compactness of form and flow. Unfortunately, I cannot give you an unbiased opinion here because little did I know that the Alhambra, when I was there a few days after journeying on from Seville, would be closed largely due to the national strikes in Spain. Fortunately, though, there were still a few sections of the Alhambra that were open to the public, so I got a glimpse of the grand dame. As for the Alcazar in Seville, I can honestly say that it is one of the most magnificent castles I've ever laid eyes on. Certainly, it doesn't have the magnanimous quality to it, but it does feel like an adjunct to the Alhambra, in the sense that if the Alhambra was the main palace, then the Alcazar would be like a summer retreat, filled with the fragrance of scented orange and magnolia blossoms, the never-ending gush of fountains, and the musical twitter of swallows and nightingales fading into the lush landscape of forestry and flora that spring life into this heavenly creation on earth.

Visit the historic Real Alcazar de Sevilla @ Plaza Triunfo, S/N, 41004 Seville, Spain (or, take a pictorial walk of the Alcazar and my other Seville snapshots here).

Andalusian Adventures #5: The Harp Player of Seville

2011-09-21T23:43:00.000+10:00

Seville is the place to soak up Andalusian culture. Under the soft September sun, the Plaza de Espana looms with magnificent grandeur. It is here, at the bottom of a flight of stairs, that I discovered the most beautiful piece of music streaming from a harp player. His long, slender fingers glided across the strings with delicate succession, and it was only then that I fully comprehended the meaning of "tugging at your heartstrings". My heart ached so badly to tell him what an amazingly talented musician he was, but I did not know how to express it in the language that he would understand, so I placed a crumpled €5 note into his upturned hat and picked up one of his many CD's lying on a blanket next to it. He was so entrenched by his own music that he did not seem to notice the little gesture of appreciation, and continued to make soft, melodious tunes that floated into the crisp, morning air of Seville.

Take a walk @ the Plaza de Espana, in the Parque de Maria Luisa (Maria Luisa Park), Sevilla, Spain.

Andalusian Adventures #4: Sexy Sevilla

2011-09-14T00:30:00.000+10:00

Some places find their way into your heart instantly. Seville is one of them. I first came to know of a place called Seville in Enid Blyton's books when I was about 6 years old. It was apparently famous for its oranges, that was all I knew. But Sevilla is so much more than a citrus fruit. It is the place where Spain's oldest bullring-- the Plaza de la Maestranza-- is located, and it is certainly the place to catch Spain's best flamencos. What the guidebooks don't tell you, is that the best helados (ice-cream) in Spain is right in the heart of sexy Sevilla.

Bullring

Flamenco

Helados

Catch a bullfight @ Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza, Paseo Cristobal Colon 12, Sevilla 41001, Spain.

Watch a flamenco show @ El Palacio Andaluz, Calle Maria Auxiliadora 18, Sevilla 41008, Spain.

Dig into helados, dos bolas (two scoops) @ Cafe Mascarpone, Av Luis De Morales S/N, Sevilla 41018, Spain.

Letter 599: Remembrance of All Things Past

2011-09-11T00:38:00.000+10:00

It may have been 10 years since we saw the Twin Towers crumble to ashes in front of our eyes, but 9/11 seemed like only yesterday. We all have a clear recollection of the exact time it happened-- the place we were in, the people with whom we were hanging out, the exact toppings on the takeaway pizza we were munching on while glued to CNN-- everything. I was at home that fateful night 10 years ago (it was nightfall in Malaysia when America's darkest morning loomed). There was a power shortage, but the phone lines were working. The phone rang just as I was rummaging through the cupboards with my flashlight for a candle and a matchstick. It was my mom, ringing from the newsdesk late into her shift, urging me to turn on the TV because "you wouldn't believe what just happened." Of course, I had no idea of the gravity of the situation until the power lines resumed, and by the time I tuned in, United Airlines 175 was seen crashing straight into the 2nd tower.

In conjunction with the 10th anniversary of the atrocious attacks, the media has been featuring special reports on the event, including looking at how terror has shaped the last decade. It makes me sad reading the accounts of those who survived one of the darkest days in American (and world) history. Although I was never directly involved in 9/11, like the aftershock of a tsunami, I felt the aftermath of the abomination rippling through, even after so many years. 9/11 changed the world in so many ways unimaginable. 9/11 changed how we live. Suffice to say, if it weren't for 9/11 and the subsequent tightening of US security, I wouldn't be sitting in my living room, 30 minutes from the cabernet sauvignon-producing region in Australia, writing in this virtual space as a doctor. My life would've taken on a very different path if 9/11 had not taken place, and so would the lives of many others. As I reflect on the horrors descended from the sky on that fateful day, I am watching a documentary titled 9/11, made by 2 French brothers who coincidentally happened to be on the scene at that time. One cannot possibly imagine the fear these people went through-- the workers at the Twin Towers, the civilians witnessing the whole event, the firefighters struggling to comprehend the magnitude of their rescue mission, frantic family members searching in vain for missing loved ones...

Today, exactly 10 years after the day that changed the world forever, I pray for those who died, I pray for those who lived, and I pray that the world will one day be free from the hell-like animosity of our own undoing.

Letter 598: On the Delicate Subject of Marriage

2011-09-07T22:55:00.001+10:00

Here's the deal: I am secretly terrified of marriage (and, by extension, weddings). FaceTime and Skype and all those video calling apps and what-have-you's are convenient at best, annoying at worst. Every time some familiar face pops up on screen, the inevitable question would be "So, when are you two getting married?" (You two as in, almost everyone else your age is married/engaged/pregnant with 3rd child, yes, everyone, except you two.) Hell I know.

A few weeks ago, I discovered Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed in the local library-- the follow-up to her bestseller Eat, Pray, Love. Frankly, I never really read Eat, Pray, Love. The premise behind her story never appealed to me to begin with. After all, her story would not be unlike many others who traveled because of lost love, and who found love again in their wanderlust. But I must admit what drew me to Committed was the little tagline that read "A sceptic makes peace with marriage". In the sequel to Eat, Pray, Love, Liz (because, after reading Committed, I've decided that she's wholeheartedly funny enough to be someone I'd love to lunch with-- as in, Hi Liz, wanna grab some lunch at 12?) recounts the initial decision to get married to "that Brazilian guy from Eat, Pray, Love", and launches into eight insightful chapters examining the historical, cultural, political, religious and socioeconomical implications of matrimony. In her delightful discourse, peppered with her travel musings across Southeast Asia with Felipe, as well as with her own research on the topic that baffled her as much as it does me, Liz provides glimpses into her own relationship with the man who would eventually become legally married to her because of an unforeseen intervention by the United States Department of Homeland Security.

In Chapter 7: Marriage and Subversion, Liz confesses that she was dodging everyone's questions surrounding her wedding, because she "found the whole idea of a public wedding agitating". To see this in writing from another female species is marvelously welcoming. Of course, she eventually ends up getting married, because that's what this whole book is about-- her reconciliation with marriage and the idea behind it. However, to know that I'm not alone in my resistance to marriage provides me with heartwarming optimism, knowing that I'm not an odd female entity, after all.

I used to love weddings when I was younger. I don't know why-- maybe the idea of seeing love manifest in public ceremonial vows consolidates all hope that we will one day find The One. (Unfortunately, I have gradually come to realise that there's an ocean of words swimming between "The" and "One"-- The Goddamn One, The Crazy One, The Fucking Irresponsible One...) But as I attend weddings after weddings, each stretching out long into the nights with a drunken yuuuuuuum seeeeng!!!, I get more unnerved. Somewhere between feeding the groom and his best men wasabi sandwiches and toasting to yet another new couple, I lost my liking for weddings. I dislike the ceremonial pomp and all those traditions one has to adhere to (I'm basing this on a Chinese wedding where customs and semi-religious rituals blend into one big hoohah of a day). Now, my family is thankfully unconventional and may not impose weird superstitious practices on me, but I cannot say the same for my other half's. There is a considerable amount of people and practices involved when it comes to the holy union of two people, and I, for one, intend to preserve my sanity by avoiding wedding ceremonies as much as I can.

Liz echoed my sentiments when she asked "What is it about a public, legal wedding ceremony that means so much to everybody anyhow?". I. Know. Tell me about it! If you're hankering for a wedding, go get married yourself! Oh, oops, I forgot, you are married/engaged. Go fug yourself then. On a deeper level, though, Liz recognises that ceremonies are important to human beings for as long as traditional societies are formed. Rituals, she argues, provide a safe transition point to our next stage in life, and that without ceremonies and the witnesses participating in them, we wouldn't be able to distinguish the mundane from the extraordinary. So she theorised that the reason her friends and family asked of her to have a public wedding ceremony was so that they could safely acknowledge the social standing of Liz and Felipe in relation to everybody else (ie Felipe would hence be known as "husband", "uncle", "son-in-law of the Gilberts" etc). Assuming her point is valid and hence, applicable to everyone else in her shoes (ie those being pestered into matrimony), it makes sense, then, as to why our relatives and friends keep asking us a question we have no answer to-- When are you two getting married? I suppose it's less confusing for them to acknowledge us as a "married couple" rather than "high school sweethearts who have been dating for more than 10 years and still not married" (and start second guessing that one of us must be gay).

But what is it about social standing that is so important, even to Western societies like the one Liz grew up in? Having been brought up in an Asian background, I could see the significance of social standing (and hence, social order) in a culture deeply infused with Confucian philosophy. Unfortunately, Liz doesn't provide further insight into this conundrum of mine, so it would be a really good reason to ring her up for lunch, don't you think? But back to social standing. My pet peeve is that de facto partners should be allowed the same social acknowledgement as married partners too. If the Australian government recognises our relationship and proved so by having granted us spouse visas, why can't our families and friends see eye to eye on this matter? Why is marriage so important? As I have ranted before, legal proceedings don't mean anything if there was no love to foster, and the non-existance of a marriage certificate does not negate actual, mutual love between two individuals-- be they straight or gay.

One of my favourite quotes from Committed comes from Liz's friend Brian, with whom she had a discussion on marriage: "Marriage is not prayer. That’s why you have to do it in front of others, even in front of your aunt who smells like cat litter. It’s a paradox, but marriage actually reconciles a lot of paradoxes: freedom with commitment, strength with subordination, wisdom with utter nincompoopery etc. The main point is not to ‘satisfy’ other people, but that these ‘other people’ (ie your wedding guests—witnesses to the whole ordeal) have to help you with your marriage and support you, should either of you falter." He is funny, this Brian guy-- maybe I should invite him to lunch, too. But the point I want to make here is that 1) you don't need to have witnesses to your marriage if these witnesses (ie family and friends) already know about your relationship long enough to throw their hands up in exasperation and exclaim "I just don't understand why you don't want to get married!"; 2) even if either of you faltered in your relationship, the witnesses shouldn't turn a blind eye to your troubles if they sincerely wanted to help you (in other words, you shouldn't need to sign a legal document before them just so that they are obliged to help you out when you falter); 3) you don't need any other person more than the licensed priest/judge/commissioner of marriages to witness your marriage-- Fernando Torres (bless that boy!) and his wife got married in a little chapel with the priest, without any family members present; 4) should your marriage breakdown, who are they to tell you to mend it if it's been irreparable beyond any form of recognition?

I think Brian and I will have a very interesting lunchtime conversation, don't you think?

So what is marriage anyway? Like Liz and Felipe, who "had started creating a little world for ourselves that looked suspiciously like marriage long before the immigration authorities ever got involved", The Boyfriend and I had also been "living together, making plans together, sleeping together, sharing resources, building lives around each other, excluding other people from our relationship—and what do you call that, if not marriage?". And like Liz and Felipe, who sealed their relationship in a little private ceremony in a "little decaying hotel" in Knoxville, 2005, by exchanging a pair of simple gold rings and reading out private vows to each other, The Boyfriend and I, too, have embarked on a ring quest and returned with a set of personally engraved Cartier rings, with the intention of having our own little ceremony of our own devising when a suitable time arrives (though, knowing The Boyfriend well enough by now-- he the one who said "Wedding? Scary? No... What's scarier is walking into Tiffany's and Co.", and who subsequently earned a playful smack on the forearm from yours truly-- a "suitable time" may never come and we may just end up wearing our rings upon walking out from the Cartier store anyway). I swear, when the idea of ring hunting struck, I had not started reading Committed, and had no idea that someone like Aunty Liz had already cooked up this idea and served it in Knoxville 6 years ago. We have so much in common, I tell you, I'm really starting to think of a lunch place.

In all honesty, though, in the eyes of everyone else, we are not legally married, but we feel as though we've been a boring old married couple now. We have our own set of private monosyllabic mumbles in which we manage to carry quite decent conversations at times. We don't just finish each other's sentences, but say out loud what the other person is thinking even before they start saying what we were saying. The other day, we were reminiscing about life in high school, when the subject of identity numbers arose (each student had their own 5-digit ID etched on our school badges). A 5-digit number floated to my consciousness, prompting me to blurt it out just as he was quizzing me on his ID number with a smirk on his face. I swear I did not even know his ID number, until some weird and funky 5-digit ID flashed across my mind. This telepathic thing is eerie, I tell you. The next time I see some weird and funky digits again, I'm going to buy a lottery ticket. You'd never know.

My mother was 27 years old when she gave birth to me. The Boyfriend's mother was already giving birth to her second child when she was 27. Now I am fucking 27 and everyone my age is either married or engaged or popping out babies like it's 1959. Sure, I can jump on the bandwagon too and change my Facebook status to "married", but the point is, what is marriage nowadays when anyone who has a Facebook account can blithely alter their marital status? Where is the sanctity of matrimony, then?

Last week, while FaceTiming with my aunt and cousins, there was a non-negotiable urge to "Faster get married so that you can have kids!", to which I dismissed with my usual air of cursory disinterest with the retort "Who says you need to get married before having kids, anyway?". Yes, I do realise the cultural background (Asian) in which I was brought up, and in which tradition dictates that having a baby out of wedlock would carry disastrous social consequences. But, seriously, how much worse can having a baby be for two people-- not legally married-- who are already living together and behaving pretty much like a married couple anyway? It seems to me that one of the goals of marriage is procreation, and there just seems to be something quite fundamentally wrong with this concept that I have yet to reconcile with. I simply refuse to see marriage as a license to have babies. Moreover, I don't see marriage as a legal permission for two people to have sex so that they can fulfil their societal duties by creating an offspring. How often do we hear about the single, unattached individual (let us not affix any gender assumptions here) who earns a despicable reputation by "sleeping around", and how often do we hear praise about the couple whose "third baby is along the way, hooray!"?

To a certain extent, I can see why procreation matters. It's a biological and anthropological need to extend our legacy on earth. But I have to say, realistically speaking, we all know when we are ready to have kids (well, most of us do, anyway). At a stage where the couple's not ready to start a family, it doesn't matter whether they're legally married or not, they're still not going to have kids. Reading Liz's research on marriage and children, I cannot help but agree with her interpretation that when "sociologists say that 'marriage is extremely good for children,' what they really mean is that stability is extremely good for children." Children, as she puts it, need "constancy and familiarity". Marriage does encourage familial solidarity, but it cannot guarantee its consistency. How many children have been physically and psychologically scarred by their parents' marital breakdown? On the flipside, how many children thrived just as well when they're brought up by unmarried couples, single parents, relatives, grandparents, and sometimes even foster parents, when their environment is one of a calm and stable situation?

Look, I am acutely aware that this is probably my longest blog post ever-- and well done if you've managed this far, listening to yet another one of my rants about the frustrations of being gently coerced into getting hitched. Yes, I am 27 years old already (oh, don't I know!), and yes, I do realise I am perilously perched on the cusp of a critical, optimal period for childbearing. But I am only 27 years young. I want to travel. I want to see the world. I want to work outside of Australia for a period of time. If I were legally married, there will be pressure to have kids (hell, even at a stage where I'm not married, people are already dropping hints to have a baby, for fuck's sake). How can I possibly bring up a child in the most stable environment if I were uprooting from Australia to Papua New Guinea to South Africa? There's so much to learn. I cannot get married just yet. I don't think I can. It's not that I don't love The Boyfriend. It's a very different kind of love these days, one that pays the mortgage year after year and picks up after the dog. Liz would tell you that this is "real, sane, mature love" based on "affection and respect", and not just sole infatuation. But to link this kind of love with marriage is another thing. Marriage is when you bind your mutual love to your respective families as well. In her final chapter, Marriage and Ceremony, Liz concludes that marriage is "both a public and a private concern, with real-world consequences. While the intimate terms of our relationship would always belong solely to Felipe and me, it was important to remember that a small share of our marriage would always belong to our families as well." If you asked me-- a girl who values her freedom and who likes to think of herself as an "eccentric nonconformist", marriage is a wholesome, grotesquely unnerving affair while a wedding, let's just say, is ten times more nervewrecking.

Barcelona. Almost one year ago.

Letter 597: With Good Effect

2011-08-26T23:44:00.000+10:00

For months on end, I was (and probably still am) searching for that missing piece in the puzzle. To be quite perfectly honest, I have no idea what I am looking for. In the beginning, I thought perhaps whatever IT is, was buried in pages 27-41 of Lonely Planet: Fiji. But when IT didn't exist on the map of Vanua Levu, I thought perhaps I was searching on the wrong island, so I ploughed through the Loyalty Islands of New Caledonia and even dived into the coral reefs off Vanuatu-- reportedly "the happiest place on earth"-- only to resurface not with more conviction, but more confusion. I have no reason not to be happy, or contented, these days. I have a career, a man, and a furry four-legged friend. It is not easy to disregard the love and affection pouncing on me after returning home from a hard day's work. There is no reason why I should be seeking for IT, unless IT is the pathological basis on which many a ruminative post have been conceived. There haven't been (m)any in the last six months, and I secretly fear I'm losing the ability to reconnect with myself once more.

Andalusian Adventures #3: Inside the Mezquita

2011-08-14T23:26:00.000+10:00

I am acutely aware that no amount of photography from my humble Canon will do justice to the sweeping, splendid marbled hallways of the Great Mosque of Cordoba, in which I once roamed in silent awe. Treading amidst its giant arches and the forest of columns made of jasper, onyx, granite and marble, on which a cloud of humble reverence is strung upon, I could not imagine a place more spiritually splendorous than the Mezquita.

Construction of the Mezquita has its roots as a Christian Visigoth church in the 7th century. When the Moors invaded Cordoba in the 8th century, they refurbished it as a mosque, and this reconstruction took over 200 years to complete. Some say it is Moorish architecture at its best, as they concluded that the Mezquita is even more splendiferous than the Alhambra. In the 13th century, the Great Mosque was reconverted into a cathedral under the rule of King Ferdinand III, when Cordoba fell under the Christian Reconquista. The Mezquita, therefore, holds significant historical, religious and architectural elements of two of the world's greatest religions under its soaring naves.

It takes about an hour to soak in the majestic structure that stands before you. Alain de Botton once wrote in The Architecture of Happiness, "It is in dialogue with pain that many beautiful things acquire their value. Acquaintance with grief turns out to be one of the more unusual prerequisites of architectural appreciation. We might, quite aside from all other requirements, need to be a little sad before buildings can properly touch us." I wasn't sad, or low, when I walked into the Mezquita. In fact, I was feeling quite elated at the prospect of entering one of the greatest constructions ever conceived-- and completed-- by man. But I was immensely humbled, and touched, by the magnificent beauty of the Great Mosque, and I actually walked out a little sad, thinking that the world will never again see such beautiful melding from the two great religions ever known.

Marvel at the Mezquita de Cordoba @ Calles Torrijos and Cardenal Herrero s/n, Cordoba, Andalusia, Spain.

**More pictures of my Cordoba adventures here.

Andalusian Adventures #2: Child of Cordoba

2011-08-10T21:16:00.000+10:00

A little boy found me that day, at the gaping crevices of the cracked pebblestone laneways that led to the local synagogue. He was alone, half hidden behind the wrought iron gates that opened into a courtyard with scented orange blossoms, and half camouflaged by the whitewashed walls that cast elongated shadows over his scrawny figure. He tugged shyly at the hem of my cotton blouse and peered at me through wide almond eyes and long lashes that would make most oriental girls go green with envy. Except how could I, for he was but a boy of no more than five. He wore a camel-coloured tunic and a black skullcap, and grinned at me, revealing two little dimples on his cheeks and a row of crooked milk teeth. He didn't look like a child beggar, and he certainly didn't look lost, for I suspect that one of the dwellings overhead could be his little sanctuary. I wondered if he had a little sister, for he looked the part of an older brother as he ushered me to follow him. Not a single word passed between us and the septae of towering facades that divided the city of Cordoba-- the second largest Old Town in Europe-- into little vicinities, each carrying their own quirky charismatic charm.

I was marveling at the structural integrity of the ancient town, and at the same time, trying to catch up with my little friend. He took a few steps forward, and then threw a glance back at me to ensure I was following suit. We strolled past the San Sebastian Hospital, whose faded orange walls were painted with the Spanish emblem. We crossed the Roman Bridge-- a grand architectural glory in itself-- and encountered dark-skinned local men enjoying an afternoon chatter at the steps of the great walls. Not one of them smoked, to my surprise, considering how rampant the smoking habit was in Spain. Perhaps they were pious Muslims, after all. My little friend went up to the man in the center and threw his arms around him. Papa! He cried out in delight. My little friend was home. But my adventure was just beginning.

Andalusian Adventures #1: Encounters at a Service Station

2011-08-06T00:35:00.004+10:00

I was that girl, the girl who boarded the bus to Cordoba with nothing more than a fertile imagination and a hungry curiosity. As the bus pulled into the warm embrace of the La Mancha countryside-- a vast windswept region of flat lands made famous by Don Quixote-- there was an insuperable ebullition of excitement in the anticipation that an adventure as big as Miguel de Cervantes' legendary figure was coming to life.

Like all forays into the unknown, my introduction to the cuisine of Al Andalus began at a service station somewhere along the Autovia de los Vinedos. Like all service stations that I would eventually take pitstops at, this one was characterised by an extensive buffet bar that had almost every single regional dish under the heating lamps. But, like most passersby whom I would eventually encounter, I did what everybody else does-- part with €8.50 for a menu del dia (menu of the day) comprising an entree, a main, a dessert and a drink (which does include a bottle of cerveza-- aha!):

Gazpacho-- an Andalusian signature tomato-based soup served cold. Cold soup is not to my liking, unfortunately.

A bastardised version of chicken stew-- I mean, fries?? That is so Americano. Thank god for beer.

Smoked cod with steamed veggies. Bacalao. Cod. The word rolls off my tongue effortlessly.

Paella was good, but not the best. This wasn't Valencia, after all. And neither was this Italia, so I had no idea why lasagna was on the menu. But the focus here is the arroz con leche (literally, rice with milk), or rice pudding-- with a dusting of cinnamon. I could get used to the little spoonfuls of rice delight.

As I would later discover, a simple dessert of an egg custard topped with a milk biscuit and sprinkles of cinnamon is the cornerstone of Andalusian desserts. The best I had was at a hotel in Seville. Alas, too immersed in my own indulgence, I forgot to obtain photographic evidence of such pleasure in Seville.

I was finishing my custard when the jovial old Portugese lady from the bus proudly declared that the dessert I was enjoying also had similar Portugese versions. Ovo, she told me. Means "egg". In Portugese. Very nice. I couldn't have agreed more. I smiled at the nice old lady and thanked her for the little lesson. A plan to Lisbon was hatched, so to speak.

Letter 596: The Undoing

2011-08-04T00:05:00.002+10:00

August inches its way so stealthily into my mundane existence that I don't even notice the proximity of my birthday until it occurred to me that my cousin's birthday was yesterday-- which meant that mine was just round the corner. It's strangely frightening how half the year has slipped by and all I did was laugh at each passing moment, blissfully unaware that exams are looming till someone casually mentioned, "So, are you going to sit for the exams in February?" February is scary. February '11 was when I was officially in training, and they expect me to sit and pass the exams in February '12?! Excuse me while I close off the browsers of the travel websites I've been researching and shut myself from the world to ~~brood~~ study. At least I have my dog to keep me company. Pffft.

Cute-but-utterly-useless fact: My pup doesn't respond to the command "come". Whenever I ask him to "come", and he just sits there and cocks his head and looks at me strangely. Once, I changed my tactic and yelled out "Help! Help! Help me, Niño!", and he scrambled over like a paramedic to the scene. I think he's got potential for retrieval medicine-- or maybe he thinks I'm just plain weird.

Letter 595: Domestic Bliss

2011-07-27T23:49:00.000+10:00

There is a certain slice of lucid stillness in the air that hasn't made its presence in this room in a long time. Just like a certain feeling of disjointed abnegation that hasn't been pouncing on my consciousness since choosing this particular career path. It is strange, indeed, how one can fall into a pool of pure contentment when you actually listen to your heart. Many people think there is no work-life balance to our job, and, to a very large extent, it is tragically true. But, to my luck, I have managed to equilibrize the two in a little place that has so much to offer that I absolutely cannot see myself leaving. The addition of little Niño completes that picture of tranquil perfection that I never imagined possible. A typical day is coming home to a hyperactive puppy and a boyfriend who's already putting the pasta to boil. Play with Niño for half an hour (and this is also my exercise regime, by the way-- try chasing a Jack Russell around your living room and you'll know why), shower, have dinner, watch Masterchef (yes, it's amazing how I suddenly find time for TV-- unless I'm on-call, of course), attempt to study, abandon study and go online instead (I hate B for introducing me to online shopping!), sleep, repeat next day. Weekends incorporate banal chores like grocery shopping, laundry, and housework during the day, but come night time, we usually watch a movie or two with Niño curled up on our laps, a tub of ice-cream on the coffee table, and a few glasses of wine. Pretty mediocre, really, and, for someone who writes in her spare time, pretty uninspiring (hence the lack of updates). But if you were to ask me if I'm happy, or contented with this life that I've chosen, I would nod and tell you that I wouldn't have chosen otherwise.

Tales from Toledo #3: Highway

2011-07-18T23:05:00.000+10:00

I walk the narrow streets of Toledo, following the crowd of tourists equally in awe of the ancient medieval town that once claimed fame to being the capital of the Visigothic Kingdom and the Spanish Empire. The cobblestone streets are drawn together so intricately that the whole capital seems a bit of a labyrinth to navigate. It is not hard to imagine that galliant knights once patrolled this capital in their full armour, for it feels like I have stepped back into the Middle Ages as I roam the ancient streets. A Chinese restaurant, a vintage Citroën with a sheen of green, a fiery red Vespa, and a person with a yellow helmut asking for directions under a Coca-Cola sign serve as reminders to the fact that I am in the 21st century. I'm not sure if this is a good thing, for I quite miss the 20th century, to be honest.

~The End~

Tales from Toledo #2: The Son of a Swordsmaker

2011-07-17T22:06:00.000+10:00

Everybody knows that we make the best swords in Toledo, he begins, without any hint of arrogance. The tradition goes back to almost 2000 years ago, before you and I were born. This, he sweeps his arm across the room, showcasing a grand display of swords, sabers and knives, is my life's work. I grew up with steel, make my living with steel, and maybe when I die, I will be encased in steel too, he jokes morbidly. Toledo steel, he reminds me, adjusting his glasses above his aquiline nose. But of course. What about your sons, my dear swordsmaker. Ah, my only son, he nods. He is in Madrid. His future does not lie with steel. He smiles wistfully and points to a sign above the set of sliding doors. He belongs to a club, the only club in el mundo worth supporting. Maybe you know him? I glance at the sign. Hmm, maybe I do know him after all.

Tales from Toledo #1: Matrix

2011-07-16T22:18:00.000+10:00

There is usually a momentary sense of displacement when you wake up in soft, foreign downs, next to a man with whom you have no business waking up to but whose slow, sonorous breathing punctuates the cool air of the morning as he stirs. You blink a few times-- but the strangeness of the hotel room remains. You pinch yourself-- it hurts. You slap his arm playfully-- he grumbles, and flips the pillow over his head.

Wake up, Dorothy. We're not in Madrid anymore.

**More snapshots of Toledo can be found here.

Letter 594: Kuala Lumpur Love

2011-07-09T22:18:00.001+10:00

This is not a city associated with love. Nor with opportunities. In fact, this city breeds political unrest and injustice beneath its facade of smiles. But it was in the humble bosom of this quivering hub that she found love. Or, rather, love found her.

This love reached out to her from the heart of the bustling phenomenon that is made up of yuppies clad in Padini shirts, negotiating business matters on their bluetooth headsets in kopitiams along Jalan Yap Kwan Seng, and migraine-inducing honks from irate drivers caught in the rush-hour traffic along Lebuhraya Mahameru. It snaked through intersecting highways that traverse the metropolis, like a gush of blood being pumped out of the heart into the labyrinthine network of vessels, and found its way to her.

It found her so subtly and so unsuspectingly-- a face among the vast compendium of literature in MPH, smiling and nodding to herself from time to time as she came across a poetic quote from the Khalil Gibran at her fingertips; at tables sipping on blended flavoured coffees in her school uniform, either scribbling furiously away on an essay, or flipping nonchalantly through the latest fashion and lifestyle magazines from the rack; in the crowd of the thousands traipsing from Sungei Wang to Starhill, peals of giggles trailing behind her and her girlfriends as they donned various dresses and slipped their dainty feet into funky shoes that could only be carried off by licensed holders of youth-- that, before she even managed to catch a whiff of it, she was intoxicated.

This love showed her there was more to the city than she'd imagined. Its viscera was something she had never uncovered until she allowed herself to be consumed by the fervent warmth of it-- a love that gyrates along the alleyways of Petaling Street, prattling through orders for claypot loh shi fun and wan tan mee in rodent-infested shacks, before coalescing into thin wisps of incense smoke that spirals up the sky from the Chinese tokong hidden from the main street; a love that alights from the LRT and trudges its way through the muddy slums of Dato' Keramat, before resurfacing at the dizzying heights of the Bukit Damansara hilltops concealed by pristine, highrise apartments; a love that pulsates in the drumbeats of roadside buskers in Bukit Bintang, and shimmies around shabby marketstalls selling Nyonya kuih and serving Hainanese coffee for breakfast in Imbi.

This is not a city associated with love. Nor with opportunities. This is not a city in which she was born, but in which she unwillingly allowed herself to be a statistic among its denizens. Yet she has come to embrace this city for all its misgivings, because this is the city where she was whisked away by love. This is Kuala Lumpur.

Footnote: I wrote this in the summer of '09, with the audacity of hope that one day, I will continue to love this city-- and, by extension, its country-- as unconditionally as I had once, when I was younger and brimming with optimism. Now, as I read about and watch the news on history repeating itself (#Bersih2.0), I try very hard to ignite that spark of fury, indignation, and pride for my fellow countrymen that were once buried in my psyche, only to discover that I cannot uncover that relation anymore.

Letter 593: The Story of El Niño

2011-07-02T01:04:00.000+10:00

Today, El Niño would've been with us exactly a week, grown an inch longer, developed a penchant for shoes (just like his proud owner!), sprouted the magical ability to melt everyone's heart, had his first immunisation at the vet's, and made us lose 5 pounds just by playing around in circles with him. Frankly, 17 hours of non-stop work during call days is nothing-- nothing-- compared to a mere 7 minutes of chasing Niño around the house, trying to toilet train and discipline The Kid.

It was a total coincidence how Niño (that's what we call him) came into our lives. On the evening I was supposed to drive to Adelaide for a workshop, I had ducked into the local supermarket to get some supplies, and spotted a "For Sale" notice at the community bulletin board that would forever change my life. There were 4 Jack Russell puppies for sale at an incredibly unbelievable price (my old flame in Malaysia cost my cousin almost 3 times the amount of what I would eventually pay for Niño-- then again, Brandy wasn't mine, and was never meant to be). In a spur of spontaneity, I took a picture and added it to my "Shopping List" app. This was serious. All I needed was clearance from my landlord that pets were allowed, and it would be fine.

I sent an email to my agent around midnight, shortly after arriving in Adelaide. The next morning, in yet another workshop so uninspiring that I can't even recall what I'd learnt, I started to BBM my cousin about Jack Russells. In the afternoon, my BlackBerry blinked with a reply from my agent-- it's a YES! Needless to say, I was so excited I started to count down the minutes till the next tea break so that I could make a phone call to the owner.

Turned out the owner was no one other than my receptionist! What luck! I raced back from Adelaide on the Saturday after my 2-day workshop and picked little Niño up from her place. I would've loved to bring all 4 puppies home, but alas, I don't think I could've coped with 4 little Jack Russells! (Oh, did I tell you I also fed cows for the first time at my receptionist's farm? Big, wet, sloppy tongues coming out to grab an apple from your hand is a little daunting, but fun! Can't wait to milk some cows and deliver some calfs or lambs next!)

Anyway, Niño's the eldest among the litter of 4. He has a coat of white with a little brown and black ring at the tail. You know, I always assumed I'd get 2 maltipoos, so that I could name them "Fer" and "Nando". No points for guessing where that inspiration came from! When I brought Niño home, naming him "Fer" didn't sound right, because he hasn't got a long coat of fur as maltipoos do. Calling him "Nando" didn't sound right either, because he doesn't look like a Nando. But I wanted a Spanish name (ideally after my favourite footballers), and since he had a coat of white, it would be most fitting to name him after a Real Madrid player (because they wore white jerseys). He looked a bit like a Sergio, but calling him "Sergio" just sounded weird. He didn't look like an Iker, and Mesut wasn't a Spanish name. Xabi Alonso was The Boyfriend's favourite, but my puppy didn't look like a Xabi either. I turned to Barcelona players, but I couldn't possibly name him "Xavi" or "David Villa" or "Iniesta". The closest, most suitable name would be "Pedro", but Barcelona's No. 17 wasn't exactly my favourite player, so I denied my puppy that name.

I kneeled and had a closer look at my puppy on his first day home. He was trembling in The Boyfriend's arms. As The Boyfriend gradually lowered him to the ground, he started to sniff around and get to know his new surroundings. He paused and looked at me, holding his gaze, still trying to figure out who these people were, separating him from his family. About a minute later, something miraculous occured-- he started trotting towards me on his stout little legs, like a little kid running to his mother, and I knew, then, that I would name him El Niño-- "The Kid" (or, the nickname given to Fernando Torres-- am I a genius or what!).

So we call him Niño, but really, we all know that my puppy's full name is Sergio Ramos Hernandez anyway.

Letter 592: Meet El Niño

2011-06-26T23:09:00.000+10:00

You know that happy, exciting, life-changing thing I mentioned fleetingly in my last post? Well, it's arrived in my life-- all furry and four-legged :) Everybody, say "hola!" to El Niño:

It's quite funny how he came into our lives, and I will tell you that story in another day-- together with how a Jack Russell, born in an Australian farm, ended up having a Spanish name (though I suspect you already know that)-- because at the moment, he is curled up in my lap, dreaming happy doggy dreams on his second night home.

Letter 591: Contact

2011-06-25T01:40:00.000+10:00

Allow me to break away from the slightly monotonous travel series to write about things that are happening in my life at the moment, and not in the past. I still intend to continue writing about my travels to the Andalusia region and up to Catalunya, but I would think that you might also perhaps like a bit of variety in between Madrid, Toledo, Sevilla, Granada, Valencia, and Barcelona. So here I am, in a little motel room 500 kilometers away from home and 2 hours past my usual bedtime, telling you about how I am very, very, excited about something that is going to change my life soon. But more about that another time. I am keeping my fingers crossed at the moment that everything will pan out alright.

The other day, the ambulance pulled up at my neighbour's doorstep on a dark and stormy night. I couldn't even step out of the house to help because the winds were so strong I would've been blown away. Apart from the blinding headlights from the ambulance, there were no street lamps, and the torrential downpour made it even harder to make out what was going on. It wasn't long before the ambulance drove away, and I had a feeling I would be seeing my neighbour in the hospital-- in a doctor-patient context rather than as a social call.

As doctors, it isn't advisable to treat family members or anyone near and dear. Even then, when I saw dear old Maggie (not her real name, of course) in our little High Dependency Unit, there was a surge of protectiveness towards her. I made sure the nurses knew she was my neighbour ("She's my neighbour!" I proclaimed gallantly) and I wanted to ensure that I hadn't missed any serious conditions before discharging a delightfully pleasant 75 year old back to her little unit diagonally across mine. This isn't to say that I don't give the other patients similar care and attention, but it's just that extra mile that most doctors do for people we know, because they matter.

Have you said hello to your neighbours?

Girl in Madrid #13: A Sense of Place

2011-06-23T22:24:00.000+10:00

It has been almost 9 months since I left Madrid, but I still recognise its every turn, every corner, and every cobblestone in those cryptic Facebook pictures captioned "Guess where am I?" posted up by friends. My heart skips a beat when I see happy pictures of Madrid-- and Spain-- dominating my news feed. I cannot help but click the "Like" button, and if The Zuck permits, I would've clicked on the same button a hundred thousand times.

People-watching on a terazza never feels complete without a dainty cup of cafe con leche. At €1.50 a cup, it's a steal.

In certain sections, street signs are tiled on building facades, and they depict the tradesmen associated with that area.

Madrid's majestic architecture stands tall after so many centuries.

Rooftop sculptures which dot the Madrid skyline never fails to take my breath away.

It is strangely unnerving how certain events may sideswipe your life and change everything; how certain people you meet along the way may leave indelible prints on your heart. These experiences may be astonishingly heartwarming, or they may be disastrously crippling, and yet, amazingly, we all possess the enormous capacity to cherish the salubrious and reconcile with the invidious. I think it's called "moving on".

Museo del Prado-- Madrid's equivalent to the Lourve.

The museum is ranked 1st nationally, with its vast collection of 12th-19th century art.

A bronze statue of Diego Velasquez sits at the western facade of the Prado.

**As a conclusion to my Madrid adventures, I shall leave you with more pictures of Madrid here.

Girl in Madrid #12: People

2011-06-21T21:53:00.000+10:00

I once met this incessantly chatty and comical fella on Calle Coloreros, outside the Taberna La Carboneria. He introduced me to a display of tapas to nibble over the course of the evening, seated on hand-painted wooden chairs with matching tables outside the taberna. He offered a cigarette-- because almost everybody smokes in Europe-- but I politely declined, telling him I was more interested in perusing his menu, and that if I were to die prematurely, it would be better off me dying from an overdose of his wonderfully seasoned patatas bravas than to be dying from lung cancer. He guffawed at my statement before turning to the next table and offering the cigarette to a middle-aged man with a fedora, who graciously accepted the offer and proceeded to light it up with a matchstick. This is how we do it in Spain, he seemed to say. I lifted my glass of sangria and gave my fellow diner a toast-- to rotten lungs and cirrhosed livers. Salud!

Best jug of sangria ever, with plenty of chopped fruits.

Sangria is best served in a jug with a wooden spoon.

Cogollos de tudelas con anchoas (lettuce hearts with anchovies), chorizos, and a basket of warm pan.

Patatas bravas con ali-oli with a bowl of atun (olives).

Tuna with roasted peppers and olive oil.

Mussels with chips. Interesting combination of textures.

A corner of quiescence at the busy taverna.

Tapas and people-watching outside the taverna.

Funniest waiter ever!

Best ever sangria and patatas bravas (this is coming from someone who was impartial to potatoes until now) @ Taberna La Carboneria, Calle Coloreros 5, 28013 Madrid. [Hint: It's only about 100 meters from Chocolateria San Gines]

Girl in Madrid #11: Cheap Eats in Madrid

2011-06-20T21:26:00.002+10:00

The biggest myth about Europe is that everything is expensive. Without doubt, the first hurdle is the airfares. Once you get past the "Omg-what-the-hell-two-grand-for-an-effing-ticket-go-die-lah!" stage, you can then breathe and start scouting around for cheap (and sometimes free) things to do or eat in Europe. Of course, I cannot say that this applies to all European countries, but I can tell you that in Spain (or in Madrid, at least), eating out doesn't have to be expensive:

1. Pans and Co

A wholesome breakfast comprising mini rolls, chocolate danish and cone pizza, complete with paper-cup coffee, commanded a staggering bill of less than €5 for the 3 of us. Yes, that's everything you see above for LESS THAN FIVE EUROS. Food and coffee far surpassed my expectations for those in a fast food chain. McBrekkie? Give me this anytime.

Did I mention that our choice of filling for the cone pizza was mushroom and jamon? Mmm... :)

2. Chocolateria Valor

Space is a well-known issue at Chocolateria San Gines, and if wrestling the crowd isn't a picture of your perfect cafe moment, Chocolateria Valor provides ample breathing space. The churros at Valor aren't as crispy as those at San Gines, and I find them a tad too oily for my liking, but their chocolate is just as good. About €3 for a serve of 4 churros with a cup of chocolate. We made the mistake of ordering 3 serves instead of ordering for 3 persons (1-2 serves should suffice), so there were 12 artery-clogging churros on the plate. Oops.

3. Casa Rua

Lunch in Madrid does not have to be customarily long and elaborate. Casa Rua, just across the street from Mercado de San Miguel, is famous for its bocadillos (sandwiches). Its specialty is the bocadillo de calamares (squid sandwich). As simple as its name suggests, it is simply fried squid rings stuffed into an oval-shaped baguette. Served without sauces, condiments, or dressings, it is amazingly hearty. Best washed down with a cold cerveza (beer). €2.35 for a serve goes a long way.

4. Mercado de San Miguel

Once you've chowed down on that bocadillo de calamares, head across to the Mercado de San Miguel for fresh produce. Maintaining a healthy bowel function is essential to every traveller. €3-4 per kilogram of fresh, luscious, seasonal fruit is the average price. There are freshly-squeezed juices made to order too. While at the market, visit the few bodegas that dot the market in sparse fashion for a little vino tasting. Tapas here may be a little more pricey, but you can pick on pickled olives, salted cod, white bait drenched in olive oil, and grilled shrimp if you are feeling guilty about all that free wine tasting.

5. Museo del Jamon

Aside from the Prado and the Reina Sofia, this has got to be Madrid's other famous "museum". It's part-restaurant, part-bar, part-butchery, and it's always packed to the rafters. For a start, there's the €1 specials menu stuck to the door-- bocadillo del jamon, pan tomaca musco, cerveza, croissant mixto, Coca-Cola... Who isn't interested? A simple meal of a sandwich and a coffee would cost you a whopping €2. Expensive, hey?

6. Giangrossi

Arguably Madrid's hippest ice-cream parlour/bar/cafe/lounge, Giangrossi also probably serves the most expensive scoops of leche merengada (milk meringue), natillas con coco tostado (custard with toasted coconut), and avellanas del piamonte (Piedmont hazelnuts), amongst other designer flavours. Yes, I know this is a post about cheap eats in Madrid, but I'll make an exception for ice-cream :) Here, at the outlet in La Latina-- the hip, downtown area southwest of Sol-- you may want to order its sundaes while perched on the bar tops in front of a huge projector screen which showcases live futbol matches. I caught Real Madrid in action while digging into my sundae. Definitely cheaper than watching it at the stadium! It was also in this funky joint that I discovered "Cola Cao"-- not the fizzy soft drink that we know but rather, a rich, chocolate drink that will come to define our Spanish excursion as much as vino and cerveza.

The writer ~~is a lazy bastard~~ wholeheartedly believes that if you've managed to stumble onto this page, you could also Google the aforementioned places to find out their location in Madrid.

Girl in Madrid #10: How I Met Sergio Ramos

2011-06-18T21:37:00.000+10:00

On the train ride to Santiago Barnabeu, I was squished between a tattooed guitarist bobbing his head to his iPod and a flamboyantly-dressed brunette in spiked heels flipping through the pages of a Spanish Cosmo, feeling utterly baffled and thinking, What the hell am I doing on this train ride? It is blasphemous for a Liverpool fan to visit Old Trafford (unless it was for a game in which The Reds were playing at Greater Manchester), so why should it be any different for a Barcelona fan who visits El Barnabeu, home of the White Knights?

The confounding reason lies in the fact that I love the Spanish national team too much to care if they were Real Madrid or Barcelona players. Between Los Blancos and Los Cules, I'd have to say, I love my cabbages. But I was now in Madrid, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to visit the stadium where Sergio Ramos, Iker Casillas, and Mesut Ozil (so I like Turks/Germans too wtf) played. The excitement was nibbling into my conscience, and I thought, fuck that, as long as it's Spanish football, and as long as Barcelona was still the best team in the world, who cares? I would've even gone to Vicente Calderon if time permitted-- for that was where my lad from sunny Spain was nurtured. Alas, I only caught a glimpse of it in passing, and nothing more.

Raul tells you it's only €16 to tour Barnabeu.

A quick snapshot without the milling visitors.

Anterolaterally from Sergio Ramos Garcia lies David Robert Joseph Beckam.

Kid at awe with all the player awards.

Two cute kids in front of Real Madrid players-- past and present.

Two other cute kids in front of Real Madrid players-- present.

This kid was taking pictures of every single pair of shoes. He must be a Real fan (geddit? Hahaha no? Pfft.)

As for me, I only took a few pictures that matter. For Ronaldo fans out there, that's his pair of purple shoes above Kaka's.

Of course, how could one not pay tribute to these gloves?

The Liverpool fan misses Xabi Alonso. I was more interested in Mesut Ozil next to Alonso.

Everybody say "hola!" to Carlos before he scrambles underneath the seat again!

Closer view of the pitch.

Signing of new transfer from Liverpool wtf.

Getting a kick out of virtual reality.

I just had to get a Ramos jersey!

Say hi to my half-brother! Cheekiness runs in the family, I tell you.

Take half a day to tour Estadio Santiago Barnabeu. Even better, watch a live match, which we would've done had Real Madrid not been away the weekend I was in town. [Metro: Santiago Barnabeu]

**View the entire album of my Barnabeu experience here.

Girl in Madrid #9: The Making of a Genius

2011-06-17T22:18:00.000+10:00

The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?

All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once they grow up.

The purpose of art is to wash the dust of daily life off our souls.

Everything you can imagine is real.

I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them.

Look for a situation in which your work will give you as much happiness as your spare time.

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?

My mother said to me, "If you are a soldier, you will become a general. If you are a monk, you will become the Pope." Instead, I was a painter, and I became Picasso.

Works of Pablo Picasso (my all-time favourite artist, bless his soul!)-- most notably his Guernica-- can be found at the Reina Sofia, Calle Santa Isabel 52. [Metro: Atocha] It also houses works by Salvador Dali and Joan Miro, amongst others.

Girl in Madrid #8: Churros and Chocolate

2011-06-14T22:26:00.001+10:00

As the glowing globe of amber dips low and begins to sink beyond the horizon, a wave of anxiety starts to rise. I am walking down Calle de Arenal with a tattered map of Madrid, trying to locate the alley that leads to an institution that has been proudly dishing up the best churros con chocolata in the whole of Spain since 1894. Going to Madrid without stepping into Chocolateria San Gines is like going to Paris without patronising Laduree. Not that San Gines make any macarons, mind you. Their specialty is ribbons of dough fried to perfection, served with mugs of thick, dark chocolate to be dunked into. I had vowed never to leave the city until I'd sacrificed a few years off my lifespan in exchange for this sinfully delicious snack at Chocolateria San Gines.

Armed with a few bags of shopping and an avaricious determination to hunt down San Gines, I trot along the cobblestone lane, ignoring the colourful street performers and the old lady begging by the Church of San Gines. It takes me a while to notice the dark narrow alley round the corner from the church, for its existence is craftily concealed behind a few steel beams of constructional work. Nevertheless, the euphoria at stumbling upon Pasadizo de San Gines is indescribable. 50 meters away looms the revered institution-- neon signboard, densely-packed tables, and a queue waiting to get in. This is only 7.30pm. Then again, I keep forgetting that it's not dinner time for the Spanish yet. At 7.30 in the evening, the Spaniards are probably meeting up for afternoon tea, and most-- if not all-- have decided to come to Chocolateria San Gines.

As you step into the inviting smells of chocolate and coffee, the soft, luminous yellow lights and smooth, polished marble floors evoke a feeling of familiarity. It is one of those places you keep coming back, whether it's after a night out at the clubs (this place opens 22 hours-- it closes from 7am-9am), meeting up with the girls, or after an ugly break-up where the only consolation is fried food and dark chocolate. There is a small selection of cakes on the counter, but most people here come for only one thing-- the churros con chocolata.

The first time I had churros, I was 15. I'd bought it from a vendor in Disneyland, Anaheim. It was made with a chocolate dough and coated with powdered sugar and cinnamon. It wasn't served with chocolate to dip into, but I suppose that wasn't really practical considering I was more than happy to chomp away on my doughstick while waiting in line to ride on the Splash Mountain. Almost 10 years later, I had another taste of churros at San Churro in Melbourne, which, frankly, was a little too soggy. So when I headed for Madrid, I knew I had to seize the opportunity to taste churros in their original form, and I'm glad I did. My only regret? Not knowing enough Spanish to order those thicker, chunkier churros (which-- as I came to find out much, much later-- are called porras) being served 2 tables away. Le sigh.

Best ever churros con chocolata @ Chocolateria San Gines, Pasadizo de San Gines 5, 28013 Madrid.

Girl in Madrid #7: Of Longing and Belonging

2011-06-13T21:59:00.000+10:00

Upon discovering that I'm not native to Australia, I frequently get asked about my nationality. If I could apply Gustave Flaubert's ascription that nationality should not be bound according to one's birth country nor where one's family belonged, but to the places to which one is attracted, then I am just as much Spanish as I am Australian.

Digging into free plates of paella at the El Torre del Oro, Plaza Mayor's famous bullfighting bar, where the best zumo de naranja naturale (freshly-squeezed orange juice) is found alongside bullfighting paraphernalia.

It is difficult to say when, exactly, did I start having such passionate feelings for a country whose GDP growth rate achieved a record low of 1.7% in 2009 and whose unemployment rates continue to rise. Prior to my departure for Spain, I knew nothing of the country that would produce the world's finest football team in the last couple of years-- nothing except that it was famous for its tapas, sangria, bullfights, and flamenco dancers. Certainly, I had not anticipated that it would be the first European country that I would set foot on when, after much deliberation, I decided that I needed a holiday in Europe for absolutely no reason at all except to escape the insufflation of overbearing assaults from the wards.

The Plaza de la Villa (Town Square).

El Jardin del Convento (The Garden of the Convent) sells sweets made by cloistered nuns and priests in monasteries.

At the entrance to the actual convent, a sign reads "There aren't any sweets till Monday". Traditionally this is where you'd ring the bell and buy those sweet confections directly from the nuns.

Times have changed-- the sweets are now being sold at this little confectionary on Calle del Cordon 1, near the Plaza de la Villa.

Among the many facades of the Plaza Mayor.

Walking with the bankers on Calle del Alcala, where the Banco de Espana is located.

Wrought iron balconies that define the Madrid cityscape.

Standing at the intersection of Carrera de San Jeronimo and Calle de Sevilla, trying to convince myself that I really am in Spain.

Girl in Madrid #6: Caving in to Hunger Pangs

2011-06-12T22:20:00.000+10:00

It is lunchtime in Madrid. For as long as I can remember, I never had time for lunch in the wards. Now, I have more than 2 hours to savour the selection of tapas presented before me, and I am suddenly at lost, not knowing if I should order 3 serves or more. Or less. But one thing's for sure, and that is sangria. No lunch or dinner in Spain is complete without that pitcher of Spanish-styled fruit punch.

"Sangria, por favor," I signal the waiter. "Jarra?" Gestures the waiter, forming a jug in mid-air with his hands. "Si," I nod, before returning to the menu. Like very expert liddat.

We are in the Meson Rincon de la Cava, near Plaza Mayor, for lunch. This isn't the oldest restaurant in the world, and Hemingway didn't dine here (or if he did, no one knew about it), but I did, and I can tell you that this restaurant and its hallmark dungeon-like interior with little alcoves serves a most appetising lunch in the heart of Spain:

Chorizos with a hint of spiciness

A marriage of blood sausage and glutinous rice, lightly battered. No idea what they're called except "gobsmackingly delicious".

Champigneons with olive oil and green chili.

Pan. Warm, crisp pan.

Tortilla Espana-- more like a potato omelette than a flatbread.

The beauty about tapas, is that you can pick and peck at random at what's in front of you. It's informal, it's friendly, it's down-to-earth. You can have your appetiser and main meal all at the same time, and you don't have to finish one before the other. Tapas in Spain come in huge servings, so only order a racion (double the size of an ordinary tapa) if you're extremely ravenous. On a side note, the Spanish are generous with their bread, so be prepared to expect rounds of warm pan in a basket, fresh from the oven, when you dine at a restaurant or a tavern in Spain.

Lazy lunch @ Meson Rincon de la Cava, Calle Cava de San Miguel 17, 28005 Madrid.

Girl in Madrid #5: Peace, Love and Beer

2011-06-10T22:39:00.000+10:00

Madrid fills me like a song. The one that the man, planted outside the Royal Palace, plays on his makeshift saxaphone made of crystal wine glasses that tinkles and chimes whenever his fingers glide nimbly across their rims. They sound like raindrops falling onto marble steps. A passerby flicks a coin into his leather case. It makes a crisp little clanging as it lands among the little pile of Euro coins that the musician has amassed. Gracias, smiles the musician in silence, not wanting to interrupt the flow of his melodious rhapsody.

Time-- it trickles through the morning crowd like a song. It flows through the centuries like an unending piece of symphony. How many classical pieces had the Palacio Real de Madrid stood witness to? We are stepping into Time. Back when Napolean, as he was appointing his brother to be the King of Spain, remarked, "You will be better lodged here than I am myself [at Versailles]."

Peace, Love and Beer outside the Royal Palace.

Ample parking space, as you can see. For horse-drawn carriages, that is.

The cathedral outside the Royal Palace.

One of the courtyards that is only but a fraction of its 135,000 m² of space.

Obligatory tourist shot.

We walk through the heavily ornated hallways of the Palacio Real de Madrid in silent awe. Surly security officers tap a banal tune on the marble floors as they patrol the grand dame, ushering those daring enough to defy the "No Photography" rule out with a stern glare. Like most people, we hurriedly click through the shutters, then duly fold our gear into the designated lockers, before alighting the sweeping stairs that take you to the 3,418 rooms for public viewing.

Inside one of the finest and largest palaces in Europe, royal ghosts dance to the music of Time. Here, the Past and the Present are superimposed on the magnificent frescoes of Gian Battista Tiepolo in the Throne Room, on the rich tapestries adorning the apartment of Charles IV and Queen Maria Luisa, on the luxurious velvet curtains that drape across its 240 balconies overlooking the vast courtyard, on the crystal chandeliers that tinkle ever so softly when a gust of breeze finds it way into the Banquet Hall, and on the paintings of Spanish luminaries like Goya and Velazquez that bring saints and angels sweeping across its ceilings and walls.

Pity photography isn't allowed. Even without a flash.

Stepping back into time @ Palacio Real de Madrid, Calle Bailen. [Metro: Opera]

Girl in Madrid #4: Romancing the Night

2011-06-09T22:29:00.001+10:00

Night falls over Puerta del Sol. Rather than blanketing the city with a dull lull, the night brings with it a burst of vibrancy. It is almost as if Madrid is stirring to the constant hum of impetuosity that arises from the fountain opposite the Real Casa de Correos, which now functions as the headquarters of the President of Madrid's Autonomous Community.

It is 9.30 at night. Right now, the cobblestone streets of Madrid are bursting with activity: Crowds are stealthily pouring in and out of El Corte Ingles, bags of shopping in tow. Young punks whose ambitious blonde rebellion are streaked green zip past the throngs of people in glee, racing each other down Calle del Carmen hooting on their skateboards. The older couples, decked formally in trouser pants, buttoned-downed coats and over-the-knee pencil skirts, shake their heads ruefully at the decay of youth while ambling down Calle Mayor for their dinner dates. Opposite a huge H&M poster, a young, dark-haired couple dances to their own music near the statue of King Charles III. The man twirls his lady around deftly, and swoops down to plant a kiss on her unsuspecting lips before ending their little charade in giggles. A little Yorkshire terrier watches them and yelps in awe before being tugged away on her leash by her Balenciaga-toting young mistress. Wisps of smoke surround the local newsstand as fedora-clad gentlemen in camel trenches hunch and mull over the evening headlines, puffing away on their pipes while contemplating if they should buy the evening edition of El Pais.

We are soaking all this in while perched on the steps of the aforementioned fountain, delighting in discovering a little Ben and Jerry's outlet right across Hotel Europa, where a 3-course set lunch inclusive of a bottle (not glass) of wine sets you back only €9.90. Did I mention eating in Spain is cheap?

Anyway, a crowd is progressively gathering around the statue of King Charles III, curious to find out if the new street magician is as good as he claims to be. It's hard not to giggle at his clownish antics, prompting the lady sitting next to me at the fountain to snigger and say, "Que esta el loco", followed by a universally understood sign language of making circular motions with her index finger next to her head. Ah. "Si, si," I nod, playing along before digging into my Baked Alaska and New York Super Fudge Chunk in a chocolate waffle cone. Mmm... Ben and Jerry's never fail to disappoint. A huge poster of Julia Roberts enjoying her gelati in a copa hangs high above the facade of El Corte Ingles, directly behind where I am perched. It's the promotional poster of "Eat, Pray, Love", which is translated into "Come, Reza, Ama" in Spain.

"Look," I point at Julia Roberts. "She has only one tiny copa of gelati while I have a HUGE waffle cone!" I observe in jubilation.

"Yes, baby, that's why she's so slim," he sighs, and then looks at me and shakes his head in mock sympathy.

That's what a decade of understanding does to you. You talk, you hold hands, you kiss, you bicker, you snicker, you laugh, you cry, you yell at each other over minute things that are soon forgotten after you apologise, and then you fall into these ice-cream moments: Moments when you share a waffle cone on the sidewalks or in the middle of a busy square, surrounded by teenagers who smoke too much and old ladies who talk too much and people who take too many photos and families who have too many chihuahuas, and that's when you realise the world is one mad place with too many unnecessary distractions, and that you only have to focus on 2 things: your ice-cream cone, and the person with whom you're sharing it.

Girl in Madrid #3: Musings at a Tapas Bar

2011-06-08T23:04:00.000+10:00

It is 6 o'clock in the evening. People are spilling onto Gran Via from office buildings and street-front boutiques. Cafes are filled with mostly tourists grabbing proper meals, or locals sipping on vino and munching on olives. It is too early for the Madrilenos to have dinner. The night doesn't begin until after 10pm, but our stomachs cannot wait for another 4 hours.

Exhausted from the jetlag, but still eager to explore, we drag our tired feet along Calle de Preciados in search of a decent tapas bar. We stumble upon a Ristorante Chino instead, and decide that we weren't flying halfway across the globe for Chinese food.

A little unassuming tapas bar catches our eye just as we were about to cave in to its more fancy neighbour with cutthroat prices a few doors down. Enormous legs of cured ham adorn its faded plaster walls. The place smells faintly of wax and tobacco. We all smile and give each other a nod of understanding-- this is it. Our first tapas experience in its land of birth.

The first Spanish word I learnt-- apart from hola!-- before embarking on a 20-hour flight to Madrid was vino. Wine. Then came the natural choice of tinto (red) or blanco (white). A glass of vino tinto and a few gestures and finger-pointing later, a platter of jamon Iberico, chorizo and queso (cheese), together with a steaming bowl of stewed innards, are neatly arranged in front of us, alongside the complimentary pan (bread). A Japanese couple a few bar stools away throws us a curious glance as we tuck into the hearty stew of tripe, intestines and blood sausages. Is it good? They ask with their eyes. I lick my fingers and shrug. It is too salty for my liking, but I didn't know it then, that the Spaniards like their sodium with a passion that borders on the obsessive. Signalling the waiter again, I promptly order glasses of zumo de naranja (orange juice) to wash it down.

The night is still young.

Girl in Madrid #2: About a Boy

2011-06-07T22:44:00.000+10:00

"Where are you from?" The man in the crisp white shirt seated next to her on 15E asked, with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"I don't know," she smiled, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin as the stewardess graciously swept her meal tray away. "But I know I am going to Madrid."

So this is how Europe in early autumn smells like-- musk, pine, cigarettes, leather, diesel, cigarettes, geraniums, garlic, cigarettes, cured meats, fried potatoes, cigarettes.

The cabbie pulls up at Puerta del Sol. "Aqui," he says, signalling to the heart of Madrid. Gateway of the Sun. I peel off a few notes from my purse and handed them to him. "Gracias," I say, as he hauls my luggage from the boot. From here, I see happy faces bubbling up into the air. I see warm-blooded street life gushing out and filling the little vessels of laneways with laughter. I see the purest connection between strangers, and it all starts from a point of zero intolerance, zero suspicion, and zero manipulation. It all starts at Kilometer Zero.

I am standing in a hotel with vertiginous stairways and creaky elevators next to a tapas bar. The language of business transaction is imprinted on a small plastic card. Come this way, smiles the bellhop.

I want to take the train to Fuenlabrada but he says no. That's ok. The train is arriving in one minute, and I know it will take me to a place that will fill my heart with sunshine.

HOLA ESPAÑA!!!

Girl in Madrid #1: Meet Me in Madrid

2011-06-06T22:21:00.000+10:00

Some days, I wake up, and I am in a different room. The soft midmorning sun that filters through the bamboo blinds casts slits of light on an empty mug with an ashtray next to it, filled with angrily stubbed out Davidoff butts from the night before. My head is pounding from the night's drunken haze, and I yearn to duck under the soft, crumpled, scalloped sheets covering what's left of my sanity, but I need fresh air. The tiny space I'd woken to clutches me tightly in the neck, choking the air out of me. I need space. I need to flee this wretched frame of mind. There is a boy whose smile brings tears to the heavens, but he hasn't been smiling much lately, and I need to find him. I need to find him and tell him to smile at the world again. He doesn't know me as well as the boy lying sonorously next to me does, peacefully basking in the solitude of slumber. In fact, he doesn't know me at all. But I know him, and this time, I am flying halfway across the world in search of the lad from sunny Spain.

Long after I left the city, I'm still dreaming of lazy lunches at the Plaza Mayor.

Letter 590: Burnt Barley

2011-06-03T00:09:00.000+10:00

So this is what it boils down to-- literally. Burnt bits of barley and sweet potatoes at the bottom of the pot. Did you not see my disappointment too? That sinking feeling-- as helpless as seeing a helium balloon fly out of your grasp-- you don't think I felt it too? Burnt food-- it's not the end of the world. What's more cataclysmic is knowing that such a little thing could culminate into a night of brusque exchanges. It scares me, this strange sense of impertinence.

Letter 589: Catalan Pride

2011-05-29T15:29:00.002+10:00

There is a reason why I watch Spanish football-- Catalan, in particular-- sleek, suave, smooth, and stylish. As last night's Champion's League final unfolded with much spectacle and fanfare in Wembley, there was not an inch of doubt that Barcelona is, indisputably, the finest team in the world right now.

Curled up on the couch at 4am this morning, I followed the beautiful game with my heart almost bursting through my ribcage with trepedition and hope, especially during the first 15 or 20 minutes into the game, where Manchester United seemed to dominate after a brilliant start, fiercely challenging the advances of Barcelona with their trademark Draconian style of attacking. I was worried for a split second-- there were too many gaps in Barcelona. Too many missed passes. Too much jitters. This wasn't Barcelona at its best.

They say when expectations are high, performance may take a slump. Was this true of Barcelona? Fans in maroon-and-blue striped jerseys were nervously chewing on their fingers and sucking their teeth in, hoping for a miracle against the roaring fans in red. Los Dios didn't disappoint. He restored our faith in a miracle at the 27th minute when Pedro-- kicking an amazing opportunity away from the goal at the 14th minute-- swooped in and delivered a punch that made up for his earlier loss. The crowd went wild-- and so did I. It was a morale boost for all of us, including the team members lauding that significant success of the young 23 year old on the pitch.

The euphoria was short-lived, though, as, 7 minutes later, One-Man United's Wayne Rooney fired a near-perfect shot into the goal that Victor Valdes' acrobatics would fail to concede. A deafening cheer arose from supporters of Los Diablos Rojos. It was now 1-1. Barcelona would need to work harder to close those gaps. The only consolation at this stage was Barcelona now possessed 66% of the ball-- testimony to their excellence in keeping hold of the ball even with the opponent team pouncing upon them like hungry cheetahs.

The 2nd half of the game was a vast improvement on Barcelona's side. You would've thought United would've upped their ante by now, but no. If anything, their attacking appeared to have subsided, with only Valencia infringing subdued tackles here and there that eventually warranted a yellow card that should've been awarded to him long ago rather than at the 81st minute. The Red Devils seemed to have been relegated to reluctant spectators on the pitch as they struggled to take possession of the ball, now being beautifully-- and I mean absolutely, amazingly, breathtakingly beautifully-- passed between Iniesta, Xavi, Messi, Villa, Pedro, and the rest of the team, with Messi-- now undeniably one of the world's greatest players-- sliding in a flawless finish to the 54th minute that put Barcelona an extra point ahead of United.

The crowd went hysterical again. This was the Barcelona that we all came to knew and love. This was how football should be played. With Lionel Messi on the pitch, all you could see was a mop of brown curls and a snippet of fluorescent yellow in between defenders in white, all appearing to be mesmerised by the way Messi handled the ball and unsure of how to react to his deadly loops. This might have cost United their chance to reclaim the trophy, for let it be known that they cannot solely rely on Rooney-- who barely even got to touch the ball with his Nikes in the 2nd half-- to score goals for them.

By now, United's spirit had been dampened by the tactful success of their opponent. Fergie was caught chewing gum with a look of agitation and desperation on camera, before the lens panned to his tremoring hands, clenched and drenched with beads of cold sweat. There was no way United would win the silver trophy, not the way they were playing, and certainly not, when, at the 70th minute, El Guaje curled a dazzling finish into the top-right corner, taking Barcelona to 3-1 with Van der Sar watching helplessly as the ball bounced along the net, ruining his last game for United.

When the final whistle blew, there was no question that this was a game Barcelona deserved to win-- just like how Spain deserved to be the champions at the World Cup last year. Watching Barcelona play against United was like a replay of Spain versus Netherlands-- perseverance is the key to winning, not aggression. Barcelona played with grace and humility. They weren't deterred by their opponent's belligerence. They played with a subdued composure that humbled United's incursion. As Richard Williams observed, they displayed artistry, patience, and imagination. Theirs was a truly magnificent display of football, an unsurpassable excellence. If there was one thing that we can all learn by watching Barcelona, is that perseverance and humility will pay off.

Barcelona, you are truly amazing.

**Pictures from Barcelona vs Mallorca @ Camp Nou, October 2010.

Letter 588: Sweet Affliction

2011-05-28T23:36:00.000+10:00

"For long periods of my life, living in places where I did not belong, I have been a perfect stranger. I asked myself whether my sense of otherness was the human condition. It certainly was my condition. As with most people, my outer life did not in the least resemble my inner life, but the exotic place and circumstances intensified this difference. Sometimes my being stranger was like the evocation of a dream state, at other times like a form of madness, and now and then it was just inconvenient. I might have gone home except that a return home would have made me feel like a failure. I was not only far away, I was also out of touch. It sounds as though I am describing a metaphysical problem to which there was no solution-- but, no, all of this was a form of salvation."

Paul Theroux in "Introduction: Being a Stranger", excerpt from Fresh-Air Fiend.

Letter 587: Bring On the Defibrillator and Charge!

2011-05-24T23:54:00.000+10:00

Medicine is a most humbling profession. You are ceaselessly challenged by its evolution as well as by your realisation that there is still A SHIT LOT to learn. We all want to "do the right thing", whatever that means. In turn, we find ourselves constantly seeking to be on the same page as our peers and our mentors-- Did I reduce that finger dislocation alright? Do you think I should repeat another blood test, just to be sure? What would you have done differently?

Being on-call can be exhausting-- 20 hours on the go is my record so far-- but I love the challenge, I love the adrenaline, and, most importantly, I realise I love the fact that I'm actually loving my job. Gosh, it is possible to love your job despite those nasty, awkward, and sometimes downright ugly presentations. In an email, my father wrote: The way you have been so eagerly and excitedly telling us about what you do as a doctor strongly convinces us that you have found the right calling.

I hope so. In the flurry of those countless medical and surgical emergencies, I have come to observe that the best reassurance that you're "doing the right thing" isn't a consolatory hug from the jolly old boss after a shit call, but when a colleague actually comes up to you and say, "You know, if I were to collapse, I'd want to do it in front of you."

Letter 586: Reason for the Lack of Updates

2011-05-17T23:15:00.000+10:00

I am probably thisclose to collapsing from exhaustion. Weekly road trips to Adelaide and Melbourne-- driving anywhere between 8-12 hours round trip-- cannot be good for the body, much less the mind-- even if most of those trips were for educational purposes. I pray that my call day tomorrow will be relatively uneventful, because the day after that I would need to make another 6-hour drive to Melbourne for a course on Emergency Medicine. Two full days of playing with the cardiac defibrillator, cricothyroidectomies and chest drain insertions. Should be fun-- if only I could cram 26 chapters of emergency manual into my arthropod brain before Friday. FML.

Letter 585: My Mother and I

2011-05-08T23:39:00.000+10:00

My mother and I, we both get along extremely well-- only if we're on different continents. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother to the ends of the earth. My mother is a fiercely independent woman whose brutal honesty means that she isn't afraid to voice her opinions aloud. Unfortunately, I am every inch my mother's daughter, so my love and admiration for her is sometimes translated into heated and impatient exchanges between my mother and I. Like all mother-daughter lethal combinations, we both operate on a passive-aggressive model. We annoy each other to hell one minute, but would then laugh over our own aloofness the next. She would often ask questions which yielded either the most obvious or the most obscure answers, the former for which I would have no intention to answer, and the latter for which I would have no incentive to find out, because for the most unaccountable reasons, she would often do so when I'm buried in the middle of a task, interjecting questions like, "You not cold one meh, wearing only a t-shirt?" (if I were feeling cold, I'd be wearing a jumper then, wouldn't I?), or "Why is it that I sometimes get headaches one ah?" into my train of thoughts. Like most mothers, her concerns take the form of nagging, which I sometimes turn a deaf ear to. I remember being quite excited when I got my first payslip, only to have my mother reminding me not to spend money on "things that you don't need". I defiantly asked if she remembered what it was like receiving her first paycheque, and she paused and said, "Oh, I blew it on a bag. HAHAHA." Like it was supposed to be so funny like that. Haih. This is my mother lah, I tell you. She can be so annoying at times, and so silly at times, and it's actually scary to think that as I grow older, I'm actually turning into another version of my mother. Crap.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MADAME!!!

My mother and I at the Plaza de Espana, Sevilla.

My mother and I lining up to see the Alcazar at Sevilla.

The space that we need between us. (Taken inside the Alcazar, Sevilla.)

My mother and I at Estadi Santiago Barnabeu, Madrid. Interestingly, we both think Barcelona is the better team, which means futbol is one of those things we don't fight over.

My mother and I standing alongside some winged sculpture by Vittorio Madre in Toledo. Did you know "madre" is Spanish for "mother"?

My mother and I love architecture. We spent a good hour inside the Mezquita in Cordoba admiring the exquisite stone carvings.

Unlike some mother-daughter duos who swap clothes and/or shoes, we swap accessories. Pictured here is my mother carrying my tote. Which means I was carrying a most practical (read: unfashionable) theft-proof sling bag of hers. I think it's called "filial piety".

We share a mutual love for alcohol. This is us at the Vintara Bar in Valencia, toasting to our Spanish excursion with Agua Valencia-- sangria made with white wine instead of red.

All smiles as we make our way to Estadi Camp Nou for a Barcelona match.

Pans and Co is our favourite Spanish fast food chain.

My mother and I, and the mysterious Hand atop the La Sagrada Familia, overlooking the Barcelona skyline.

TE QUIERO MAMA!!!

Letter 584: A Leap of Faith

2011-05-04T22:36:00.000+10:00

By some twisted act of fate, I bumped into a man from my past quite fortuitously a few days ago. He resurfaced in my life in such an unusual and unexpectant manner that I couldn't help but wander over to him and say, hey, do you remember me? What happened? What happened in the last 4 years of your life that made you give up 20 years of hardwork to end up in this conference that discussed the mind over grey matter? Secretly, I knew. But I wanted to hear him out. He was deeply embittered and tremendously disillusioned by the seemingly grandiose insignia of his work because he discovered heaven was actually hell with devils disguised as angels. There was no god-- only lunatic fools with high powered drills running the show, thinking they're god. I asked if he was happier now. He said he was less stressed, but did not answer my question. There was a wistful look in his eyes. In that instant, I knew he was broken. He couldn't bring himself to be happy, or to enjoy the moment, because he had been thoroughly scarred by the repeated drilling and sleepless nights and endless castigations. I felt sorry for him, sorry that they had made him such a woebegone man. I realised that it could very well have been me if I hadn't walked away at the earliest realisation that this could be a mistake that would cost me all that I've ever loved.

Letter 583: Love/Hate

2011-04-29T00:31:00.000+10:00

I want to write more, but oh, distractions galore! First, The Parents flew down for a visit, and my mom kept insisting I was anorexic despite me polishing off second helpings of pasta like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. I had 5 days off over the Easter and Anzac public holidays-- drove 6 hours to Melbourne just to feast on my weight's worth of kaya toast macarons, and I think she finally concluded that I was NOT anorexic, just merely like a Dyson vacuum cleaner-- sucking everything into a void.

Tomorrow, I've got another 3 days off. Squishing into the car for a 4-hour drive to Adelaide with mom at the backseat is going to be interesting. Hopefully I'll remember to bring earplugs. Or serve her a good champagne breakfast to knock her out for the entire journey.

Letter 582: Pluto

2011-04-20T22:41:00.000+10:00

I sometimes forget I am in a different realm, orbiting around a different set of priorities many, many lightyears away from their origins in my universe. I have to remind myself that I am far removed from the constraints of time, with no one to answer to but my own conscience. Did I do the right thing? Would I have done it differently? There was once a passion bordering on the obsessive that burned like a comet set ablaze, leaving a trail of fieriness that scarred my dark, lonesome nights. Now, my sky is dotted by many stars that twinkle like the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean along the shores of Costa Blanca, leaving a perpetual void of contentment in space that time would fail to erase.

Letter 581: Reading Lists

2011-04-17T14:56:00.000+10:00

The English writer Anthony Burgess, who taught at the Malay College (Kuala Kangsar) when he was posted to Malaya in the 1950s, made the following observation:

Books in a large university library system- 2,000,000

Books in an average large city library- 10,000

Books in a chain bookstore- 30,000

Books in a neighbourhood branch library- 20,000

Admittedly, the neighbourhood libraries do stock a pretty impressive variety of literature. As I recently discovered, they even have the latest publications, including Ian McEwan's Solar, and the controversial Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua, published just this year.

Since graduating from medical school, one of the hardest things I find after being accepted into a training program is easing back into the routine of studying. With all the responsibilities that descend like bird shit from the sky as one steps into the workforce, how does one squeeze in time to study when there's a million other things to worry about? Like the fact that your patient just had a miscarriage at 10 weeks into her pregnancy because you found out she had leukemia on her antenatal bloods and so, not only do you have to tell her that her baby's died in utero, but that she also has leukemia, which she wasn't aware of all along while conjuring up shades of pastel for the baby's nursery.

Anyway, my point being, if medical textbooks and journals were even a fraction as interesting as my literary haul from the library, I'd be acing my college exams next year already. Eesh. Wish me luck next year.

**This post is dedicated to a fellow doctor who shares an equal passion for literature, coffee, breakfasts, shopping, and a love for gory accident and emergency presentations. Bariah, this post is for you :)

Letter 580: Ice-Blended Days

2011-04-12T22:51:00.000+10:00

For once, weekends seem to be quick succession of nothings. No calls. No pagers (hell, not ever!). No rounds. No WORK. The last time this happened, I was a million lightyears away from where I am now. Was I different then? Did he love me more? I could inflict a lifetime of silent affliction upon my sanity asking these questions to which neither he nor I have the answer to. I feel the same, yet different; he loves me no more, no less, than before. Today, he grabbed me by the waist like he did so many moons ago, swung me round to face him, looked me straight in the eyes, and declared the obvious:-

You're happy.

Letter 579: Orange Walls

2011-04-10T14:09:00.000+10:00

It all started at 3am on Thursday, where a Murakami-like narrative descended from the starry sky in the form of a bird with grey feathers, and intruded itself upon my reality when it struck my bonnet with a thud so loud that I was jolted awake from the passenger seat in time to see that it had left a splatter of blood and a ruffle of torn feathers on my windscreen. As evidence of avian suicide was being washed off with the wipers, it became clear that I was going to meet a man who served me his life story in a warm banana-and-walnut muffin. He told me he was 40 as he placed my mug of mocha on the table with a touch of dilligence, though I would've thought he was 32. He had been working in Singapore, Auckland, Chang Chun and New York City before opening his own little bakery on a hillside suburb. I asked him about New York City, a distant memory and an enriching experience of which he was more than delighted to share with me on a quiescent Thursday morning. I stayed for longer than I thought I would, and he divulged more than he had prepared to. We shook hands as I left, acknowledging the aberrancy of fate that had brought us to acquaintance.

I then found myself recalcitrantly seated at a workshop spanning over 2 days that dealt with time management and behaviour profiles. I could think of a million other things to manage with my time, in addition to a million other reasons why William Marston should've stuck to creating more archetypal female superheroes rather than dissecting the human behaviour. Without doubt, his theoretical assumptions were fastidious, yet its execution was flawed in many ways. Was I the only one in the room who felt uneasy about its practicality in business dealings? Or was I overanalysing? Is overanalysing a good thing, or is it better not to ponder over speculatory premises and get on with the more important things in life? After all, different people react differently in the same situation. All I wanted to do was to lie on the beach first thing I get to shore.

There were moments when I was (mentally) engaged in the (occasionally) heated discussions about the human psyche, and caught fleeting glimpses of insight into the multitude of reasons behind those differing opinions, which, when pieced together like a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, gave a crystal clear picture of 2 types of fundamental human needs: the need to be fed, clothed and loved (primal needs), and the need to seek affirmation from those with similar social construct (primed needs). Of course, this is my derivative narrative stemming from a 2-day observational study of highly functioning individuals, operating on a sleep-deprived platform, fuelled by horribly brewed coffee. I certainly wished I had paid more attention in my Anthropology classes, but my oversimplified anecdotal conjecture on needs will suffice for the moment. The need to seek recognition translates to being aware-- and thus caring about-- what other people think. And this is where I ran into analysis paralysis: Why is it so important to care about what others think? Yes, to a certain extent, it relates to the primal needs-- the need to be loved and, by extension, to have a sense of belonging. A herd mentality, if you wish. But my problem lies with the fact that most people still care about what other individuals think of them-- individuals with whom they have no reason to deal with, politically or socially otherwise. Why???

I decided that it was only going to give me a tremendous migraine if I pursued this endless chase, so I left this proposition on a squeaky mattress in a dinghy motel room, covering it with mildew sheets that carried faded floral patterns probably from too many washings and tumble drying. I then checked out of the motel, and saw the sun peeking through the grey sky morning.

It was Saturday already.

Letter 578: Dusk

2011-04-03T01:01:00.000+11:00

"This city is a map of love

on this street you met me

here snow joined our lips

here we said goodbye

and your eyes followed me for so long

here our paths married

here our hands found home

here I ran to you in illness

here I drove you for the last time

here you hid yourself from me

here I won’t stop looking for you"

Anna Kamienska, “A City Map”

Letter 577: Wow.

2011-03-31T00:52:00.000+11:00

I get it now, I get it: It's not always 22 degrees. It's the existence of those 15 degree- and 30-degree days that make 22-degree days pleasant. And happiness? Happiness is overrated. We keep searching for little bubbles of happiness in our lives, only to burst these bubbles when we reach out for them. So happiness is not the ultimate goal. It's not about wanting, aiming, to be happy. It's about being resilient. It's about learning to adapt. It's about accepting change. Accepting that without dolour, we wouldn't know relief and the flood of joy it brings. I get it now. I get it. I so get it.

*~From Durians to Floating Pies~*