Bali Bliss

A place where greedy monkeys with sweet hairstyles run wild, and I am a millionaire.

Literally.

Things to do before I hit 35:
1) Skiing / Snowboarding
2) Surfing
3) Skydiving

It's one down, two more to go. And no, it's not skiing/snowboarding. Rather, it's surfing. I know I know. I've lived in Victoria and was, for the past four years, within half a day's worth of travel to snowy peaks such as Mount Washington or Whistler, and I've never had any snow action. Shocking, innit?

Surfing was great. It also caused great pain: I got owned by the waves; stupendous wipeouts, crashing headlong / butt-long / sideways and just about any other way you can imagine, into the bare, gritty sand. ("My goodness, what happened to you?!" exclaimed my very concerned parents upon seeing the spectacular black and blues I sported on every visible part of my body.) I think I have Bali sand permanently ingrained into my elbows and hips. Hot.

In hindsight, this trip was highly necessary. A bit like having the dessert before the main course (this is written in relation to my slowly easing back into life in Malaysia). I think I found some sort of consolation and - for lack of words - inner peace that my decision to move back to my homeland is the right one.

Balinese sunset

One of the many Hindu temples on the island

Peace & tranquility

The Quarterlife Crisis

Stephanie Sun's 天黑黑 lyrics of:

我走在每天必须面对的分岔路
我怀念过去单纯美好的小幸福
Daily, I face crossroads ahead
I reminiscent about past innocence, bliss and happiness

exactly depicts the range of emotions I have been going through for the past few weeks. I wish I was a 3 year old kid again. Life used to be waaaaaaay simpler. My only worry back then was wondering how the heck I can write my name right: "廖燕斌" instead of "廖燕文武". Rough life.

Adulthood on the other hand is just filled with deadlines and bills to pay off. If I was this parent, I'd shoot myself. (Sorry, I got sidetracked. Having spent the past 10 hours writing papers and case analysis, my attention span is hair-wired.)

Anyway, as graduation looms, I'm suddenly inundated with indecision as to whether I should stay or leave Canada. Funny how the brain works. Two weeks ago, I was adamant that I will live the North American life for the next three years. I've been thinking seriously about heading home since then. The thing with being this globalized is that I sometimes feel like I don't have a sense of belonging anywhere in the world.

Here's a hypothetical situation I've been pondering over: If - IF - Malaysia is to be so unfortunate as to have a repeat of May 13,1969, where should I seek refuge?

• Being 3.5th* generation Chinese in Malaysia means that I'm not "pure" Chinese. I highly doubt that the P.R.C will take me in.
• New Zealand hasn't been home for the past five years, and is henceforth irrelevant.
• Even after 7 months in Prague, my typical response to someone speaking a string of Czech to me is, "Pardon, třebaže mluvím trochu český ale nerozumím. Prosím vás, mluvíte anglický ?" [Translation: Excuse me, even though I speak a little Czech, I don't understand. Please, do you speak English?"] If the person responds with a "No" (which, mind you, means "yes" in Czech), the conversation goes on. More often than not, they usually respond with a shrug. So no. I probably won't survive the Czech life.

Which leaves me Canada. I remember the times I spent back in Malaysia during the summer months. Friends thought I was putting on a show with my North American accent (sidenote: the Manglish does somewhat return after three weeks in Malaysia.) New friends think I'm an ABC (American-Born Chinese). Americans think I'm Canadian. Canadians think I'm local ... until I say things like "full-stop" instead of "period" - this happened barely 5 hours ago in my group meeting today.

The question still stands: Where in the world should Yan go?

I guess I'll just have to leave it up to fate; return back to 3 years ago when my life's philosophy was,"I'll go where the wind takes me."

我相信一切都会平息
I believe everything will calm down

Note*: My reasoning on this equation arouse from a somewhat complicated background: I'm 2nd generation Malaysian Chinese from my mom's side, but 5th on my dad's side of the family.

One Reason Why I Should Leave North America and Bugger Off Somewhere

I received an unexpected e-mail from a former manager seeking advice in regards to his upcoming trip to Penang, Malaysia. Problem: the last time I was in Penang was 8 years ago. Having an excellent impression to uphold, and in order to deliver a quality response, I frantically sifted through websites, scanning for information that could be somewhat helpful.

Did you know that you can fly from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore for € 5 or to Phuket for € 30? I want to go!

The travel bug has hit me unexpectedly and it has hit me hard.

It's been 55 days since I left Europe, and boy, do I miss the continent. That "not wanting to live the life of a nomad" feeling I mentioned in the previous post? I take it back. In my hectic schedule, juggling between school, a part-time job, and looking for a full-time position after graduation (anyone looking to hire a kick-ass, fabulous person?) I'd overlooked the fact that Reading Break starts on Thursday. What do you do with six days off? Travel, of course. If I still live in the Czech Republic, I can hit two cities, heck, two countries, in six days.

But I'm not in Europe. And I don't have friends scattered all over North America. What I do have is a sister who lives out in the east. Inspired, I set out to find the cheapest ticket to fly to D.C., gullible enough to think that I can find a return ticket for less than $400.

$1,500?!?! Seriously? I can fly home for less than that. Or fly back to to Europe for half that amount. Jeez.

England Revisited

If you refer to Random Fact #4 in my previous London post, I mentioned that streets in (the City of) London were once named after the primary business lining the street. I highly doubt streets in Luton were named this way, but a meander through town did bring up a few how-do- you-pronounce-these: street names such as Thrales (Thra-less? Th-rails?) Close, Havelock (Have-lock? Ha-ve-lock?) Road. Ah! My brain hurts!

No one summed up better than Bill Bryson in Notes from a Small Island*:

“

There are a few streets that sound like medical complaints (Glycena Ave, Shingles Lane, Burnfoot Avenue), a few that sound like names on an anatomical chart (Thyrapia and Pendula Roads), a few that sound vaguely unsavoury (Cold Blow Lane, Droop Street, Gutter Lane, Dicey Avenue), and a few that are pleasingly ridiculous (Coldbath Square, Glimpsing Green, Hamshades Close, Cactus Walk, Nutter Lane, The Butts)...

”

So here I am, back in England, my eight months abroad slowly coming to an end. While I still have a week or so before my long, dreaded flight back to Victoria - and can thus, hop on a bus and visit places like Stonehenge - I am at a point where I am ready to settle down for a little while and get away from this nomadic life.

Anyway, Stonehenge is a little ways away, and if I'm being absolutely cynical, it's only a pile of rocks. OK, maybe not only a pile of rocks. It really was a rather incredible accomplishment. And I quote, once again, from Mr. Bryson's brilliant book:

“

It took 500 men just to pull each sarsen, plus 100 more to dash around positioning the rollers. Just think about it for a minute. Can you imagine trying to talk 600 people into helping you drag a 50 ton stone 18 miles across the countryside, muscle it into an upright position and then saying, 'Right lads! Another twenty like that, plus some lintels & maybe a couple dozen of nice bluestones from Wales and we can party!' Whoever was the person behind Stonehenge was one dickens of a motivator, I'll tell you that.

”

A quick search through on the www, and I almost changed my mind. It does look mighty impressive......until I found out that there's a perimeter rope around the area and access into the stone circle is a whopping £12.00. Plus a return bus ticket of £26.00. Nah uh. World Heritage or not, I cannot justify paying that much. I'll just chill in good ol' Luton, where my aunt has made it her mission to stuff me with lots of home-cooked food before I leave. Yum.

* For those who haven't had the pleasure of reading this book, please do - especially if you've been to England. A word of advice: read it in the privacy of your own home. I've emitted one un-ladylike snort too many while reading it on the bus en route to Cambridge.

Penis Everywhere

The title just about says it all. My 10-day backpacking trip included my glimpsing on not one, not two, but four penises, one of which belonged to a deranged old man clad in spandex. Yep, travelling is never boring.

With only one day to spend in Florence, I aimed for the Galleria dell'Accademia to gape at David in all his naked glory. Scrutinizing the statue from every angle possible, I couldn't help but wonder why David's penis seemed disproportional in size. Regardless, I still think David is one of the most marvelous sculptures I've seen to date. I went on to Piazza della Signoria where is initially stood. A copy of a weather-beaten David stands there now. I then walked up Piazzale Michelangelo to look at the bronze version of David. It was a lot of Davids in one day.

Now I'm sure you are very intrigued with the story of Spandex-Clad Old Man. My experience below answers my ex-roommate's - she'd lived in Nice for two years - question of, "So, did you meet any perverts when you were in Nice?" Yes Silviya, in fact, I did:

I was probably in my fourth hour in Nice. The friend I was staying with had gone to school; the weather was too beautiful to be spent indoors, but too cold to be lying on the beach for a tan. Armed with a book and decked out in sunglasses, I sat on one of the benches lining the promenade, basking in the warmth of the sunlight.Engrossed in book, I looked up a couple of minutes later to see a man, approximately in his late 40's, orbiting around my bench on his bicycle. He then proceeded to park his bike in front of me, and plonked himself beside me, on the other side of bench. He gave off a creepy vibe, but I wrote that off as paranoia on my part.

Apparently not. I sneaked a look in his direction after he emitted a couple of chuckles, only to see that he had pulled his shirt up and his pants down, and was playing with the little boy downstairs. Noticing my sudden stiff posture, he leans over in an attempt to touch my knee. Horrified, I shrieked a string of immoderate language at him before stalking off with as much dignity as I could muster.

So much for Nice being nice. Should've totally whipped out my camera, take a picture and proceed to point and laugh at his puny manhood.

36 hours in Venezia

"You might want to cut out one day for Venice. One HALF day was enough (for me)."

So goes Swan's advice when she found out that I was staying two nights in Venice. I was surprised. Friends who've gone to Italy raved about Venice. But Swan and I have similar tastes and travelling habits. She is the older, wiser sister who knows me well. With some minor tweaking, I was to spend only one night in Venice and leave for Nice the second night.

As I weaved through the throngs of people on my way to the hostel, I felt this teeny twinge of disgruntlement on having listened to Swan. Well, peeved on myself for being so easily swayed by someone else's suggestion, and grumpy that it had to hail and snow when Swan visited Venice four years before, fueling her dislike for the place. Because, 3 minutes after arrival, I deducted that I. Love. Venice.

Gelato was cheaper than Rome or Florence; the place looked serene and exceedingly fetching in the sunshine.

This feeling of affection didn't last long.

I stepped out into pouring rain the second day. Honestly, I have the worst luck with the weather when it comes to travelling. (If you're an avid reader, then recall my misery in Bosnia, Croatia and the Netherlands.)

Rain battered madly and fell to the pavement in an endless clatter. Glumly, I gave up plodding through the driving rain and seeked shelter under an awning crammed full with other gloomy tourists, looking like they had all spontaneously taken a swim in the canals.

Now, this is a sight you don't often see. Not so romantic anymore, eh?

I left Venice, full of woe that the weather Gods just don't seem to like me. It better be sun and sea in Nice!

Oh, Me Sore Muscles!!!

My irritation on potential hikers crowding the pathways at the Cinque Terre hiking trail gave way to peace and content as I breathed in the fresh air and listened to the waves pounding onto shore. I could do this everyday - listen to the waves. Nature's most glorious music. It's times like these when I look at people with their iPod plugged to their ears, and I think, "What a shame."

Having lived in Prague for the past seven months, I think I've gotten just a little bit jaded with fancy European architecture. The coastline, bubbling creeks and wineyards at Cinque Terre was a refreshing change.

Absolutely, breathtakingly stunning. The hike wasn't too bad. More of a walk on a nicely paved pavement...until I hit the Corniglia - Vernazza trail. Skipping and balancing on strategically placed rocks for muddy puddles as big as lakes, jamming my foot into the crumbly earth to keep from executing yet another butt slide, and clambering up steep steps definitely took its toll - the effects of which showed when I resorted to waddling around like a duck the second morning instead of walking like a normal homosapien. Owwwww....but, no time to waste! I'm off to Venice next.

A Gelato a Day...This, is Italy.

The Arch of Titus with the Colosseum in the background

Dad said that the Colosseum is essentially like any other stadium. To me however, there's just something wonderful and fascinating about it. Much like the Eiffel Tower at night, I can look at the Colosseum all day and not be sick of it.

So I did just that. Tired of just wandering around looking at yet another pile of rocks, I plonked myself down on a random piece of marble outside this magnificent ruin, opened up my umbrella (it was spitting rain somewhat), and just stared at this hunk of a very old, rather damaged amphitheatre. I was riveted with wonder and admiration at the thought of people in togas cheering on in vernacular Latin as a gladiator fights off a charging elephant shipped in from Africa in an inconceivably distant past.

While I love Rome for its rich history, the roads (system and drivers) suck. Crossing roads in the city freaked me out. Cars don't stop for pedestrians. You just have to take a deep breath and step onto the busy road, hoping to God you don't get mowed down. (Someone I met in the hostel later told me that it's best I stick to a group of at least three because drivers are indecisive when there's only two of you waiting to cross the road. Even better, find a person pushing a baby stroller. Drivers would never want to hit a baby.)

A dumb habit I'd developed - before I received this very useful tip - was to dash across with my head bowed and eyes downcast. The way I saw it, if I don't see the drivers, they won't see me.

I am an asinine fool.

I am also useless with directions. But we've already established that earlier in the year. My first day, I got lost trying to find the Colosseum. It turned out I'd overshot so far I was out of the map area. It just irks me that most roads in Rome almost always lead to piazzas. From there, I'd have to once again dig out my trusty map to figure out my directions. It's during one of these Yan-stares-at-the-map-totally-befuddled episodes that I got chatted up by an Italian man: [pointing at the Colesseum] "Do you know what that is? Is the Trevi Fountain, no?" being his pick-up line.

"Do you see water spouting from it?" I wanted to retort. But you gotta give him points for originality.

He was your typical smooth talker. I asked him whether it was in his daily routine to wait in front of the metro station and ambush tourists. He said only for the pretty ones. No matter how many times I attempted to excuse myself to leave, he was like a leech you couldn't scrape off.

He also took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide for the next two hours. I definitely got to see a lot more of Rome than I planned. So "Leorendo" (alas, I cannot remember whether it is "Leonardo" or "Lorenzo"), grazie - and my apologies for giving you a false name and a fake number.

Trajan's Column

Overheard while waiting in line, "Wait, whaddaya mean the Pope lives here?!?!?"

The Pantheon

Hoi, Holland!

And here I am, in denial that spring isn't here and winter isn't really over. Hence, all decked out in my light spring jacket, I endured it all: rain, high winds, hail and snow. Of course, Peter forgets to mention that the local weather forecast also warned that it was going to be the coldest Easter in the past 40 years. Thanks, Pete.

I guess I shouldn't have taken it literally when a family friend whom I was going to visit requested in his e-mail to "bring along sunshine from Prague." Yes, Prague, for the past week has had sunshine - with lots of snow. I hereby apologize to the Dutch for such terrible weather.

This trip turned out to be a weekend of reunions. I also got to see a lot more of the Netherlands than initially planned - although Brussels sadly didn't happen.

Peter, I met last semester in Prague during our university exchange shenanigan. Karin and I were AFS students in New Zealand 5 years ago where we attended the same high school and played in the school rugby team. The van Gompel family has known me since I was a fetus. The meetings were short, but it sure was good to see familiar faces and catch up.

- Back in the days of wooden clogs, homeowners paid taxes on the width of their property. This encouraged narrow, tall houses where floor space was at a premium. -I guess the homeowner of that maroon house really didn't want to pay his taxes.

If there's one word to describe Amsterdam, it would be "unique." Wonky buildings lining the canals look like they're trying to pull the Pisa; drugs are tolerated and prostitution is legal - there's even a nursery situated in the middle of the Red Light District. My first venture into the District was by accident rather than on purpose. The first indication telling me that I was in the heart of it was the sight of a vertically challenged and...horizontally gifted woman clad in glittery lingerie. Hmm...

The Dutch government's ways with dealing with certain social issues - drugs, for instance - is quite ingenious. While the rest of the world wastes billions on this seemingly unending War on Drugs, the Netherlands decided drug use is more of a health problem than a criminal issue. By officially allowing such coffeeshops, they separate smokers from criminals who would deal drugs if they were illegal and it works. In my humble opinion, the rest of the world has a lot to learn from the Netherlands.


Weather aside, this trip has been absolutely super. Like the Terminator would say: "I'll be back."

Chrząszcz...whaaaat?

Be able to pronounce "w Szebrzeszynie Chrząszcz Brzmi w Trzcinie" and you'll be branded a true Pole, or so I was told by a friend of Polish nationality. Seriously, Slavic languages have too many consonants and not enough vowels. I thought Czech was hard enough with the tongue twister "Strč prst skrz krk." But Poland gave me a headache with words like "źdźbło." Say what now?

In all honesty, I wasn’t quite looking forward to that nine-hour train ride to Krakow. Not when I was suffering from an incessant sore throat that refused to go away. Then I found out that the couchette train ticket I’d bought was in fact a seating ticket in an eight-person compartment. (Holy cow! A full six-person compartment is already unbearable. Eight should be made illegal.) Resigned, I sat down with a huff. But hey, I’ve done it with the sister before. What more, I’d rather be sharing the compartment with a man who spoke no English (he left halfway through the journey) than with an overzealously friendly man whom we got tired of entertaining three hours into our journey from Zagreb to Sarajevo.

All in all, a very uneventful journey. After checking into the hostel (free breakfast even on check-in day?! Heck, yes!), I wandered into the city centre. I had five hours to kill before Paula, a dear friend and ex-flatmate in Prague arrives from Warsaw - our meeting being the main priority of this trip.

Castle. Check.
Jewish quarter and synagogue. Check.
City square with a clock tower that chimes trumpets (and abruptly cuts short) on the hour. Check.
Castle. Again.
City square....again?!?! Damn. Krakow is small.

A nice, laughter-filled relaxing day before the mentally draining day that was Auschwitz. The familiar words "Arbeit Macht Frei" (Work Makes (one) Free), emblazoned on the iron gate leading into the camp is probably, in my opinion, the most cynical taunt of the 20th century. This mockery wasn't really the initial intention: my tour guide at the Dachau Memorial - a History major - mentioned that the message held out the prospect of salvation. That prisoners should aspire to achieve freedom through work in the spiritual sense, even though such aspirations are, in most cases, hopeless.

As I stared at the mounds of suitcases, artificial limbs and human hair on exhibition, I was suddenly overwhelmed with anger, sadness and horror. As Holocaust survivor Abel Herzberg said, "There was not six million Jews murdered; there was one murder, six million times."

It's hard to believe that merely 68 years ago, this was the hell on earth. The horrible dream that really happened.

I spent the day wandering around the camp in silence and reverence for those that perished. This visit, while unpleasant, was a good reminder of what ignorance and evil can do if allowed to flourished. Lest we forget the history of the Holocaust, remember then the haunting words of George Santayana,"Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it."

Implusiveness...

...is never a good thing.

Two weeks of being a desk monkey, staring at a computer screen eight hours a day, processing endless amounts of data into the company system, has gotten me antsy. After a high of backpacking with the sister, I was rearing for another trip.

On impulse, I whipped out my credit card on Monday night and bought plane tickets: I decided that I needed an "appetizer" before my massive solo backpacking trip at the end of the semester. So I can get into the groove of traveling alone.

The destination? Amsterdam. And Brussels. And I only have 57 hours total for the long Easter weekend because of flight scheduling. Absolute madness, I know. But totally doable.

Only one minor, insignificant problem: I had overlooked the fact that it's a long weekend and hostels are booked solid. Even the sketchy ones that are smoked-filled with stoned kids, smack dab in the heart of the Red Light District, are unavailable.

FAB-ulous. I suppose the benches at the train station will have to do.

Ho Hum

Trust the best bus company in Czech Republic to not have a ticket counter in a city like Vienna - where tons of travellers rely on this cheap and efficient mode of transportation to get to/from the two popular destinations. Indeed, I spent more time waiting outside the Vienna Airport for a Big Yellow Bus than exploring the city itself. Reason being that I wanted change my date of departure back to Prague to a day earlier.

My love for Vienna the first time I was there is unbeatable. The city's charm was lost on me this second time around. This is highly likely contributed in part by the fog that followed us all the way from Ljubljana. Also, at that point of our trip, I was ready to take a break from all the downsides of backpacking. I was craving hot, home-cooked food (no more PB-no-J sandwiches, please!), waking up as late as I want, and tired of worrying about accommodation availability and being on schedule to catch trains. Backpackers' spontaneity is only enjoyable when one has no time restriction.

Regardless, Vienna was fun for an entirely different reason: an old friend of Swan's from Slovakia - whom she'd met in New Zealand eight years ago - hopped on a train from Bratislava to meet up with us. We had a blast catching up and reminiscing about our good days in KiwiLand.

All in all, a good way to wrap up our 17-day shenanigan traipsing around the Balkans.
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Zbogom, Republika Slovenija

My ex-roommate's boyfriend's roommate backpacked around Europe last summer and mentioned that Slovenia was his favourite country out of all the countries he'd visited. Conversations with fellow backpackers sealed our decision in making a quick pit stop to Slovenia's capital en route to Vienna.

Ljubljana was...boring. Even the castle was lackluster. Fine, I admit to my docking off major points for a lousy cheesecake I had in a popular kavarna that came highly recommended by Lonely Planet.

The only two cool things I did were:

(1) Stay in a former prison on the site of former military barracks - which was also the Slovenian headquarters of the Yugoslav National Army
(2) Chow down on a horseburger. Yes, I do mean those beautiful (but smelly) creatures that go neigh-hey-hey-hey.

This ginormous hunk of a horseburger puts McD's puny beefburgers to shame

A thick fog shrouding the city made us think twice about our initial plans to head to Bled the following day.

Me: Do we stick to the plan, or just forget about Bled and head to Vienna earlier?

Swan: Well...we've seen lakes, right? We've seen castles too. (ponders) You decide.

And so, I decided that we head to Vienna earlier. Na svidenje, Ljubljana. I don't think I'll ever see you again.

Powering Through

Much as I'm a city girl, I also love the sun and the sea. Nothing makes me happier than spending hours lazing under the sun while listening to the waves pounding onto the shore. We barely spent 24 hours in Split but managed to absorb some UV rays (yay!) and feed the bed bugs (yikes).

Granted, while Split may be more of a harbour town and lacked sandy beaches with big waves, it was still nice (sans the bed bugs). But in no way comparable to Dubrovnik.

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