Whether it be through cheesey pop music, or the wise adages of ancient soothsayers, life is often described as a rollercoaster. There are ups and downs, twists and turns, and sometimes even full loops and swirls.
Personally I think this might be a bit of a relaxed description in today's frantic society. I believe that life is far more like a yo-yo in the hands of a champion yo-yo master. Does that sound childish?
Have you ever seen a champion yo-yo master before?
Think of a rollercoaster tied on a piece of string travelling three times as fast and not limited by the direction of the track in front of it. Unlike with a rollercoaster there is no end of the road. There is no potential foresight of where you might be taken to next. There is only the hand of the master, who alone has the power to decide which direction the yo-yo will be flung in next, or when the perpetual motion will finally cease.
After hunting for a room to stay in for over 4 weeks, I thought I had finally found somewhere. A room in Bruntsfield, the area where I was hoping to live, with reasonable rent, fantastic flatmates and a beautiful room with all I could need. As I was greeted by two smiling faces at the open door, I knew that this was a place I could live.
Everything went well. And apparently I wasn't the only one who thought so - I was humbled by an acceptance the next day from the two current tennants. They would love to have me! We would meet again on Thursday night to discuss the finer points of my moving in and, I hoped, to find out a little more about each other.
But come Thursday afternoon I was surprised by an email - my blog had been found after a quick search of my name. I was initially flattered. Someone had been reading my blog, someone I didn't even know!
But then came the crushing news. My blog revealed an airiness in my plans, and caused some hesitation on behalf of my soon-to-be roommates. They needed committment. They were afraid that I couldn't offer that.
I won't pretend I wasn't surprised. Of all the things in my life, I never thought that this blog, this very blog that you are reading, would get me in any amount of strife. In fact, I hoped it would do the opposite (although they did mention that they enjoyed reading it, and for that I thank you).
But as the door closed on my vision of a beautiful Bruntsfield flat with fabulous flatmates, I completely understood their concerns. This was nothing personal, we were all just victims of unbelievable chance. Put in the same position myself, I would definitely need some convincing to take a different course of action.
The very next morning, feeling a little down at the bottom end of the yo-yo string, I opened the front door of my temporary accommodation to find a smiling neighbour.
"Hi, are you one of the new tennants in this flat?"
"Oh, um, not really. I'm just staying while I search for a room of my own. I'm just heading out to work."
"That's ok, I was just dropping by to say hi, welcome to the building... but you say you're looking for a room?"
"Yeah, hopefully somewhere closeby, I really like the area."
"I have a room."
"You have a room?"
"I have a room... Come, take a look. I'm looking for someone for about two or three months just to help cover a bit of the rental cost. Its a beautiful room."
As she pushed open the door to an enormous double room with a gorgeous bay window, elegant old furniture and a wonderful, positive vibe I knew that as quickly as one door had closed another one had opened literally just downstairs.
I move in this weekend.
I wonder... in which direction will I be thrown next?
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
When its time to party we always party hard
I have rather fond memories of my 21st - definitely a highlight of 2007.
I will admit that I did my fair share of complaining in the time leading up to the party. I consented to a party, yes. But my idea of a party was vastly different from my parents. I envisaged a barbeque in the park with my closest friends and family, a football, an old portable stereo, and maybe a balloon or two and some children's party games.
What eventuated was (what most thought to be) a rather grandscale event. Set in a beautiful (permanent) marquee in a park, complete with crisp white table clothes and shining silver cutlery, my birthday turned into a wedding without a bride. Despite my protests, I was the fortunate recipient of (what I thought to be) a lavish celebration of my 21 years. In fact, it was so brilliant that I happily conceded to being spoiled, and revelled in all the attention.
This weekend past I learned the true meaning of extravagance.
Over 340 guests were ushered into a reception marquee to begin the evening. Served champagne and canapes, they were gently serenaded by a crooner's drifting voice set to a baby grand piano, a double bass, and the trickling of a multi-leveled fountain which had been constructed on the tent's carpeted floors. Everyone was dressed magnificently, conversing vibrantly and preparing for what was to be a spectacular evening.
Urged into the adjoining dining hall marquee, guests were seated at tables featuring elegant centrepieces of flowers and candles, table cloths to the floor and cutlery arranged perfectly. We served their three courses promptly from the temporary kitchen assembled in yet another marquee next door, and kept their wine glasses brimming with wonderful whites and rather rich reds.
Dessert was followed by a choreographed display of fireworks, set to a 16 minute soundtrack, all set up within the grounds of the estate which was playing host to this splendid soiree. Whilst guests enjoyed the show outside, preparations were underway inside - tea and coffee was served in the dining area, whilst the partitions between the dining and reception area were removed to reveal an amazing transformation. The reception tent was now a cocktail lounge.
An additional area was opened up with a tiled dancefloor, complete with LED fairy lights embedded in the floor, and a stage at the rear hosting a 15 piece big band. This nightclub-like scene extended into a more relaxed space with lounges, bar tables and stools, colourful lighting and mysterious dark corners. Set right at the rear of the room was a bar offering a menu of beer, wine, cocktails and spirits, where we were kept busy with guests waiting three people thick to be served drinks and keep the festivities alive.
The big band may have finished belting out their big tunes around midnight, but the DJ was more than adequate at keeping partygoers on the dancefloor or crowding the bar for refreshments.
Bacon rolls were served at 2am, fueling the fun and prompting renewed waves of energy from once-tiring guests. Drinks continued to flow until well after 4am, whilst the dining hall was quietly packed away unbeknownst to any revellers.
Come 5am our bus arrived to take us home. Weaving our way through a still-jumping nightclub, past weary bodies sprawled over lush white lounges, we made it out into the fresh morning air, away from the thump of the drum 'n' bass that was relentlessly pounding away inside.
All this for a 21st.
Conservative estimates have priced this party somewhere between 200 and 250,000 pounds. Half a million Australian dollars.
For those of you still chuckling at the grandeur of my 21st, may I at least point out that I didn't have a fountain.
I will admit that I did my fair share of complaining in the time leading up to the party. I consented to a party, yes. But my idea of a party was vastly different from my parents. I envisaged a barbeque in the park with my closest friends and family, a football, an old portable stereo, and maybe a balloon or two and some children's party games.
What eventuated was (what most thought to be) a rather grandscale event. Set in a beautiful (permanent) marquee in a park, complete with crisp white table clothes and shining silver cutlery, my birthday turned into a wedding without a bride. Despite my protests, I was the fortunate recipient of (what I thought to be) a lavish celebration of my 21 years. In fact, it was so brilliant that I happily conceded to being spoiled, and revelled in all the attention.
This weekend past I learned the true meaning of extravagance.
Over 340 guests were ushered into a reception marquee to begin the evening. Served champagne and canapes, they were gently serenaded by a crooner's drifting voice set to a baby grand piano, a double bass, and the trickling of a multi-leveled fountain which had been constructed on the tent's carpeted floors. Everyone was dressed magnificently, conversing vibrantly and preparing for what was to be a spectacular evening.
Urged into the adjoining dining hall marquee, guests were seated at tables featuring elegant centrepieces of flowers and candles, table cloths to the floor and cutlery arranged perfectly. We served their three courses promptly from the temporary kitchen assembled in yet another marquee next door, and kept their wine glasses brimming with wonderful whites and rather rich reds.
Dessert was followed by a choreographed display of fireworks, set to a 16 minute soundtrack, all set up within the grounds of the estate which was playing host to this splendid soiree. Whilst guests enjoyed the show outside, preparations were underway inside - tea and coffee was served in the dining area, whilst the partitions between the dining and reception area were removed to reveal an amazing transformation. The reception tent was now a cocktail lounge.
An additional area was opened up with a tiled dancefloor, complete with LED fairy lights embedded in the floor, and a stage at the rear hosting a 15 piece big band. This nightclub-like scene extended into a more relaxed space with lounges, bar tables and stools, colourful lighting and mysterious dark corners. Set right at the rear of the room was a bar offering a menu of beer, wine, cocktails and spirits, where we were kept busy with guests waiting three people thick to be served drinks and keep the festivities alive.
The big band may have finished belting out their big tunes around midnight, but the DJ was more than adequate at keeping partygoers on the dancefloor or crowding the bar for refreshments.
Bacon rolls were served at 2am, fueling the fun and prompting renewed waves of energy from once-tiring guests. Drinks continued to flow until well after 4am, whilst the dining hall was quietly packed away unbeknownst to any revellers.
Come 5am our bus arrived to take us home. Weaving our way through a still-jumping nightclub, past weary bodies sprawled over lush white lounges, we made it out into the fresh morning air, away from the thump of the drum 'n' bass that was relentlessly pounding away inside.
All this for a 21st.
Conservative estimates have priced this party somewhere between 200 and 250,000 pounds. Half a million Australian dollars.
For those of you still chuckling at the grandeur of my 21st, may I at least point out that I didn't have a fountain.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The race
Around the corner from our hotel was a little holiday-hire place with a blue scooter and two oversized helmets. For a measely amount and a signature on some forms written in a language I don't understand, I was tossed the keys and warned that there was just enough gas in the tank to make it to the next petrol station.
And so we embarked.
With a full tank of fuel we set about taking wrong turns, flying through the jungle, struggling up hills, dodging roadkill and banana skins and revelling in the wind that lifted the helmets half off our heads, laughing all the way.
Come late afternoon we returned to the hotel and realised that there would be a grand race that evening. Not wanting to miss it, we donned some long sleeves and met by our tiny blue steed in the hotel carpark from where the race was to commence.
And without warning it began! Out of the hotel carpark, taking a short cut through the next parking lot, up and over the footpath, the wrong way down a one-way and we were ahead almost immediately. One red helmet and one white, flapping in the wind as we giggled at our initial daring success.
But our confidence overwhelmed our sense of urgency until we noticed that we were losing our illustrious lead. The hard thing about being in front is having no one to follow, instead having to rely on nothing more than some scratchings on a piece of paper, waving in the wind, with no more right to call itself a map than we had right to call our scooter a steed.
Is that the turn off? The sign says this way! Is this the long way?
I can't read this, it makes no sense - follow the signs! Oh, wait. This is taking us the long way! We can't go back now...
And with that there was a renewed vigour in my twisting wrist, riding the throttle in the fading light. We could see our racing partner ahead, chasing down the finish line with a steadiness that seemed unbeatable, inevitable. But there was power beneath our bottoms yet.
That was our prize. This was our race.
With a flick of the wrist and the mercy of a downhill run, we leaned into the corners, roaring with hysterical glee over the scream of the engine, blind through intersections, around slow traffic, darting through pedestrians,
there's the turn off!
sliding now with the sand and gravel into the final destination. Did we make it?
Did we make it?
We both turn, look our over the white sand, past the gentle lapping of the bright blue ocean and know that we had, indeed, won the race.
I grabbed her hand and we ran over the sand to claim our well-earned reward. The most beautiful sunset over a perfect beach, with tropical islands silhouetted across the horizon and the pinks and oranges of a quickly sinking sun sliding off the few pure white clouds, filling the sky with colours aplenty.
The sand was still warm from the last of the sun's rays. We sat, sank our toes in and breathed the perfection.
With the last of the light we returned to our trusty two-wheeled friend and leisurely trundled towards what would be an amazing seafood dinner, cooked in the local Langkawi style, enjoyed at a tiny table looking out over the beach.
We smiled.
The day had been ours.
And so we embarked.
With a full tank of fuel we set about taking wrong turns, flying through the jungle, struggling up hills, dodging roadkill and banana skins and revelling in the wind that lifted the helmets half off our heads, laughing all the way.
Come late afternoon we returned to the hotel and realised that there would be a grand race that evening. Not wanting to miss it, we donned some long sleeves and met by our tiny blue steed in the hotel carpark from where the race was to commence.
And without warning it began! Out of the hotel carpark, taking a short cut through the next parking lot, up and over the footpath, the wrong way down a one-way and we were ahead almost immediately. One red helmet and one white, flapping in the wind as we giggled at our initial daring success.
But our confidence overwhelmed our sense of urgency until we noticed that we were losing our illustrious lead. The hard thing about being in front is having no one to follow, instead having to rely on nothing more than some scratchings on a piece of paper, waving in the wind, with no more right to call itself a map than we had right to call our scooter a steed.
Is that the turn off? The sign says this way! Is this the long way?
I can't read this, it makes no sense - follow the signs! Oh, wait. This is taking us the long way! We can't go back now...
And with that there was a renewed vigour in my twisting wrist, riding the throttle in the fading light. We could see our racing partner ahead, chasing down the finish line with a steadiness that seemed unbeatable, inevitable. But there was power beneath our bottoms yet.
That was our prize. This was our race.
With a flick of the wrist and the mercy of a downhill run, we leaned into the corners, roaring with hysterical glee over the scream of the engine, blind through intersections, around slow traffic, darting through pedestrians,
there's the turn off!
sliding now with the sand and gravel into the final destination. Did we make it?
Did we make it?
We both turn, look our over the white sand, past the gentle lapping of the bright blue ocean and know that we had, indeed, won the race.
I grabbed her hand and we ran over the sand to claim our well-earned reward. The most beautiful sunset over a perfect beach, with tropical islands silhouetted across the horizon and the pinks and oranges of a quickly sinking sun sliding off the few pure white clouds, filling the sky with colours aplenty.
The sand was still warm from the last of the sun's rays. We sat, sank our toes in and breathed the perfection.
With the last of the light we returned to our trusty two-wheeled friend and leisurely trundled towards what would be an amazing seafood dinner, cooked in the local Langkawi style, enjoyed at a tiny table looking out over the beach.
We smiled.
The day had been ours.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
August Rush
An update from Edinburgh, which is where I am planning on living until the end of November.
I finally have a roof over my head, an agency that doesn't seem to have any problems placing me in jobs and just enough money in the bank account that I can still afford to eat.
Internet access has been limited in Edinburgh, and my web time has been dedicated to job and apartment hunting - not too much has changed in that department, except that my current job allows for some free time online. Hooray!
Life in Edinburgh is... a vibrant, lively grey. Like the clouds that perpetually exist just above the city skyline, Edinburgh is a city with a million different tones, shapes and shades all concealed within the same colour - grey.
There is a rather dramatic beauty in clouds. At a glance they may appear oppressive, overbearing and dull. Yet they are alive, moving, changing all the time. Sometimes they float, sometimes they roll, sometimes they're harbingers of a booming doom, other times they're merely the gateway to the paradisiacal blue above - there's a diversity in their consistency. They're always there, but if you look closely there is always something new to be found in the way they move, in the shapes they make, in the tiny gaps between.
The weather here might be rather dull, but that isn't Edinburgh's most prominent feature (although it might be my most prominent point of complaint). With the world's largest festival just coming to an end, Edinburgh is taking a new shape. As the crowds fade and the party-goers leave, the city is coming into its own and revealing the calm beauty that exists even after the excitement has left.
The drama of a castle perched atop the crags, the gentle, green roll of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's highest hill) and the concrete crassness of the eternally-busy Princes Street form just three sides of a city with many. The fact that Edinburgh is a town whose city boasts not one but two ground levels for many of its buildings is rather indicative of the vibe of this place - you can walk in on ground floor, and leave on ground floor, but end up in an entirely new place. Like the shifting shapes of the clouds overhead, Edinburgh is a city to be explored and enjoyed by those with an appreciation of their own imagination.
And for those with patience.
I wish those clouds would hurry up and disappear, I miss the sunshine.
I finally have a roof over my head, an agency that doesn't seem to have any problems placing me in jobs and just enough money in the bank account that I can still afford to eat.
Internet access has been limited in Edinburgh, and my web time has been dedicated to job and apartment hunting - not too much has changed in that department, except that my current job allows for some free time online. Hooray!
Life in Edinburgh is... a vibrant, lively grey. Like the clouds that perpetually exist just above the city skyline, Edinburgh is a city with a million different tones, shapes and shades all concealed within the same colour - grey.
There is a rather dramatic beauty in clouds. At a glance they may appear oppressive, overbearing and dull. Yet they are alive, moving, changing all the time. Sometimes they float, sometimes they roll, sometimes they're harbingers of a booming doom, other times they're merely the gateway to the paradisiacal blue above - there's a diversity in their consistency. They're always there, but if you look closely there is always something new to be found in the way they move, in the shapes they make, in the tiny gaps between.
The weather here might be rather dull, but that isn't Edinburgh's most prominent feature (although it might be my most prominent point of complaint). With the world's largest festival just coming to an end, Edinburgh is taking a new shape. As the crowds fade and the party-goers leave, the city is coming into its own and revealing the calm beauty that exists even after the excitement has left.
The drama of a castle perched atop the crags, the gentle, green roll of Arthur's Seat (Edinburgh's highest hill) and the concrete crassness of the eternally-busy Princes Street form just three sides of a city with many. The fact that Edinburgh is a town whose city boasts not one but two ground levels for many of its buildings is rather indicative of the vibe of this place - you can walk in on ground floor, and leave on ground floor, but end up in an entirely new place. Like the shifting shapes of the clouds overhead, Edinburgh is a city to be explored and enjoyed by those with an appreciation of their own imagination.
And for those with patience.
I wish those clouds would hurry up and disappear, I miss the sunshine.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Tripping over
There are many fine lines in life: between love and hate, pleasure and pain, success and failure. Travelling puts this already-too-skinny line on a diet, starving the barrier that keeps us from the horror on the other side to the point of transparency.
Yes, you can have some of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer. Yes, your mind is expanded in a dozen different directions all at once. But a huge part of this enjoyment, this fulfilment, this satisfaction is the fact that we can tramp so close to the other side without even realising it.
Because each one of our senses is engaged in trying desperately to absorb the new world around us, we become so absorbed in the experience that we forget the pain that can exist side-by-side with pleasure. We forget the hate that balances love.
So when we slip, tripping over that now anorexic line, we can fall hard.
Ignorance is only bliss for as long as we can stay ignorant. If the hard times manage to creep up on us, we are caught by surprise. Who would think that standing in line to cross the border into Canada could so quickly lead to a violent, physical arrest (as happened to someone in the line ahead of me)? How was I to believe that the owner of the cafe wouldn’t actually give me a job, despite her frequent reassurances? When, how, why did that person so suddenly leave our world back home? It isn’t fair! Where did this pain suddenly erupt from, how did this tragedy sneak into my wonderful worldly adventure? How am I supposed to feel about it? How do we react?
When we are torn from our ideal world of travel and happiness it happens quickly and without warning. Being so far from the comforts of home makes the shock harder to bear and the disbelief can reverberate far louder than when we are in a familiar place.
All of a sudden the brilliance and the wonder of the new things which surround us lose their attractiveness. All of a sudden we are lost. The wide world becomes a scary, claustrophobic place which has us trapped far from the security of our known lives. All of a sudden the freedom of travelling becomes a fear of being so far away.
But the thing about love and hate and about pleasure and pain is that they are mutually reliant on each other – one cannot exist without the other. This is not always an easy truth to accept when you are on your own thousands of kilometres from home, but it is an essential part of travelling.
It is hard to remember, but this is one of the reasons I am here. I won’t always know what I am doing here. I won’t have my safety net to help me deal with those sneaky problems that come crashing into my new world. I will want to pack it all in and come home. But then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will be reminded. I am here because of this. I am here to live through this. I am here because I want to be.
It may be a thin line, made even finer by my distance from home... But every time I trip over, I will to try to remember that the other side of it isn’t far away.
Yes, you can have some of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer. Yes, your mind is expanded in a dozen different directions all at once. But a huge part of this enjoyment, this fulfilment, this satisfaction is the fact that we can tramp so close to the other side without even realising it.
Because each one of our senses is engaged in trying desperately to absorb the new world around us, we become so absorbed in the experience that we forget the pain that can exist side-by-side with pleasure. We forget the hate that balances love.
So when we slip, tripping over that now anorexic line, we can fall hard.
Ignorance is only bliss for as long as we can stay ignorant. If the hard times manage to creep up on us, we are caught by surprise. Who would think that standing in line to cross the border into Canada could so quickly lead to a violent, physical arrest (as happened to someone in the line ahead of me)? How was I to believe that the owner of the cafe wouldn’t actually give me a job, despite her frequent reassurances? When, how, why did that person so suddenly leave our world back home? It isn’t fair! Where did this pain suddenly erupt from, how did this tragedy sneak into my wonderful worldly adventure? How am I supposed to feel about it? How do we react?
When we are torn from our ideal world of travel and happiness it happens quickly and without warning. Being so far from the comforts of home makes the shock harder to bear and the disbelief can reverberate far louder than when we are in a familiar place.
All of a sudden the brilliance and the wonder of the new things which surround us lose their attractiveness. All of a sudden we are lost. The wide world becomes a scary, claustrophobic place which has us trapped far from the security of our known lives. All of a sudden the freedom of travelling becomes a fear of being so far away.
But the thing about love and hate and about pleasure and pain is that they are mutually reliant on each other – one cannot exist without the other. This is not always an easy truth to accept when you are on your own thousands of kilometres from home, but it is an essential part of travelling.
It is hard to remember, but this is one of the reasons I am here. I won’t always know what I am doing here. I won’t have my safety net to help me deal with those sneaky problems that come crashing into my new world. I will want to pack it all in and come home. But then tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I will be reminded. I am here because of this. I am here to live through this. I am here because I want to be.
It may be a thin line, made even finer by my distance from home... But every time I trip over, I will to try to remember that the other side of it isn’t far away.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Love at first bite
Am I singing happily in the cyber-shower? Two posts about love and dating in a row - perhaps I am showing signs of love in my life.
In fact, it is probably time to confess: there is a new love in my life.
It is a very passionate love, tempered only by the distance that has since been thrust upon us. It is a love that has greatly expanded my view on the world, challenged my understanding of cultural experiences and that has taught me to appreciate the more exciting facets of life.
We met within hours of my arrival in Kuala Lumpur.
It was warm. The intimidating storm clouds that greeted me served only to heighten the drama of this strange new place. The pelting tropical rain returned life to my senses that had been lying dormant since my departure from the US over 20 hours earlier.
I knew from the moment that I walked into that little corner cafe that this would be the beginning of a beautiful life-long romance.
I began slowly, gently flirting without stepping outside my personal comfort zone: nasi ayam, a dish which is as simple as the literal translation of its name - chicken and rice. With a cheeky grin I also sampled my first barley ice: a sweet, refreshing drink that quickly became a staple part of my Malaysian diet.
Seeing my own enthusiasm at these initial contacts, I became bolder in my advances. My confidence was rewarded as each and every one of my tastebuds were passionately assaulted with new flavours: small, spicy snails which had to be sucked straight from the shell and adorable little shellfish known as lalahs, their cute name matched by their delicate flavour. I ate not with greed, but with a vigour that increased with every bite. Each taste seemed impossibly good, surpassed only by the next mouthful. And the next.
And the next again.
And the next again until the plates were finished and my stomach was not only full but satisfied in a way I had not known possible.
And thus a passion was ignited in me, one which cannot be extinguished. My first meal in Malaysia will always be memorable for the anticipation, the slow building of excitement, and the amazing crescendo to conclude. My last meal in Malaysia will undoubtedly be one of the saddest moments in my life, for I have never, ever been so in love with a country's food before.
Malaysian food (in all your glorious forms), I love you.
In fact, it is probably time to confess: there is a new love in my life.
It is a very passionate love, tempered only by the distance that has since been thrust upon us. It is a love that has greatly expanded my view on the world, challenged my understanding of cultural experiences and that has taught me to appreciate the more exciting facets of life.
We met within hours of my arrival in Kuala Lumpur.
It was warm. The intimidating storm clouds that greeted me served only to heighten the drama of this strange new place. The pelting tropical rain returned life to my senses that had been lying dormant since my departure from the US over 20 hours earlier.
I knew from the moment that I walked into that little corner cafe that this would be the beginning of a beautiful life-long romance.
I began slowly, gently flirting without stepping outside my personal comfort zone: nasi ayam, a dish which is as simple as the literal translation of its name - chicken and rice. With a cheeky grin I also sampled my first barley ice: a sweet, refreshing drink that quickly became a staple part of my Malaysian diet.
Seeing my own enthusiasm at these initial contacts, I became bolder in my advances. My confidence was rewarded as each and every one of my tastebuds were passionately assaulted with new flavours: small, spicy snails which had to be sucked straight from the shell and adorable little shellfish known as lalahs, their cute name matched by their delicate flavour. I ate not with greed, but with a vigour that increased with every bite. Each taste seemed impossibly good, surpassed only by the next mouthful. And the next.
And the next again.
And the next again until the plates were finished and my stomach was not only full but satisfied in a way I had not known possible.
And thus a passion was ignited in me, one which cannot be extinguished. My first meal in Malaysia will always be memorable for the anticipation, the slow building of excitement, and the amazing crescendo to conclude. My last meal in Malaysia will undoubtedly be one of the saddest moments in my life, for I have never, ever been so in love with a country's food before.
Malaysian food (in all your glorious forms), I love you.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
First impressions
Humans, by nature it seems, are quick to judge and slow to change their minds.
Going on a first date we are usually eager to excite each of the senses of our potential partner: we want to look sharp, sexy; we want to smell fantastic, inviting; we want to feel clean, smooth (or stubbly, depending on the look you are going for); we want to sound intelligent, witty and; should it progress this far, we want to taste sweet, fresh for that first kiss. We aim not just to attract, but to give an overall impression of the person that we are. That is what we hope is attractive to this intriguing other.
(Author's note - I realise that this is an idealistic view of the dating world. Please humour my naivety for now, for I would hate for my idealism to be crushed at this stage in life)
My first date with America was in the run-down, expansive dungeon that is LAX. Possibly the most disgusting airport I have ever seen, it is characterised by open ceilings revealing a mess of filthy air-conditioning systems and a jumbled maze of wiring. Every visible surface seems to be dirty; people seem too disinterested to be approached for directions or help. If I didn't have the promise of a brighter future with friends and family on the other side, I doubt that this date would have gotten past immigration (except for the fact that I had invested so much in this first date that I would be obliged to continue).
Taiwan, in transit, greeted me with a beautiful complex that was clean and smart looking. Just from spending 40 minutes in the airport, I am already enticed, and hope to return. It appears to be a relationship worth pursuing.
Kuala Lumpur International Airport leaves a wonderful first impression. Staff were friendly (I was even greeted with an unprecedented smile by the immigrations official), helpful and accommodating. Well organised, tidy, sparkling like new, it invites you in to Malaysia with an air of prestige, implying an exciting country which takes pride in its hospitality. The only disappointment I have with my relationship with this gorgeous country was how short our time together was.
Judging by its airport, Bahrain is presented as a country of riches and luxury. There is an abundance of help at hand from smart-looking staff, the shopping is expansive and the announcements are friendly. This is definitely a date that I hope to call soon.
Heathrow airport is nothing spectacular. Old, shabby, with carpet that has literally worn through, it is an airport that sees too much use and not enough love. Heathrow seems tired. With immigration officials who appear to be looking for any excuse to end your fun and send you packing, it makes England appear an oppressive, intimidating place. Taking the next step feels like a leap of faith: I know there is a lot on offer behind this initially dubious exterior. Beauty must come from within (right?).
I am glad that I didn't allow my first date to be the foundation for my impressions. Thus far things with the United Kingdom have been progressing well. It looks as though we might even share a place in the not-too-distant future - perhaps my faith has been well placed.
Going on a first date we are usually eager to excite each of the senses of our potential partner: we want to look sharp, sexy; we want to smell fantastic, inviting; we want to feel clean, smooth (or stubbly, depending on the look you are going for); we want to sound intelligent, witty and; should it progress this far, we want to taste sweet, fresh for that first kiss. We aim not just to attract, but to give an overall impression of the person that we are. That is what we hope is attractive to this intriguing other.
(Author's note - I realise that this is an idealistic view of the dating world. Please humour my naivety for now, for I would hate for my idealism to be crushed at this stage in life)
My first date with America was in the run-down, expansive dungeon that is LAX. Possibly the most disgusting airport I have ever seen, it is characterised by open ceilings revealing a mess of filthy air-conditioning systems and a jumbled maze of wiring. Every visible surface seems to be dirty; people seem too disinterested to be approached for directions or help. If I didn't have the promise of a brighter future with friends and family on the other side, I doubt that this date would have gotten past immigration (except for the fact that I had invested so much in this first date that I would be obliged to continue).
Taiwan, in transit, greeted me with a beautiful complex that was clean and smart looking. Just from spending 40 minutes in the airport, I am already enticed, and hope to return. It appears to be a relationship worth pursuing.
Kuala Lumpur International Airport leaves a wonderful first impression. Staff were friendly (I was even greeted with an unprecedented smile by the immigrations official), helpful and accommodating. Well organised, tidy, sparkling like new, it invites you in to Malaysia with an air of prestige, implying an exciting country which takes pride in its hospitality. The only disappointment I have with my relationship with this gorgeous country was how short our time together was.
Judging by its airport, Bahrain is presented as a country of riches and luxury. There is an abundance of help at hand from smart-looking staff, the shopping is expansive and the announcements are friendly. This is definitely a date that I hope to call soon.
Heathrow airport is nothing spectacular. Old, shabby, with carpet that has literally worn through, it is an airport that sees too much use and not enough love. Heathrow seems tired. With immigration officials who appear to be looking for any excuse to end your fun and send you packing, it makes England appear an oppressive, intimidating place. Taking the next step feels like a leap of faith: I know there is a lot on offer behind this initially dubious exterior. Beauty must come from within (right?).
I am glad that I didn't allow my first date to be the foundation for my impressions. Thus far things with the United Kingdom have been progressing well. It looks as though we might even share a place in the not-too-distant future - perhaps my faith has been well placed.
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