Choosing Baby Over NZ

"I love Spring! Can you see how happy I am? Don't I look happier than I have all Winter? It's the Spring, I tell you", I squealed. That was two years ago.

When I said those words, I had no clue that my life was about to change. Scratch that. The clues were all there, heaps of them buzzing in front of my eyes every day. My life was about to take an overhaul but I had failed to recognize the signs. I complained about ageing and took a little pleasure in the weight loss. If someone had said to me that I may be having a baby, I would have laughed (maybe they did and maybe I did).

The only change I foresaw in my life was a career change. I could totally see THAT happening. New job. Excitement. More money. I had a list of places on my place-to-visit board that I could see being ticked off. My biggest question was whether I could afford that big Europe trip, especially as I was travelling to New Zealand the following February. Maybe I could swing it because DH would find a job by then. Surely, with his high IQ and superior skill-sets, he wasn't going to be without a job for long!

Five days after I said those words, I was sitting at the GP's office. I won't go into the details of that argument but it could be roughly summarized like this:

You're pregnant.

No, I'm not!

A blood test should confirm it.

A week later, he was writing me a referral to see an obstetrician. 

Ross was a funny guy. One of the first things he told me was that he offered no refunds or returns. He also informed me that RSPCA would not help me either. Then he warned me not to get overweight or I'd be hard-pressed to lose the extra weight. Truer words have never been spoken.

Fast-forward to the following February. New Zealand was the last thing on my mind, as I lay there telling the annoying mid-wife to go away. No, I did not want to sit on a ball in the shower. I just needed some sleep. Yeah, like that was happening!

Five days later, we bundled the wee little thing into the car seat, buckled her up and drove home. I kept wondering how they could trust that life in my hands. Hospitals should not be allowed to do that! There had to be some rules against it, in the interest of the baby. When we got home and realized that the car seat buckle hadn't been done up properly, I knew I was right!

In spite of the crazy year that at times dragged on and other times flew past, the New Zealand dream was still there. If I managed to keep her alive till then, we would celebrate her 1st birthday in NZ. Just us surrounded by beautiful scenery and unfamiliar faces. 

Let's just say the stars refuse to align for New Zealand to happen as yet. Maybe I should plan Europe. In the meanwhile, I continue to grapple with the changes this new lifestyle has brought for me. 

Rentals Anyone?

Is it better to rent a house or own one? It seems like a pretty straightforward question. Own one, of course! Why would anyone want to rent a house when they can own one? Well, maybe if you are like Jack Reacher from Lee Child's Reacher series, then you would rather rent a house. Reacher liked to be on the move and did not want the feeling of having roots at any one place. It sort of makes sense, come to think of it. 

So, it really comes down to what kind of a person you are and how you like to live your life. Most people like the stability of having roots while some enjoy the high of being a few feet above the ground. Usually the younger you are, the less concerned you are about having roots. As you get older, you start thinking about where you want to retire. You want a place where you can spend days doing nothing more than laying back and enjoying the quiet. Strangely, in my case, it has been the opposite. It's not that I'm terribly old but slightly older than what I need to be allowed to call myself young. 

I grew up dreaming of owning a house. I nurtured the fantasy until I bought an apartment a few years ago. It was not exactly the stuff of my dreams but I loved it. When I banked the last of my mortgage payments, I retired the dream, leaving an empty space where bricks, mortar and splotches of colour had been metamorphosing during my entire childhood. I, however, did not feel the sheer joy that accompanies dreams coming true. The burst of glitter and the background music did not quite happen. It was not that I was not happy but I did not feel the rush I expected to. Is it because I do not spend too much time there anymore? 

When my job took me overseas, I experienced a whole new world. From a developing country to a developed country, the leap was huge. It was not so much the glamour that money held but the scent of freedom that grabbed me. I travelled to as many places as I could during my first year. By the end of that year, I was smitten. This is what I wanted to do. Travel, travel and more travel. When people asked me if I was going to buy a house here, I did not quite get it. Why would I buy one when I could keep moving? I could move states or I could move countries, as my fancy took me. If I wanted to, I could just move houses because I wanted one with a better view from the balcony or had a bigger swimming pool. I could change my mind about what suburb I wanted to live in. There was so much freedom in renting a unit than there was in owning a house. The owner would worry about the registration and taxes, the renovations and insurance. All I needed was my suitcase and identity points to bunk where I wanted to. The smell of freedom had engulfed me to that extent. Jack Reacher, I feel you! 

That is not to say that I do not like the idea of roots. I am happy to be tied loosely to my roots, as long as I can keep flying high for as long as I want to. Tomorrow, I may decide to cut the chord and fly away or turn off the hot air and glide down. I will cross that bridge when I come to it. Yes, it makes sense to me now. Why would people rather rent than own? It is because it gives life the flavour that the consistency of everyday broth lacks. Did I mention it is cheaper to pay rents than make mortgage payments? It may not be so, in the long run but, not knowing what tomorrow holds, it might just be worthwhile. 

Paleo: My Attempt At The Caveman’s Diet

Diets were never my thing. I found the very idea appalling! How could someone follow a certain pattern of eating? What if I felt like eating a specific food on a certain day? I have cravings all the time. One day I feel like chicken and on another, I feel like chocolate. There may be diets that allow chicken but what about chocolate? The general idea of working with an eating schedule was never going to stick with me.

When the doctor said I needed to lose weight, to ease the pressure on my knees, I said WTF. How was I going to lose weight without working out? I could barely walk! Then, my husband said the dreaded word. DIET. I did not buy it. What diet on earth could make me lighter without exercise? There was no way in hell I was going to subject my taste buds to granola bars and oat meals day after day! The very thought of eating less started to make my stomach tingle with hunger. Diets are not my thing. He shoved a book on Paleo diet in my face and insisted I take a look.

The only thing more painful than following a diet is reading 90 pages on why I should. I grudgingly agreed to diet, without bothering to look at the book. I had to do what I had to do. Either I was going to die of starvation or I would lose enough weight to get back on my feet. If I lived, I decided, I would trash the “meal plan” and celebrate with a buffet at Max Brenner.

The first day went by without much of a hassle. It was his idea, so the husband cooked. He was trying really hard to help me stick to this diet. I missed rice but I survived. By the evening of the second day, I felt malnourished. I was starving and I was craving for real food. The husband was out when I came home from work. I threw my handbag on the floor and ran to the kitchen. I dug in the fridge and found 2 thin slices of steak from the previous week. I quickly cooked them and gorged them down as if they would disappear if I waited any longer. Then, I went looking for something sweet. Half a packet of Oreos later, I started feeling guilty. I had not even survived two full days of my diet. How was I going to last 8 weeks?

Surprisingly, that was the last day I gave in to such weakness. Once a day, I would crave to eat something but I would stick to my diet. On the odd occasion, when I felt like cheating on the diet, I would buy my husband the snack and take a bite out of it. The husband was doing his best to make the food look delectable. He decided that larger portions would help cope with my hunger. I came to acknowledge that he was a rather amazing cook. I successfully managed to get through the first week of my first attempt at ‘dieting’ without missing any particular food too much. In fact, by the end of the week I had started to enjoy it so much that I joined in the cooking. Some of the stuff we cooked was fun and everything was so easy to cook.

We never had to throw away anything we made but I wondered how long I could hold off on the cravings. The diet was primarily meat, eggs and lots of greens, with a bit of fruits and nuts. Grains and diary were a big NO. From a magazine I read recently, I found out that Paleo stood for Palaeolithic and the diet itself was based on the caveman’s diet back in the years. Apparently, this is one of the hot diets of recent times. That was encouraging. Suddenly my Paleo diet was ‘cool’.

As we cooked, we tried to understand the effects of the various flavours on the food and appreciated the different smells. We did not just watch but learned from Masterchef every evening. It was all fun but was it working? The increased portions were worrying me. I was not starved any more but was I losing weight? That was the real test. Gingerly, I stepped on the weighing machine on Day 7 of my diet. It took me a bit to realize that I actually weighed lesser. That was the fastest I had lost weight, without any workout. That clinched the deal. No matter what, I was going to stick to this diet! The husband is, obviously, very happy.

I still have a long way to go but it is not so hard anymore. Once this is done, Max Brenner awaits me. Dieting may never have been on my bucket list but I can add it on, now and mark it done. Been there done that. Woot!

Down On My Knees

Chicken pox kept me away from school for a month. I was only 6 then and I remember hating it. I'd always been a healthy kid. It felt like I was being punished for never having fallen sick and I was making up for the all earlier years in one shot. I hated missing school more than anything else.

Decades later, the chicken pox had relegated to dark corners of my mind. While I sympathized with others who fell sick or got injured, I stayed away from anything remotely requiring medical attention. How I managed it is beyond me but I took it for granted. I had abused my body with junk food, no food, erratic workouts for years and all I needed to fix myself up was 2 days in bed, recharging. It is amazing how self-healing the human body is.

Cut to 2012.

It all started with a back-ache that I ignored for as long as I could. It was just sleeping on the couch. Or maybe the bad posture at work. It was going to be fine. I just needed to stop doing those things. I would. It went on this way until I landed flat on my back, on the carpet one fine Sunday morning, unable to perform normal physical activities like getting up, sitting or standing without my back complaining. With much reluctance and driven by panic, I saw a doctor. "Weak muscles", he rued. He was happy to prescribe medicines but I brushed it off saying I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to. He wrote me a letter to get a core strength assessment by a physio and handed me a sheet detailing some stretches I could do, to strengthen the lower back muscles.

Once I started the stretches and the back was beginning to feel OK, I forgot all about the doctor and his physio recommendation. I ignored the niggly sensation in my knees for weeks and waved off the protests during my Krav Maga kicks. I continued to ignore it even after I started to feel like I was going to buckle whenever I walked. I should have at least hooked up to the internet to see if it needed attention but I didn't. I was in denial. It was going to be ok. That was until I carried a heavy bag and walked for about 3 kilometres one evening, while on holidays. Soon, the happy vacation turned into a series of stretches, ice-packs, ultrasound and I was pretty much under house-arrest.

By now I had been suffering all sorts of aches for 2 months and I was aware of my weak muscles. The least I could offer my body was a little rest. For someone who has mis-treated the body for over 30 years, it was a concept hard to grasp. Two weeks into the treatment, throwing all caution to the wind, I headed back overseas and started work. Over the next 2 weeks, I was brought down by my knees once again. It was back to square one. Ice-packs, taped knees, ultrasound, rest. The works. Serves me right for not doing the "rest" thing the first time around. Lesson learned. Right?

I'm just back from another horribly expensive physio session (that my insurance barely covers) and feeling better. All thanks to the massage, ultra-sound and knee-taping (ugh) by my Kiwi physio, who told me she had her first physio appointment at the age of 8. The restlessness that comes with feeling slightly more mobile is back. I want to be out and about, doing all the things I would normally be doing. The only thing that is stopping me from caving in, is knowing how crippled I have been over the weekend... after I had started to walk a little just the week before.

The chicken pox phase jumps to the forefront, from the dark hollows of my mind. It's like a headless villain stepping out of the shadows, in a long black cape. Yet again, is this life making me pay for the score and something years of good health I have had? It's been over 3 months since the first signs of the weak muscles appeared and started giving me grief. I can't wait to feel "normal" again!

I feel exactly like I did when I was 6 years old. I was forced to stay in the bedroom so I would not spread the germs around, only being allowed to get out if I needed to use the bathroom. Mum brought me food and water but I was kept away from the outside world. This time, I'm older and the room is a house, but the feeling is all the same. I am counting down minutes to get back to the outside world... to run and to dance... to kick some groin in Krav class... and to grab that elusive P3 patch... and do all those crazy things on my list...

Alone At The Movies

A couple of years ago I would never watch a movie by myself. The very idea was appalling. Having to watch a movie alone meant that you had no one to go out with. In other words, it meant that you had no friends. If you've lived for a quarter century and had no friends, there was something seriously wrong with you. If you've lived in the same city during most of those years, and had no friends, you really need to be worried. In other words, if you went to watch a movie alone, it was time to stop and review your life.

One day, when I was alone at home and bored, I did it. The walk to the cinema felt like an adventure. Once there, I felt everyone's eyes on me. The voice in my head responded to each one of them with, "Yeah, I'm here by myself. Do you have a problem with that?" There was excitement coursing through me as I got down the stairs after the film ended, and walked home. I sent a text to my husband and called mum to tell them what I had done. I wrote to my best friend that I had been to the movies by myself. At twenty-something, going to the movies alone should not have been something to get so worked up about but it was. 

Now, if I had had no one to share that with, I would have been miserable. It goes back to the same theory about not having friends. You might as well be the protagonist in one of those romantic films, looking desperately for the right guy/girl to come along and growing miserable while you wait. Friendship is to us what falling in love is to the Western world. 

One fine winter morning, I arrived in Australia to start a new life. One of the biggest things about this new beginning was being alone. I had no friends. I knew no one. I assumed that I would make lots of friends at work. Everywhere I had worked so far, people had loved me. Imagine my horror upon finding that was not to be the case. While people would be friendly, making friends was not as easy as I thought it would be. I joined classes and I spoke with strangers. I remained alone. Everyone was nice but I had no friends.

I realized that I was on my own and I had better make the best of it. Staying home, reading books was one thing but I could not stay locked inside for ever. I had to get out if I wanted to make friends. Initially, I whinged to my best friend about not being able to make any new friends. He said to give it time, "Within a year, you will have lots of friends to go out with". I was horrified! Was I going to be alone for a year? 

I started going out by myself. I found that I enjoyed it. Being alone meant that I got to meet with lots of strangers. I could have conversations with people who shared similar tastes as mine and come away without any obligations. I didn't know the names of most people I spoke and a lot of times I didn't know what they did. It was just two people or a group of people exchanging a few sentences. It was almost always happy conversations. There were no emotions involved, no expectations. This was the a new kind of friendship altogether. The free games by the city council on Thursday nights were my favourites. I could play Chess, Scrabble, Jinga and I could watch others play. I didn't have to know anyone. I had a whole bunch of new friends every week. We played, we laughed, we had so much fun. Being alone and meeting new people was such an amazing endeavour. I began to enjoy it immensely. 

There were days when there were no games and there was not much happening where I could meet new people. I didn't want to go home and be alone. I decided the best thing to do was go to the cinema. That was an activity that didn't need any company. I could go by myself, choose a movie on the spot and watch it. I had the company of all the others at the cinema while, at the same time, I was by myself. It was like having the best of both worlds. Soon, it became the thing I did when I had nothing else to do. 

I bought a membership card at the cinema in town and it became my best friend. When I was sick, I could catch a movie. When I was alone and depressed, I would check out a new film. When there was a good movie playing, I could just hit it. When I felt like doing something and there was nothing else, I would head off to the nearest movie theatre. I am hardly ever disappointed. It's an escape and an entertainment. Now, I average at about a film a week. It has been over a year and I have plenty of friends. That means I don't always go by myself but there are days when I do just that. The time I spend by myself is my friend too. 

Bring In The New

The company was replacing an old piece of machinery with not a new piece of the same machine but a whole new deal. It meant that the staff who knew the operations of the current machine had to start at the beginning of the learning curve when the new one comes in. Needless to say, there was a fair amount of resistance to the change. The management won the argument, if there ever was one, and the shipment arrived at the door one fine morning.

As production had to go on, the old working systems were kept running while the new one was being installed. It took twice as much space to run the factory this way and slightly more expensive but the deal had been signed. The traders from the supplier's factory arrived with boxes of the various parts of equipment, expecting help from us to configure it according to our needs. Some experienced workers were yanked off the floor to assist with setting up the system. The less experienced staff were left fiddling with running the operations of the shop.

The old men did not want to leave their familiar environment and the young boys, excited about the new toy, were not allowed anywhere near it. "You lack the skills to help with the fitting", they were told. Hanging about the older rusty tools made the young crowd restless while their counterparts poking around with the mass of shiny metal parts upstairs were wavering. For a while, everyone on both floors was an unhappy person. Everyone felt like an apprentice.

In time, people accepted their roles grudgingly and the noise from the two systems banging about became the way of life. Occasionally, one of the newbies downstairs would be called upstairs, to move something here or explain something there and they would go back. The couple of times I went upstairs, I came down charged up.

The big machine came with a lot of little attachments on the side. None of it was free but, for some reason, the management had decided that it would be useful to buy the extra stuff too. As they were fitted, which was rather quick, they were brought downstairs to start operations. They came with the promise to function without any hitches, hence not in need of much attention. In reality, that was not the case and before long, we were juggling too many things on our floor. The people that were upstairs were not coming back.

One day, the area I was working in got called to bring a box back from upstairs. It was acknowledged that it would be heavy and clunky but also came with the promise of easy maintenance and a possible upgrade. We were sceptical but also eager to see what it was like.

The first thing we learned, upon opening the box, was that it was not going to plug into our existing set-up. It had to sit by the side and drone on by itself. Considering that we merely had to keep an eye on it to make sure it was picking up the right materials and thrashing out the stuff that we could sell, we were not too concerned.

The next morning, two technicians and two negotiators were sent to acquire the working knowledge of the new box from the suppliers. The surprises never seemed to end. The training was much harder than we anticipated. As one of our trainers constantly repeated, the devil was in the details. There were more details than we could assimilate each day. While the sellers knew their product very well, they had no idea about what we were doing. Trying to understand their apparatus in our environment was a Herculean task, made harder by the differences between the two parties. We spoke different languages and lived in different cultures. Not literally, of course, but it might as well have been.

We flung balls at them from all sides and they batted as best as they could. A few words were exchanged in frustration, when things didn't go very well. Eventually, the handover was complete and we went back to our respective offices. The new machine was placed in a little corner, eating away resources and churning out objects that we never had time to look at. The marketing guys would pick it up and sort it out. Many days went by before any one of us had a chance to see what was going on there.

This morning, the thing started to splutter and cough, all of us crowded around it, adding our two pennies worth of knowledge from the handover. None of us knew exactly what to do. Within the next couple of hours, shit hit the fan and everyone was yelling at each other. Some bright kids ran to the store to bring the operations manuals. This is just the beginning.

Chapter 7: Sunset and Sunrise

I am going to start writing in small print now. This is the last sheet of paper I've got. I have some more in my suitcase in the overhead compartment but I don't think I will bother with that. It would break my monotony and Elle's writing too. I've already lost a few precious moments pondering over it. Writing in small print has reminded me of the time my friends and I decided to do that for fun, in college. One of our professors used to dictate endless pages of notes in his excruciatingly boring class. We came up with unique ways of amusing ourselves, one of which was to write in really small print and see who would use the least number of pages. Some students even wrote on the margins of the page. Our argument that we were trying to save paper did not quite save us from the professor's wrath, when he got wind of our secret game!

I am trying to slow down but my fingers are trapped in a rhythm. It is going to be hard reading small print that I write at this speed. The words in my head are still flying past, so that is not helping either. Now, I'm going back and forth trying to pick up words that I missed. This is not looking good.

The pilot has just announced that we are "440 miles, that is 750 kilometres, north of Melbourne, coming up over the west of New South Wales". He is saying that we are ahead of schedule by 20 minutes and will arrive in Melbourne at 10 past nine by the local clock. He is now reminding us that we need to move our watches forward by an hour. I would love to pull out my mobile and do that now but I think that might be frowned upon. I don't think I'll change the time on my iPad. It doesn't matter.

The sun is shining bright outside. It is strange to look out and see the sun shining so bright at half past 8 in the night. Even if there is daylight till late in summers, I doubt that the sun is this bright at this hour. The time on clocks and watches is redundant up here in space, isn't it? 

The clouds are a beautiful combination of white, light and dark grey, with shades of pink and orange in the mix. The horizon is layers of blue, green, yellow and orange, just like the pictures in our Physics text books when we learnt about refraction. I should stop writing and take a few pictures of this. Yeah, I do that a lot. The pictures I take on my mobile during flights look alright on the mobile but they never look the same when I put them on the computer. I hate it when that happens but it hasn't stopped me from taking pictures on the mobile anyway. "I can edit them on Picasa", I say to myself each time. It has not happened once.

I'm still dogged by the curiosity as to what Elle's thinking about what I am doing. Surely, it is not usual for the person next to you to be scribing non-stop on a flight? She has switched on her ipod and is listening to music quite loudly. I can hear the beats, even though I can't make out the songs. Oh, she has the flight manual on her lap. I didn't see her pick it up. It must have been when I was admiring the clouds outside. That reminds me. I haven't read the flight safety manual on this flight myself. I must do it as soon as I can. I can't do it right now because if she has picked up the manual in the last few minutes, it will look creepy that I do the same. She will suspect that I am watching her, if she already hasn't.

Hopefully Murphy and his law won't come into play in the next few minutes. The one flight on which I forgot to read the manual (because I was busy writing, may I clarify?), is the one where I hadn't flown in a long time and couldn't remember what to do. What are the odds of that happening? I have spooked myself out now, I had better read the manual. It doesn't matter if she thinks I'm copying her. It is a question of my life. If the plane decides to take a nosedive and I die on this plane, they might find my notes and know what Elle is doing. They will know my last few words but I doubt that I want anyone to read this. Even if I die.

There, I've done it. Relief, at last. Knowing Murphy, he will stay away today. I have no problems with that whatsoever. As far as I am concerned, I can brace myself and do a couple of life-saving manoeuvres if push comes to shove. 

Outside, the sun is setting. On the right side of my view, the sky and clouds are a shade of pinkish grey. Up  ahead, it is a bright yellow shine of the sun, not quite ready to set yet. In some part of the world, people must be beginning to wake up to that light. On my left, it is a dull and depressing grey. The sun has set and night has crept upon the cities there. Come to think of it, I am sitting at the right window seat, which means that I am heading towards that darkness. Of course! It will be night time when we land in Melbourne. It makes perfect sense. Did I just see the sunset and sunrise at the same time? Wow!!

The little sojourn I took to read the manual has dulled my excitement to write. My fingers are hurting more than I am happy about. These must be signs. I had better stop writing once I reach the end of this sheet. I will.

I Heart Music But...

I recently found out that music grows on you, when I borrowed someone's 5 favourite songs to listen to, while I worked. I did not quite get it the first time I heard the songs. As I listened to them again and again, I found that I liked them. Especially one of the songs. 

They say that the kind of person you are can be determined by the music you listen to. I tried to figure what kind of a person that made him but drew a blank. I have never really had one kind of music I have listened to. Right from listening to the same music that someone else in the family used to listen to (and enjoying them) to following my friends during my growing years, I have never really had a type of music preference. Of course, I have songs that I like and some that I do not but that is about it. That is why the radio works perfectly well for me. Somebody else (the radio jockey) picks a playlist he wants to play from. If it is a call-in program, there are heaps of people making up the playlist for me. If I do not like what they are playing, I can simply switch channels and listen to something else.

My moods also define the kind of music I like. Apparently, being moody and the moods defining music preferences is not a good enough excuse, to tell people that there isn't really one type of music you like. Too bad. They will just have to go without an excuse. I do not have a preference. Period. So, I was quite lost when I received an iPod Nano for my birthday last year. I mean, I loved it! It was my favourite colour and it has a screen too. It looks pretty and it is quite handy. My problem was that I did not quite know what songs to put on it. After a few stressful attempts at trying to pick one playlist or the other and having frustrating moments of not finding the sort of music I wanted to listen to, in my various moods, I decided that I would load the ipod with all sorts of music so that I could pick the songs based on what I felt like listening to. To me, it sounded like a great idea, at the time. Only later did I realize that it is how everyone else does it and I should have done that in the first place.

I have seen people looking at their phones/ipods while listening to music, in trains and buses and wondered why they kept changing their minds and not listen to one playlist. Turns out there is no such thing as one playlist. You fill up the player with thousands of songs that you like. You can fill it up with random songs or ones from other people or just something you have heard somewhere, it does not matter. My theory, that you only need to load it with songs that you really like, was flung out the window, the moment I realized this. Once you have done that, you pick songs that you like as you listen to them, one after another. Now, this is something I find really hard to get. Imagine having to keep choosing songs after each one is over! I like to make a quick list and then just let them play one after another. Having to make a choice again and again would kill me. It would stress me out immensely and take the joy out of listening to music, for me. In fact, I would probably spend more than half my journey on the train trying to pick the song that best suited my mood at the time! How awful would that be?

I guess my biggest problem is that I cannot just listen to music. I can listen to music in the background, while I am doing other things but to just stand or sit and listen to music is something I simply cannot do. I have attempted that in the past and ended up losing myself in a train of thoughts, completely blocking out the music in the bargain. The music player would have long stopped playing and I would have not noticed it at all. So, having to pick a song every 3 minutes or so would never work for me.

So, I stuck with my concept of an auto-scrolling playlist and finally made one, to play in my ipod nano. After having listened to the one fixed playlist for a little while, I got bored. I had to make another one. It was too much hard work and I did not have the time. Thus, the ipod nano was relegated to the background and stayed there for a long while. One day, I decided to get a few songs from a friend who liked 'country music'. I was going to make another attempt at the 'normal' way of listening to music on the ipod. As expected, it did not work for me. The ipod went back to the drawer and has not come out since then.

Yesterday, I got my best friend to list his 5 favourite songs. I have been listening to them since then, along with 5 of my own favourite songs. I would love to have put them in my ipod, to listen to, over the weekend. The only problem with that is that I cannot be bothered with the effort of connecting to a computer, make a list (because inevitably I will try to make a fresh list or organize the music in some way or the other) and refresh the ipod with the new songs. The ipod stayed in it's safe place. In the drawer. For now, online streaming music on my iPad will have to do. Then there is the radio on the iPad.

I'll be a hurricane, ripping up trees... 

Clickety Click

Taking photographs when the sun is up and shining bright, is probably the easiest. An automatic point-and-shoot camera is all a photographer needs and even the worst ones can manage a few good pictures. Most amateurs prefer a sunny day to say, a cloudy or rainy one, for this reason. I have discovered that all of this is bullshit. Mostly, if not entirely.

Sunlight means shadows. Partial shadows are usually bad news. There are a handful of good pictures where half of the photograph ends up darker than the other. Most of the time, you either want the picture in light or you want the entire object inside the shadow. Sometimes, sunlight can be harsh. This is not easily noticed in an automatic point-and-shoot because the camera adjusts its settings, as required. Auto settings, however, are limiting. They are pre-programmed to go one way or the other, or another. A reasonably decent photograph might still need editing to adjust colour and contrast if the light was too harsh for the automatic settings. A sunny day with few or no clouds means a boring skyline. In other words, pictures should exclude as much of the skyline as possible. If the landscape around the object is not interesting enough, taking a good picture becomes a challenge. In other words, bright sunlight is not necessarily a photographer’s best friend.

I’m no photographer, let alone a good one. I carry a semi-automatic camera that I have used in auto-mode for most of the time that I’ve had it. The only settings I’ve used are the macro mode, scenery mode (which does not seem to work the way I want, most of the time) and the pre-set timer. I read the manual once and fixed the settings when someone had stuffed around with my camera and messed up the scenery mode badly. By fixed, I mean that I changed a few things randomly and took pictures till they stopped looking like a sheet of white. Since then, I’ve never trusted myself to use the camera in scenery mode. A fear lurks in my mind that I might take a picture in the mode only to later find that it doesn’t look like the real image.

A couple of weekends ago, I learnt a few things about what my camera is capable of doing. Being a semi-automatic, there are limitations but I liked learning that I could be a better photographer than my camera’s auto mode. The discovery of being able to change the aperture and shutter speed has spoilt the automatic mode for good, for me. When I switch to auto, I wonder if the camera is using the most optimum settings for what I want to achieve. My mind goes back to numerous photographs I’ve taken in the past that I’ve had to delete once I get home and load them on to my computer. ISO, focus and composition are terms I have never had to think about when I take pictures. How naïve of me!

Having a digital camera means I can take a few hundred pictures to come home and edit or trash as I please. I can delete pictures on the camera, to make more space, if I need to. When I think back to the days we bought a ‘roll’ for the camera before going on a holiday, I wonder how we did it. I would buy 1 roll (if I could convince mum/dad, we would get 2), which came in sizes of 25 pictures or 32, and try to fit out entire holiday into that. The worst part was waiting till the roll was completely used up, before we could take it to the studio for developing. This usually happened with the second roll. After scrimping and trying to save for the best pictures, you inevitably end up with an unfinished roll. Then, it was a few days of waiting – sometimes as long as a fortnight or more – during which we would hope that the pictures were not shaken or distorted. We had the option of selecting ALL or GOOD on the order form, to indicate whether we wanted all the photos or the good prints only. I always worried that if I marked GOOD, the photographer might not print something that is important to me if he regards it as poor print.

The digital cameras improved photography without improving anybody’s skills by much. It provided the option of taking a number of pictures and selecting the best of the lot. A number of pictures mean various compositions. Somewhere among those hundreds of pictures, there will be a few that followed the rule of third and we end up with a pleasing image. That is how some of us with automatic cameras can still manage to click a few shots that our friends can ‘Like’ on Facebook and drool over. Over time, if the count of pictures with the ‘Like’ increases, we feel like we’re good photographers. Or atleast we attempt to become better ones, to keep the ‘Like’ going.

So, really, Facebook makes us better photographers. Eh? Of course I’m kidding! I’m just a wanderer, lacking photography skills, trying to write a piece on photography. It appears that I have wandered along a couple of roads with the writing too. When the realization of that hits, I know it’s time to put the cap back on the pen!

Manly Halloween Festival

As a compulsive list person, it is apparent that one of the first things I do in any new environment, is make a list. I arrived in Australia last year and settled myself in. Then I made a list. A list of things that would go on my pseudo-bucket list. Let me call it the wish tree. I don't really have a name for it. Maybe I'll think up one soon. 

One of the things on the list was to do a Halloween thing. I suppose it broadly meant getting out and about, dressed in costume. I did not have a real plan. Maybe I wanted to go pub crawling. Maybe I wanted to go trick-and-treat-ing. I don't know. Nothing happened last year, except it remained on the list. This year, a friend suggested checking out the Manly Halloween Festival. I was pretty sure it was kids stuff and not sure I was that desperate. In the end, I did go. Not in costume, of course. Just loose trousers and a tee. The curiosity of the what might be in the parade enabled the trip. It turned out be much more fun that I had expected. 

We arrived there early enough to see the cars being prepared for the Street Parade in the evening. Up and close enough to examine some of them. A number of makeshit stalls, in the form of little tents, lined the main street. They had everything from bits for costumes to toys and candies. The best thing about parades, of course, is that the roads are closed to traffic. Well, maybe not the best but I like walking on the street without having to look left and right for speeding cars. People dressed in garbs of red, black and other bizzare colours strolled along the road, trying to look as creepy as possible. The abuse of colours was apparent, as is wont in any Halloween event. While the adults stuck to their dark sides, the kids dressed up in costumes ranging from vampires to superheroes. There was also the odd angel, princess or warrior, among some kids. Mushy parents, I suppose. 

We picked one side of the road and cruised through the stalls, as you do at such events, knowing fully well that we had no intention of buying anything. The sellers watched, quietly assessing whether you were just a passerby or a potential buyer. They seem to ignore you while you're looking but suddenly spring to life the moment you pick up one of their wares and show the slightest consideration of loosening your purse strings. We easily moved on from shops that sold generic stuff not related to Halloween. We stopped longer at the ones that had wigs, capes and other things that would be useless after that day. There were expensive stuff ($25 wigs! Really?) and there were the Chinese stuff ($5 wig anyone?). 

When we started off, little K was wearing a little mask and a tiger cap with antenna sticking out of his head. As we waited for the parade later that evening, my mate wore a B&W tribal wig with blood dripping off her vampire mouth. In my bright red wig, horns and vampire face paint, the Halloween item on my list was ready to be crossed off. K had the full face of a vampire, complete with the freaky expressions he was putting on. My mate's husband was our personal photographer, as husbands seem to end up most of the time.

The games spread over the festival campus were amazing. I wanted to be a kid myself, so I could try some of that stuff. The stage at one end of the road invited enthusiasts to take a free fencing lesson. You could walk around all afternoon and find something amusing at every turn. In true Aussie style, one family of witches, wizards and weirdos had a barbie set up near the beach (Aussie slang. barbie => barbecue). Beach, food, music and all things crazy. Halloween festival alright. 

The parade started in the evening. When you've spent an afternoon in a crowd filled with the creepiest and whackiest costumes, a street parade fails to ignite your senses much unless there was something different. Scores and scores of creeps walked the streets, failing to impress. Then the cars drove by. Ah! Creativity unleashed and gone berserk. It was freak-a-bulous! There may be some who think all that blood and violence freely roaming the parade would have a negative influence on the children. Get a life! This was fun. 

Maybe next year, I'll get a full costume and go pub crawling. Or trick-and-treating. In any case, Halloween is marked as done on my wish tree. 

Abseiling @ Kangaroo Point

I had made the poor guy wait half an hour. Yet, when he saw me, he gave me a wide smile and cheerfully said, "You made it!". People who carry such positive energy enrich your life simply by being in it for a few minutes.

By the time Marcelo Paiva was done showing me the ropes to Abseiling, I was convinced there was no way I could do it. He insisted that I should try. I would rather have pushed him off the cliff and run from there. Of course, I did not do that. Instead, I obliged. I had nothing to lose by trying, only by not. 

When the knots were tied and harnesses tightened, I was roped in. Literally! I walked slowly backwards, just as he had shown me. Instead of screaming & grabbing him in terror, I experienced a moment of knowing. There is no better way to describe it. Standing there, on the edge of the cliff and trying to lean as far back as I could, I suddenly realized that I knew how to do this. I knew that I could do it. I leaned back, lifted my feet off the edge, one by one & placed them flat on the vertical face of the rock. Once the first steps were taken, there was no looking back. I found myself concentrating on the ropes and the rocks. It was just the rock and my foot, the ropes & my palms - the rest of the world did not exist. When I landed, I was greeted warmly by another excited instructor from Riverlife. He yelled out to Marcelo and said, 'Hey, she has done it!' 

After I had done it once, I wanted to do it again. Of course, I had an hour and half in which to try as many times as I wanted. I tried looking down at one time and almost lost a foothold. My heart skipped a beat. The third time I tried a slightly different route. I tried a smoother, plainer surface of the rocks, knowing that it was not so much the foothold that mattered as it was my feet walking down the rocks as I lowered down by the rope. That was supposed to be my last attempt but I could not stop myself from going for a fourth. This time, I tried the new route and I looked down. No fear. I had conquered it. Atleast, as long as there was my own rope and a belay to support me. It felt great.

One of the best things I like about going alone anywhere is the new friends I get to make. The interesting people & conversations. The enriching experience. Marcelo told me about Capoeira - a Brazilian martial arts form - and I told him about Krav maga - the Israeli martial arts form. He is one of the instructors for capoeira. Who knows? I might end up there one day, to learn the Brazilian style too. And there's music to it, a bit of dance. I'm almost hooked.

I met a lady whose son loves Terry Pratchett and she was so excited to tell me about seeing him walk down the road during one of her overseas trips. Met a few people interested in my experience of abseiling itself. Then a few who wanted to know about rock-climbing and Riverlife. Without realizing it, I had ended up being an ad campaign for Riverlife and their abseiling, in those couple of hours. 

I found out that Kangaroo Point was a paradise for runners. There's a flight of narrow stairs, starting at the bottom of the cliff, right up to the top. I met 2 men who walk/run up & down - they try to cover over 200 steps each time. There is also a lovely park that I missed the opportunity to explore, given that daylight was rapidly diminishing. Not to mention the lovely restaurant atop the cliff with a fabulous view of the river, the Brisbane skyline and the activities at the cliff. 

Riverlife also does kayaking, night paddling, etc. If I don't go back there for rock-climbing, there are other things in store for me. If nothing else, Kangaroo Point itself has a fair bit I am yet to explore. Just when I thought I was running out of activities in Brisbane, a new part of the city presents itself. A lovely suburb. 

Incidentally, the CityCat ferries are back in service, post the floods. I did about 2 CityCat rides and 4 CityFerry trips across the river today. As if to make up for all the days that I missed? Was not intentional but hey, it happened. The new Groove Train at Eagle Street Pier is strategically located, right at the Riverside Terminal for the CityCat. I had just enough time to gulp down a pint of Tooheys Xtra Dry before I rushed off to take the boat home. It was my first time in the night. Black water below me, dark clouds above and blackness everywhere - the silhouettes of the trees that look so green during the day, the office buildings on holidays... the occasional spot of bright light, in many colours, dazzled in the dark of the night. I closed my eyes and took a mental picture.

Yes, it has been a wonderful day. 

Scaling New Heights

All of you who have fear of heights, please raise your hands. Since you cannot see me, let me tell you that my  hand is raised. It used to be worse before. I used to feel mortified at great heights. 

As part of various life experiences, I ended up in various places where the view from atop was breathtaking. I am a sucker for "views", so much so that when booking my flights I always want a window seat on the side that the flight enters the airport so I can see what it looks like down there, from up, in the aircraft. It was impossible to refuse getting to the top of places that held such awesome views. That was the first hurdle I crossed. I did not mind heights anymore. Only as long as I was within an enclosed glass tower (e.g. Eureka Towers in Melbourne) or on top of a hill (say, Mt. Coot-tha in Brisbane), where I knew I was safe. 

When I planned a trip to Sydney, a friend of mine insisted that I do the famous Bridge Climb. At the time, I was not aware of what it entailed and I let him convince me to go for it. Once I saw the bridge & suited up, it started to hit me that I might not be able to do it. As the group started the climb upwards, I felt less and less confident of being able to do it. At one point, my heart was in my mouth and I found myself thinking, "Karl was right in not doing this. One could just die from the fear". Once the moment had passed, I started to enjoy it immensely. The view all along was stunning. Watching the sunset from where we were, watching the city lights come on one by one and feeling the wind on the face made me forget that I feared heights. Since then, I've recommended the climb to everyone I've met and even managed to convince the afore-mentioned Karl to try it.

Chris Rawlinson gave me the first taste of rock-climbing when a group of 3 boys & 2 girls went to Mt.  Beerwah one weekend. I must have done less than 10m when the rocks, slippery from the light drizzle, started to alarm me. I looked down to tell Chris that I might not make it to the top and froze when I realized what a fall could do to me, from where I was. No harness, no guides, no safety measures here. Pure nature. The mountain, the hard rocks and the naked climb. Fortunately, experienced as he was, Chris guided me down the mountain. Later, watching the guys run up & back down like mountain goats, I felt a bit sheepish... I had barely done a small percentage of the climb they covered. Someday I would try this again, I decided. 

This morning, Sarat & I arrived at the Riverlife office at Kangaroo Point at 8.10AM, for a session of rock-climbing. Having done a few metres on a real mountain and considering the fact that there was an experienced guide to watch us over, I was confident I would be alright. However, that was not to be. Firstly, this was more real than I realized! This was a cliff with real rocks, just like the mountains, but worse in that it was an almost 90 degree incline. I barely made it 5m when I simply could not do anymore and had to be let down. Having a rope around my waist and a partner belaying was absolutely no help to my confidence. I could not get enough hand-holds and my shoes kept slipping. I hated it but I knew I had to give up. Standing stuck on a narrow foothold forever was not helping.

Then it was the turn of Kendra, a tourist from California, who had done some rock-climbing at an indoor gym. She had some initial trouble at the exact location that I had been stuck at but she managed to pull it off and make it to the top. Bravo! In his turn, Sarat scaled a little higher than I had but soon gave up too. I decided to give it another shot. Scrambled up, got stuck at the exact same location. The rock that I was trying to wrap my right leg and hand around was too broad for my height and I absolutely could not hoist myself up. I yelled down to Blair, our guide, that I needed a bit of help lifting up. With a little help from the belay, I conquered it and then there was no stopping anymore. I made it all the way up, just one rock short of the peak. Too excited to have gone that far, I did not even bother to attempt to go to the top, I yelled out to be brought down. I think, just knowing how I could get down using rope if I need to, with the help of the belay, had kept me going. 

I also noticed that once I gained a little more confidence, the hand-holds and foot-holds did not matter that much. As long as I was able to grip the rock for even a few seconds with my palms and shoes, I had the courage to move the body. Getting over that inhibition was the big deal. It felt good. We had paid for 2 hours of rock-climbing, so Blair asked us if we wanted to try the same climb again or another one. Sarat was done in, thanks to all the cricket from the previous day. It was scary business too, rock climbing for first timers. Kendra & I decided to try another climb, a different one. 

I let Kendra go first so I could get a mental picture of the landscape of the rock and also watch her movements. I was still a novice, I was not going to kid myself. The initial bit was hard because the rock seemed pretty smooth but she made it to the top fairly quickly. Then, it was my turn. I slipped about 4 times before I could finally start making progress. Blair offered to help with the first bit but I refused. I was sure I could do it. I took a deep breath and told myself I should not try to hurry. Go slow, go easy, this can be done. Within seconds, I was scrambling up more comfortably. There was again, another particularly uncomfortable rock but by now my body and mind co-operated better. Fear had taken a break. I gingerly placed both feet on the best foothold I could get and put both my hands on a single rock that jutted out, right above my head. I put my head down and hoisted myself up. Once that was done, the rest just happened.

One rock after another, I kept going. It felt great. I did not even believe anymore that I could not do it. I just knew that I could. I hesitated a bit at one point where a tiny stream of water wetted the rocks. I was going to look for an alternative when Kendra called out to not let the water deter me. So, I grabbed a dry part of one of the wet rocks and went on. It was a pleasure to find a flat surface at the top, where I could walk with both feet. After sticking my feet in crevices and balancing on my toes on small foot-holds, this was a great break. I wondered if I should stop because I had come up this far, it did not make a difference whether I made it to the top or not. Kendra yelled out and said to go for it. I remembered how I had not made the peak on the previous climb. I decided I was going to do this one right. So I did. 

When I looked down, my heart skipped a beat. I did not look down for long but I allowed myself another peek. I sucked in a deep breath and turned around, in preparation to get down. I called out to the belay to loosen the rope and let me down. It was exhilarating. I was right there, balancing on small foot-holds, grabbing on to bits of hard rock and looking down... feeling excitement rather than fear. I wish I had taken a moment to enjoy the view around me but that might have been a bit much to ask of a first-timer. 

I might do it again. I might do a naked climb on a real mountain or I might not. I do not know. What I do know is that I am grateful for my inane need to try everything in life and for that streak in me that would rather face the fear headlong than give up.

Not My Cup Of Tee

There are times in life when you suddenly decide you need a change. I have times like that all the time. So, last week I decided that I needed to pick up a sport. This was in addition to plans to learn a new language, join Zumba classes, cover all the Theme Parks in the next few free weekends (do not see one in sight for another few but I'm sure there will be one), preparing for my Martial Arts grading, etc. 

It must be easy enough to pick a sport, right? You like something, you find a play area and go for it. Yeah, right! Not in my life! After much thought, golf won the day. Next thing was to find out where I could get a few lessons. There is a little voice in my head that is screaming, "Do you know how expensive golf is? And lessons? Are you out of your mind? Did you win a lottery or something?". I tried hard to ignore it and almost succeeded. But you know how life is a bitch and all that? We had a day out at work and guess where we went? Victoria Golf Club. I decided it was Fate. I was meant to play golf. "Yeah sure, why not"

We headed to the driving range first. Suffice to say that at the end of an hour and half, I had managed to touch the 100 mark a couple of times, the 75 mark a few times and try as I might, I could not make the smiley at 150. It stood there, a large smiley face, eluding me like the times in school when everyone gets a smiley for their homework and you grow old waiting. Two buckets of balls later, it was time for Putt Putt Golf. 

You might think (if you are a non-golfer like me, you would) that the driving range was a practice session for the real golf (er... Putt Putt Golf). I arrived at the location, brimming with confidence. I knew how to hold the driver and I could swing now. Well, better than the start of the day, right?

Surprise!!! These clubs looked nothing like the ones I had just practised with! Apparently, those were drivers, these are putters. Well, they were shorter than the earlier ones and hence might be easier to handle. That is what I thought, anyway. First things first. How do I hold this one? Fortunately for me, a friend was kind enough to show me the stance and the action. 

I wonder if the Oz army has 'hot' as a criteria for selecting personnel. Or maybe just the ones with a certain name starting with T?

Hmmm. Where was I? Yes, Putt Putt Golf. ND and I started teeing off, took a couple of shots and decided we had no clue what we were up to. He wanted to go home. Poor baby, I know the feeling. 

Instead, we went over to where some of the others were playing. PF asked me if I was done playing and I told him I did not know how to play the game. "You can have my game", GJ came running to me. Tell me again why I think he is a nice guy? AL looked up from his mobile phone, put it in his pocket and said, "Go for it, it's simple" and started following us. I gulped. I could not play for the life of me and here was my boss' boss and his boss watching me. A mental thanks to TS for showing me how to hold the driver. Another one to JM for explaining what I need to do. 

My first shot and off into the hole. Yay! LM wanted to know the score. Score? What score? There was no shortage of surprises in this day, was there? We were playing for scores? How do you score? Someone explained it to me. Supposedly, I had played well. One shot. Good. Suddenly, my confidence was soaring. 

It was not long before I realized that golf was not my cup of tea. Beginners' luck and things like that started making sense. It was fun, so I will not mention the skin that peeled off and had to be hidden under a band-aid, the calluses on my palms that were black beyond recognition and other little bruises. No pain, no gain. Right? 

I am not sure I understand why someone would go through so much pain, spend an entire day (or half, maybe) doing this weekend after weekend. I cannot see myself doing that. I can see learning golf slyly being pushed behind some other sport on my list. I'm not ready to give up yet, so that little voice can stuff it!

I'm not sure what the other sport is but I'm sure it will be less dangerous than this one. In my defence, getting injured while playing makes golf a dangerous sport! 

Ah, you heard that little voice too, did you? Annoying, right? I know!

A DIY Blogpost

I'm sitting at my laptop, staring at the screen as I wait on one of the numerous breaks the husband takes during a 10 minute conversation on messenger. A cold breeze suddenly passes by


I seem to have started this blog a while ago (7th Jan 2011 to be exact) and never got further than that. I wonder what I was thinking. I cannot seem to imagine where this story went that day. For some strange reason, it feels worthwhile posting it. Feel free to complete it any which way you like. If you like. Cheers!

24 Hours in KL

With the advent of Facebook, the line between the real and virtual world appears to be thinning real fast. Some complain about how fake it can get, with people lying about their statuses & locations, not to mention their details. Cut to the real world. Does every person you speak to tell you the truth? You get the point. With experience we learn to differentiate between the truth and the lies. Or maybe we don't but we probably don't care. Atleast FB allows us to make choices on what 'friends' we want to listen to. 

I've friends who have visited Kuala Lampur, I've seen pictures that they have posted on their FB pages and somehow I believed that KL was a tourist destination worth a visit. When I booked my flights to India a few months ago, I was flying via KL and saw it as my chance to take a peek. It surprised but didn't worry me that none of my friends I was talking to, in the real world (for argument sake we'll call it the real word and FB world), had been to KL or ever wanted to. I was flying there anyway, so I would check it out.

A fellow-worker who had made a trip to India along the same route as mine gave me tips on what I need to know. It made my life a hell of a lot easier once I got there, I must admit. What seemed like a long while after I landed, I finally arrived at my hotel. It thrilled me to no end to see that KL had a nightlife. At 9PM, I walked around the city. The teeming streets, the numerous pubs and the KLCC shopping centre that was open till late tickled my senses. Where I come from, everybody shuts shop at 5PM. 

The Petronas Twin Towers that the Malaysians tout as their tourist hotspot looked fabulous with the night-lights. I was raring to check it out in the morning. If you are big on malls, you will love the Suria KLCC mall. I am not. It was okay. What struck me most while I was at the mall was how the elevator worked. It took forever for the lift to come down 4 floors. Yet, people would rather wait than take the stairs. I was to find out, by and by, that it is the way the Malaysians function. Everything takes it's time. A lot of. People fritter away time like they have lots of it.

Don't let the picture of the Twin Towers fool you. While it makes a magical picture from the outside, it really is a couple of office buildings. People work there. It was built by the Petronas oil company and has become an iconic sight due to it's unique construction. The public can go to the balconies connecting the two buildings on the 42nd and 86th floors, for a price. The price is not so high in terms of the cost of the ticket but it is in terms of time. If you must visit, you probably could try their online ticketing system. Since KL is a city without much of a view, I found the effort fruitless. You might try their KL Tower instead, for it's cheaper.

You will see signs everywhere asking you to keep an eye on your things, so it is easy to believe that thievery is common there. I escaped that but found the Malaysians mostly hospitable instead (not counting the vagabonds on some streets). Their language sounds rather rough for someone who understands not a word and doesn't sound easy to pick up. It might have been a good idea to have learnt a few words beforehand, I figured. I took a chance with their local cuisine at my hotel and found it delicious. If you shack up at the Concorde, try their House Noodles with prawns.

My short stopover didn't allow for much other than that part of the city but I did read about the Cultural hub in KL which might have been good for someone who loves to experience different cultures. All said and done, I must admit that KL is not a tourist spot. It might be enjoyable for a short stay, though. They seem to have an  nightlife that you must try, a fair bit of culture and some other attractions that could keep you occupied in your daily life (viz Petrosains Science Centre, Batu Caves, etc). As for me, I will catch up on the rich culture if work took me there but otherwise, Malaysia has been crossed off my list and marked as done. 

I wish I'd seen this before I took off: http://www.travelintelligence.com/travel-writing/24-hours-kuala-lumpur

Xmas to New Year

I've been slack on the blogging front. I think up stuff to write, I have the material and then I get lazy. After a blissfully beautiful Christmas, which I insist on calling "the traditional Aussie Christmas" even though people tell me there's nothing traditional about an Aussie Christmas, I made up my mind to blog about it. The draft page remained open on my Chrome for a week before I shut it when I had to restart my PC for updates. That was the end of it.

It has been a crazy week. Busy and free. Full and quiet. Odd and lovely at so many levels.

Christmas Eve involved attending a family mass at the Holy Cross Church at Windsor. It was my first time. I've wanted to do that for many years now. A lovely experience. It felt nice to be at a place of worship after a long time. I had not realized until then that I missed going to a temple or church. It was touching to see that many people with an unfailing faith in God. There were bits when the priest was speaking that seemed to come straight out of the movies. That could be because movies take things out of life in an attempt to make it seem real. It felt out of place but that was just me, of course. I was allowed to take pictures but alas my mobile camera is not the world's greatest. In the end, we all held hands and prayed, then when everyone whispered "Peace be with you" to each other, in reverence, it took me a while to go from 'psst psst psst' and 'Merry Christmas??' to what it really was. Managed to return some myself, eventually.

Christmas was perfect. There is no other way to describe it. Ever since the festive season started, I had begun to feel more than ever that I wanted to see what the inside of a Christmas was really like. I wanted to spend it with an Aussie family and see what they do. Everyone I spoke with merely said "lunch with family", "exchange presents", "that's about it". I wanted to be part of it anyway but no such thing was going to happen. So, I got a stack of books from the library and told myself that I could atleast lose myself in the magical world of stories. That is when I received an invite to attend a 10-day camping trip to Melbourne, Sydney and Canberra. Excited as I was, it was too short a notice to obtain time off at work and to prepare myself. I hated having to let it pass. Then an angel sent me EM, girlfriend of RVR, from my Krav classes, at our pre-Christmas BBQ. 

RVR picked me up from home at 10 on the morning of Christmas Day. The afternoon was spent volunteering at a church, helping with the community lunch for the lonely/homeless/poor. It was interesting to meet so many people, listen to some of the older ones talk about life in their younger days, the even older ones discuss their times, really young ones argue about the fascination of their generation. EM's mum KM chattered away and introduced me to everyone. Such a social and amiable person, she is. Reminded me of my mum. Went back home to EM's parents where EM and I made dessert - chocolate biscotti tart with caramel filling. Yumm. Watching the family exchange gifts in private, is a memory to lock away and cherish. Showered, changed and got lost catching up with the rest of the extended family that came in for a fabulous Christmas dinner. Meeting all those people, the chatter, the excitement, the exchange of information was so overwhelming. The Christmas dinner was a gala affair, starting with PM "saying grace", the Christmas crackers, reading the cheeky jokes aloud, the 3-course meal, the conversations... can't say enough about it. Later, the exchange of presents, reading newsletters, sharing news, more talking, the excitement in the air was simply marvellous. At the end of an enjoyable evening came the goodbyes. 

I was the first to arrive when the day had just begun and the last to leave. A quiet drive back home with RVR, talking about stuff. Bedtime. A perfect Christmas.

Boxing Day was, of course, all about sales and shopping. Even though I had a late start to my day, thanks to the fun and frolic of Jesus' birthday, I shopped till the stores closed. The next day, it was more shopping again. My day started earlier but the spending spree was on till the shops closed. Buying gifts for others can be so much fun, especially when the salary's just been credited into your account. When you toss in a few things for yourself in there, it only gets better.

Back to work after the tightly packed 4-day weekend, which also included cleaning up the mess I call home. I loved it nevertheless, needed to exercise my brains. The 3 quiet days at work went by like a fantasy. Less people, no noise, lots achieved. 

New Years Eve was somewhat like Christmas Eve. Spent the evening with BT and NT. Only, this time it was watching fireworks instead of mass at the church. Walked back to the station, noticing how crowded the city gets on such days (where do all those people come from?) and eyeing the drunks warily, enjoying the colours and how Brissie comes alive on occasions like this. Twenty minutes before the switch to 2011 I knocked off for a good night's sleep.

New Year Day has started on a warm summer morning, just cool enough to enjoy a hot cuppa. Quiet, except for the odd bird. Shooting off to a day trip with friends. Looking forward to a fun day to reign in 2011.

The Ballet

What are your first thoughts when you hear the word 'ballet'?

In my mind's eye, I see a horde of little girls in white tutus, prancing around, on their toes, in the most graceful and light-footed moves in an elegant form of dance. If I drew the curtains a bit further back, I might include a lithe dame or two, again in the pretty white and translucent ballet dresses, gliding across the floor... hands raised in the air, one high up, the other on the way, feet raised to the tip of the big toe. No matter what else may change, the picture in my head consistently has the signature 'on-the-toes' pose, light, graceful moves, short white skirts with a well-fitted bodice.

The promos of the Queensland National Ballet's Hunchback of Notre Dame at The Old Museum and the internationally acclaimed Ballet Nacional de Cuba's Don Quixote at QPAC have pictures of the female protagonist flying in the air, arms and legs raised in difficult straight lines, both clad in red frilly skirts that look incredibly inviting to watch the performance. All the pictures of both ballet have various difficult poses and lifts of the ladies (some also include men) in their red garb. The scene in my mind opened out further to include red dresses and tall, slim beautiful women. 

You can imagine my surprise when I went to watch QNB's Hunchback of Notre Dame last week and the scene started off with a man in loose black clothing, curly hair falling all over his face. It was as if the scenes being played in my head had been hit by an earthquake. He was one of the characters. Why was I so upset? I can't explain. With the entry of another man, a priest and their miming acts, it started off seeming more like a play and less of what I had imagined a ballet to be. Soon, the ladies came on the stage. Tall, slender beautiful women, no doubt. I was already crying in my mind after the appearance of the black villainous creature instead of sweet children in white. Watching the women in long, frilly frocks, nothing like that in the pictures did not help! Worse? They did not do the toes act. Their feet thumped on the floor at their lifts. As they moved about with less grace than a ballet requires and more like the other forms of dances, my heart began to sinking. Fast and furious.

Eventually, the lead lady in red came into the picture. She had her ballet shoes on (the others had been in bare feet so far) was in her red frilly dress. She flew across the stage gently, stood on her toes and performed the signature light-footed steps of the ballet. In the light of my muddled feelings of the moment, I failed to appreciate her performance and wrinkled my nose at the grey dust under her ballet shoes. "These shoes have been used long enough, they fail to seem to blend with the feet", I found myself thinking. I did not quite like the shade of red that her dress was, either.

Eventually, as the turmoil in my heart settled and there was more of Talia Fowler with her ballet performance, I began to enjoy the show. I began to understand the genearl story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, if not the intricate details. Every now and then, students of different levels appeared on screen and performed their bits. It was clearly a performance by students, coming through like one of those shows we watch when in college or school. Like one of the shows my dance school had put up in the earlier days.

Even though it did not quite live up to my expectations, it was not unenjoyable. Talia Fowler, as Esmeralda the gypsy girl, was good and so was the guy who played the hunchback Quasimodo. While I was not unhappy about the $35 I spent on the tickets, I could not bear to part with another $25 to drive a cab back home. It was much too much to spend on a night as such. I took the public transport back home. A good night but not memorable enough. My first experience of a ballet felt like expecting Nando's fiery chicken and ending up with bland pasta. Not quite the anticipated flavour, so hard to tell how good or bad it really was.

I might have loved to watch the Cuban show too but their tickets are priced way higher than I can afford. Plus, I've decided that if I'm watching a ballet again, I'd rather it be pretty little girls in white. To satisfy my inner self. That picture is worth a thousand times more than any lady in red.

When Dreams Come Alive

As a strong advocate of dreaming, whether one hopes to realize the dream or not, I have had a number of dreams over the years. In time, the list grows longer. Sometimes they get archived in the head until they are recalled by a trigger of some sort. Sometimes, they drop off the edge, never to be realized or remembered. Then there are those dreams that are fresh and oozing with hope. Not to forget the ones that are on the list and go crash boom with fireworks as one sparks them off, bringing happiness at having come true.

On my first day in Sydney last weekend, I picked up a map at the concierge of my hotel and made a random sketch of my day, while I had coffee and banana toast with butter. The plan was to walk through Hyde Park, The Domain and The Royal Botanical Gardens, soaking in the sights and sounds of the roads that ran alongside them, at the same time experiencing the bountiful freshness nature accorded me. It worked to perfection, as I saw lush green around me, dancing fountains, sculptures, old and new buildings juxtaposed in a contest of grandeur. Interspersed with these visuals were the occasional road crossing, bridges, traffic signals and, of course, the traffic itself in terms of people and vehicles. A good blend of quiet and noise. In other words, beautiful and lively. 

The Royal Botanical Garden is a splendid park, with plenty to see. The variety of birds, flowers, trees and life in so many forms bewildered me. The cacophony of scores of flying foxes, the other quiet varieties of birds looking for a feed, majestic trees, endless carpets of grass and the assortment of local flora I had never known about left me marvelling. After having spent a fair amount of time in the garden, I kept moving forward to see where it would lead me. I arrived at what looked like a castle in fairy tales. Like a 5-year old, I wondered what princess lived in there. Suddenly, I heard music flowing from the side of the castle. I walked towards it, to find a man in suit, playing for his lady in white. It truly looked like a scene from an old movie. I was almost disappointed to know that it was The Government House. I believe I could have gone inside but I was not sure and it did not hold my interest for I had another place to be, very soon.

I walked along the sea-side, to find out where it would end. Imagine my astonishment when I stumbled upon a structure I had only until then dreamed about! It was one of my dreams that had long been archived and migrated to the recesses of my dreamland. I used to watch it on TV and wonder if I could ever visit the place. Even when I made my weekend plans for Sydney, I had not comprehended the awe that this structure would inspire in me. Nothing had prepared me for the heart-stopping reaction that comes when one's long-forgotten, unexpectedly realized dreams come true! I nearly took a step back at the jolt I got from stumbling upon this structure. I stood there, the sea on my right, the lovely garden on my left staring at this magnificent structure that lay ahead of me. I walked slowly towards it, afraid the bubble would burst, if I rushed towards it. Just before I arrived at the stairs that led up to the building, I chanced upon a pontoon to my right. A wooden bridge, gently swaying to the breeze, that led straight into the sea. 

I needed a moment to gather myself. What better than walking towards the enormous body of water, with it's amiable waves and soothing sound? At the edge of the pontoon I stood, taking pleasure in the cradling of the floating bridge. I took a picture of myself, with one of Australia's icons in the background, before finally arriving at it's base. I ascended the stairs, excited with each step. I walked all around it. The sea goes around The Opera House in a semi-circle, disappearing into infinity. 

On the opposite side to where I started off, I saw The Harbour Bridge. That was my final destination for the day. I was going to be climbing the bridge shortly. In a short while, the awe of stumbling upon the mighty Opera House was subsiding. I had my fill. I made my way towards the next of Australia's greatest icon. To see what the beautiful world around me looked like at 134metres above the Sydney Harbour. 

The Bridge Climb itself is another experience to write home about. Standing on the top of The Harbour Bridge, with a 360 view of Sydney - The Opera House and beaches on one side, The Harbour below, Blue Mountains on the other and the vast Sky above that changed colours rapidly as dusk set in. It was magical! Much more beautiful than any dream might have been. It was like seeking a bar of chocolate and finding a chocolate-laden 7-course meal that is sinfully delightful!

The Tattoo Dream

"Cheap tattoos are not good tattoos and good tattoos are not cheap tattoos", said Jon to me, as the plumber-turned-tattoo-artist, who said he was Aussie but he spelt his name like a French, set about getting his instruments in order. I'm pretty sure that was not the case with the tattoos on his arms, though. He explained that his colleagues and he did that to kill time on slow days. I saw 2.5 yrs worth of tattoos on there, like someone's resume carved on his body. 

Getting a tattoo is an activity that consists of many phases, each seemingly tougher than the other. The most important bit is picking a design that you can carry for the rest of your life. It involves finding the right design, deciding where you want it, how big/small you want it, whether you want it in black only or with a dash of colour and finally knowing that this is what you want when you fit it all in together. 

Once the art is finalized, the hunt for the artist begins. Finding a hygienic  parlour, a good artist and hoping to get a good price. The cost depend on the size and complexity of the tattoo, which means it is a rather unverifiable estimate. Colours or lack thereof do not count, leaving one with more options until the last minute. You can either book in or walk in, to be carved, depending on their schedules. 

What one might consider the toughest phase - the tattooing itself - is the easiest of them all. In a few steps and some time, it is all over.

• You hand over your choice of art to the artist, who makes a drawing and finalizes what the actual will look like. Then he makes a stencil of it.
• He cleans the skin with an anti-germ solution (if he doesn't, run!!) and slaps the stencil on there, over a layer of cream, pressing gently to leave a mark on the skin that is his new canvas
• His 'brush' is an electric machine into which he inserts a long (about 5 inches) needle. The palette may consist of one or more colours.
• Armed with a clean tissue to wipe off excess colour and blood every few seconds, he dips the needle into the colour, filling the end of it that goes into the skin and makes contact. Vrrrrrrooooom, it goes before the first sting. Like a needle being dragged deep along your skin, it bites but is bearable. I presume the vibration of the machine eases the pain of the pricks. As the needle goes in and out of your skin, it deposits the colour a few millimeters inside the skin. The colour consists mainly of water, some alcohol dissolvent and dyes that are safe to be injected.
• Once the tattoo is done, the area is cleaned up, moisturized and bandaged, while the colour settles in and the wound forms a definite picture. 
• A couple of hours later, the bandage can be removed, the area washed with warm soapy water and moisturized again. Whether to continue the bandage on for a couple of days or not is a choice. The point is to keep the wound clean and moisturized at all times, to avoid infection. 

That was the easiest part. The after-care is as important as the pre-tattoo research phase. Keeping the tattoo clean, washing it twice a day with soapy water, leaving it moisturised at all times and finally resisting the itching as the wound dries, forming scabs that will drop off in a few days. Salt water and sunshine are strictly taboo. If the artist has done a good job, the colour will not need a re-touch for atleast 20 years. 

Armed with a mandatory course in sterilization and an optional course in art, the tattoo artist undertakes a 2 - 3 year apprenticeship before being a full-fledged artist. The apprenticeship is not quite a government recognized certificate, so the tattoo artist is mostly in the job more for the love of it than anything. Possibly the wages too. I could not help but wonder about their job prospects. What goes on their resume and how is it verifiable? What is growth for them? In any case, I would add people skills on their certification course, for without that it is impossible to stick a needle in and out of a customer towards a happy ending. 

Jon, Ivan and some others told me that it was addictive. People keep coming back for more. I now know what they meant. What they forgot to tell me was that it was also contagious. More people keep coming back.