My Name is Winnie, and I’m a Travelholic

It had been over a year since I last travelled, and that was back home so technically it didn’t even count. God knows I needed a vacation and gave me a good excuse to just go for it. Who could turn down a flight and 4-night hotel package for Sabah at HK$1,999?

October marks the beginning of the rainy season in Sabah, Malaysia. Yet we were blessed to have only seen the slightest of precipitation on our last day there on the way to the airport. The climate is similar to Singapore; the people are similar to Thai. As for the attractions, think rainforest meets island adventures. Plus plenty of seafood meals and foot massages.

And now, all I have to show for it are a few good pictures and the itchy peeling skin on my shoulders.

Kinabalu Park

Tanjung Aru Beach

Borneo pygmy elephant at Lok Kawi Wildlife Park

T Minus Five

...workdays till I say Bubye to what is hopefully my last full-time job. I am giddy with excitement over my future plan. Freelance is the way to go, and this time, I plan on sticking to it.

Unlike how I went freelance in the past, this time it's on my terms. I chose to (as opposed to being forced to) resign from a white-collar job to go...well, collarless. I made the decision to give up the title and a large chunk of money in exchange for control over my own time. It's the most liberating thing I've ever done without taking my shoes off.

Never again would I be caught dead trying to market an unmarketable business with a zero-based marketing budget. By no means would I have to hear another accountant tell me I can't start a sentence with "And". No more would I be constantly challenged by Miss Know-It-All – "All" except 1) who makes the iPod Touch; and 2) how to spell "Chris".

I'm not complaining. I'm really not. Every shitty job is an eye opener. I can truly say I've gained invaluable experience here over the past nine months that I just wouldn't have elsewhere. And (*accountant gasps*) for that, I am grateful from the bottom of my heart.

I Wish for World Peace

Killing was supposed to be a last resort. If Mendoza meant to take innocent lives, he didn't have to wait 10 hours to do it; neither would he have released the old lady, the mother and her children, a total of nine hostages.

Mendoza was not a terrorist. He was not a martyr. He didn't try to take over the world. He didn't want 100 billion dollars. His demand was clear: he wanted his shitty job back.

As the hostage situation unfolded, more than I feared for the Hong Kong tourists on the bus I was sympathizing with Mendoza. All I could think of was the desperation he must've felt losing his job and his pension at such an age, even if it were a consequence of his own wrongdoing; the self conflict he must've gone through as he deduced that threatening to kill a bunch of tourists was his only glimmer of hope; the gravity of his solemnity leading up to the morning of the incident well knowing that he could end up dead by sundown.

This wasn't a spontaneous act of some teenager who's spent so much time playing video games that he one day loses sight of what's real and what's not and decides to take a knife to his mother's neck. This was a 55-year-old veteran with a wife and two children whom he once worked as an honored police officer to support. He was not a cold-blooded killer. The incident was thought out. He made a conscious decision to wager all that he had left. He just failed to realize that the lives of 15 tourists weren't enough for him to use as a bargaining chip.

"Poor handling of the hostage negotiation", "inadequate capability, skills, equipment and planning of the assault team", "improper crowd control", "inadequate training and competence of assault team leader," and "non-compliance to media relations procedures in hostage situations" would have all been good excuses if the incident wasn't dragged on for 10 hours. With that amount of time, a new assault team with younger and stronger members could have been assembled; they could have received basic training on things to look out for in dealing with hostage situations (e.g. when kicking down a door, do it in one go); additional equipment could've been sourced; they could've called a friend.

Knowing squat about negotiation tactics, I would imagine the first few hours in a hostage situation to be the most critical in determining the outcome. Considering the lack of action taken by the PNP during those critical hours, was it really any surprise that Mendoza reportedly "went berserk" in the end? My guess is that Mendoza, who set out to negotiate, went from being eager to calm, then anxious, and finally distressed — much like anyone would in any situation where they've waited 10 hours for something they feel they rightly deserve. Why any law-enforcement or government authority would wait 10 hours with 15 innocent lives at stake and allow a hostage-taker to become distressed and berserk is anybody's guess. No attempt was made to leverage Mendoza's act of kindness and negotiate for the release of more hostages. No attempt was made to manipulate or at least control his emotions. No attempt was made to lure Mendoza near a window so the sniper who ended up taking him down with a single clean shot could have done so a lot sooner. No attempt was made to minimize casualties.

Whether Mendoza's ordered dismissal from the force was just or he was a helpless scapegoat, it really doesn't matter anymore. But I do look forward to seeing some gutsy investigative journalism on corruption in the PNP and the Philippine government.

I am very, very sorry for the deaths, injuries and trauma suffered by the Hong Kong victims. But I am more saddened by this world that could push someone so far over the edge that drastic measures become the only measures; a world in which one's desperations could be so grave that human lives — his own or others' — could lose all value. This is happening everyday all around the world. Mendoza's plan would've been the same had it been any other tour group that happened to had stopped at Rizal Park at that moment with a bus full of foreigners, in which case I doubt the Hong Kong people would have shown even comparable levels of compassion. This could've just easily have happened in China, with a Chinese gunman taking a group of foreigners hostage. Where would Hong Kong stand then?

Seriously, can anyone fathom the perversion of a world in which it's normal for someone who barely finished highschool in one part of the world to end up hiring a university graduate from another part of the world to do their dishes? I wish to stop hearing moronic comments like wanting to fire their domestic helpers because of this incident, or swearing never to visit "a place like the Philippines", or anything about a "nation of servants".

Let's Talk Girl-on-Girl

Alright. That's it. I hadn't had a thing to blog about for the past seven months, but a comeback is in order. Why? Because I can't stand my own boyfriend, who by the way doesn't even like to read, reading that pathetic excuse for a column in that sad excuse for a newspaper (a.k.a. The Standard) and sharing that lame excuse for a columnist's "funny" "insights" with me at the end of a day like he's learned something from it.

On to the most interesting piece of news I've heard in a while: Secretary convicted of indecent assault for groping receptionist's boobs

33-year-old Ms Chung claimed she was just fooling around. The judge didn't buy it and neither do I. There has to be strong reasons for someone who's been with the same company for 12 years to all of a sudden molest a same-sex colleague, twice.

College years are there for good reasons. It's your last chance to be young and stupid (as opposed to being old and stupid thereafter), to act like a moron and try things, weird things, and be able to blame your behavior on peer pressure. For actual higher education, go to grad school. Unfortunately for some people, college is not an option, or the "phase" comes way later when the price to pay is much higher (maximum 10 years' imprisonment). I don't think it was coincidental that Chung's two offenses took place just months before she got married. It might have been an outburst of years of pent-up confusion over her sexual orientation, or she was perfectly clear all along and was making one last attempt to come out of the closet.

But let's say Chung is completely straight, there are still various logical explanations for her behavior:

1. It was recommended by the book 17 Things You Must Do Before Getting Married
Don't swear off homosexuality till you've tried. - Check

2. Wedding-planning stress got the best of her
People do radical things when they snap under stress. Some brides-to-be flee, others put their finger in another woman's cleavage.

3. She's shopping around for a boob job
She did comment on the victim's breasts "not looking fake" before making contact. Though there's no information on the authenticity or size of the victim's breasts.

4. She's soliciting a third player in the bedroom
Remember that episode of SATC when Samantha gave Richard the gift of 3P for his birthday? Investigation should look into Chung's special occasions with the hubby around the time of offense.

A follow-up article in Sing Tao interviewed a Dr Lai from the Mental Health Association of Hong Kong, who commented that in addition to "opposites attract", past research has shown the possibility of same-sex attraction, some even to the extent of rendering sexual arousal. Yes, for a report on this rare indecent assault case, they dug up past research from 1872.

Frites and the Corona Incident

This no-blogging policy at my new job is starting to bug me. When I'm spending half my time in the office, there's really not much else to think about but work. Not that I have anything substantial to say just yet (it's only been two weeks), but just knowing that I can't channel whatever I'd want to say through my blog feels like, well, constipation.

Went to Frites for the second time last night and had a slightly less enjoyable meal than from my first experience there. The house mussels are still nice but this time there were at least four dead ones in our pot that didn't open. Since their mussels are priced by weight (either one or a half kilo per order) and I figured we only ate half a kilo minus four mussels, and I was sure if it had been scallops or a crab or any other seafood they would've made sure only fresh ones were served, I asked our server if he could ask the kitchen to replace those four. The problem is, none of the servers at Frites really speaks good English. We were really looking forward to finishing the meal and going home when the manager came over with a fresh new pot of house mussels, all half a kilo of them with the side fries and rye bread. The kitchen must've thought I was either the biggest bitch or the biggest cheapskate to send back four dead mussels and request a whole new pot. The manager's explanation was that the kitchen can't cook just four mussels; they have to make the whole pot... I may be the biggest bitch but that just wasn't something I could've accepted without feeling incredibly guilty. So we kindly declined their nice gesture as well as their offer for free dessert, and ended up leaving a big tip.

So why couldn't they cook just four mussels? Practically every table in the restaurant had an order of mussels. The kitchen could've easily dumped four extra ones in the next order they prepared and scooped them out for us.

This reminded me of the Corona incident, which happened about two weeks ago over happy hour with a bunch of bananas: Brit’s and Aussi’s drinks arrived shortly after I sat down ― two Coronas. Brit looked at the bill and quickly realized they’d been overcharged. The waiter, at first not realizing that Corona was listed for $55 on the menu, went to check why the total for two had come to $124. He came back looking all proud with a revised bill in his hands, and explained that their computer was showing the wrong price for Corona and to correct this they had put a 10% discount on the bill. “Uh, but this is clearly still more than what we should be paying,” Brit had to explain.

I was too busy getting happy to follow-up with how they ended up resolving the bill. But by the time Yank showed up and wanted to order a Corona, the waiter “reminded” him that there were other beers available and went on to recite a list of alternatives. “He wants a Corona,” C said. There was a pause just long enough for all of us to exchange confused looks with everyone else at the table. Then the waiter finally said something about their computer having the wrong price for Corona. And that’s apparently enough reason to forbid customers from ordering it.

Defeating the Purpose

About two months ago I paid a visit to McDonald's in Cityplaza, where they’d adopted a single-queue system. I thought to myself “it’s about time” and stood in line behind a man while pondering the awesomeness of all the single queues I’ve ever come across: banks, airport check-in counters, Citysuper...

Standing at the head of the queue was a McDonald's staff, whose job was to direct customers in the queue to move up to the next available counter. The only problem was, she was asking people to move up to what she reckoned to be the next available counter before the counter even became available. So customers were sent from the single queue to stand in front of the individual counters in what were essentially separate mini queues. I couldn’t grasp the grounds on which this staff determined which counter would free up next, but she was dead wrong; because I ended up being served before the man who stood in front of me in the single queue, and after the couple that stood behind me.

It’s one thing to walk into a place with multiple queues and have to use my own best judgment to assess which line is likely to move the fastest ― the trick is to avoid lines with foreigners at fast-food restaurants, lines with people with bills in their hands at ATMs, lines with see-lai’s at automated customs channels, and lines with kids at manual customs counters. It’s quite another to be forced to comply with the best judgment of a high-school dropout who’s clearly pulling guesses out of her ass, witness a multinational chain completely defeating the purpose of such a simple system and wasting their underpaid manpower along the way.

Went back to the same McDonald's yesterday. To my surprise, not only is the traffic-directing staff still directing customers to move up before a counter is ready, but now there are two queues instead of one. Go figure.

Toronto

Boarding the dreaded 16-hour flight to come back to Hong Kong was quite a struggle. I can no longer justify giving up the life I could be having in Toronto to be here.

Niagara Falls, Ontario

Main Street, Unionville

Wine Region, Niagara-on-the-Lake

Fort Henry, Kingston

Downtown Kingston

Fun-L-Fun, Avenue Road

Weekend in Macau

It took seven trips to Macau for me to set foot in Wynn for the first time. We were drawn in mostly by the AC, but once inside I actually managed to find the casino hotel borderline grand. On the ceiling just inside the main entrance is a magnificent sculpture featuring the 12 Chinese zodiac animals, seemingly dominated by the tiger displaying its ferocious roar. Both the ceiling and the astrology-themed dome directly below were structured to suggest that they’d crack open to reveal something mystical. Soon enough crowds started to gather for what’s to come.

At 15 minutes past the hour, the show began. Lights dimmed and music played. Like the shutter of a film camera, the sculpture split into pizza-slice-shaped plates and slowly retracted into the ceiling to unveil a glow, which was simply a giant LCD screen displaying winding swirls of multicolored lights ― short of magical but would easily be the Mecca of any rave party. The LCD itself then split open and uncovered yet another bright light. This time it was a massive upside-down-pudding-shaped chandelier. As it lower from inside the ceiling, the astrology-themed dome on the ground split open. The crowd ooh-ed and ahh-ed as we braced ourselves for the moment of truth. Who knew the fancy 15-minute buildup would be followed by the ultimate anticlimax of a Styrofoam tree spray-painted gold rising from the underground, for people to throw spare change at. I think it’s safe to say this has constituted my WTF moment of the year.

As we window shopped our way through the Wynn Esplanade, we made every effort to zone out the rowdy chitchat in oh so many different Chinese dialects that were echoing past Hermès, Rolex and Ferrari. One conversation in particular was interrupted by the distinctive sound of someone hocking up phlegm as if from the bottom of his knees. I quickly turned around and prepared myself to dodge what flying dagger could be coming my way. I was one of at least four people including a Wynn staff who witnessed as the foamy puddle landed on the mosaic marble floors, right there in front of Prada. The shooter must’ve seen my look of disgust and kept his ears away from his phone just long enough to hear my loud exclamation of “Oh my God”, because he quickly looked away, picked up his pace and returned to his tongue-rolling prattle on his Vertu, only now in a much lower volume than before. Sadder yet, the Wynn staff was even quicker to flee the scene.

We didn't stay at Wynn, but at Rio (don’t ask) where everything screams Mainland: Complimentary breakfast with flies (Not in the food, just hovering around. Just.); hookers roaming the lobby; gamblers filling up the casinos with clatter, cheap smoke and booger darts; spitting hookers handing out business cards to gamblers; spitting gamblers in the casinos straight-out eyeing you as if ready to ask your price. What more could you ask for?

Until Cirque du Soleil debuts its second resident show at the Venetian Macau, I’m done with the so-called Vegas of Asia. Like with every other potentially wonderful thing in the Greater China Region, Mainlanders have taken over Macau and contaminated it with their sheer inconsideration for the existence of everything that’s not them.

ROARRR

Moving Backward

I've never enjoyed crowds; I wouldn't be caught dead in Mong Kok if Jesus himself promised to make an appearance. But when they raised the reward for identifying the acid thrower to HK$900,000, I thought: Now there's a reason to start hanging out in MK more often.

The area so essential to Hong Kong's identity has long been a death trap, with sketchy small shops somehow profiting off of the latest cell phones at irresistible discounts, food stalls right next to double-decker bus stops selling mouth-watering battered organs deep fried in thousand-year-old animal fat, reckless drivers and even more reckless pedestrians roaming the streets, Hello Kitty-tattooed "landlords" cruising and cursing entertainment venues with their gangs, and menopausal women slicing passersby with flyers promoting $88 "massage" services. Not to mention druggies, pickpockets, con artists, young men carrying unsightly women's purses (sometimes for their girlfriends) and girls dragging along really, really tiny miniature toy poodles.

With my luck, had I really been hanging around MK I would’ve escaped the plummeting loudspeaker just so I’d be back a couple nights later to get run over by the minibus. With my ear-raping noise cancellation earphones pumping phat tunes on my eardrums, I probably wouldn’t even have seen it coming. And with my luck, the odds of my in-case-of-emergency person being able to fork out over HK$20,000 for the doctors at QEH to start administering Novo Seven on me before I bled to death would be pretty slim.

I used to think there were only two places that would allow public hospitals to put money before someone’s life: China (they’ll need a deposit before you could even be admitted) and the US (“Sicko” stirred up more sympathy from me for Americans than did the re-election of George W. Bush).

How the hospital authority in Hong Kong could’ve allowed the existence of such a lethal gray area in something as fundamental as the protocol on administering necessary drugs in life-or-death situations is beyond me. Was it not one of the first (hundred) things to consider before playing doctor? Makes one wonder what would’ve happened if the victim had no family, or the family couldn’t afford the meds.

Simma Down Na

So someone decided to go medieval on my doorbell yesterday at 8:53 in the morning. Big mistake. But with the time it took me to fight to keep both eyes open long enough to not drift back into my sweet dreams, peel myself out of bed and prepare for the reciprocation of medievalness in the event that there wasn't a fire in the building, of course nobody was there when I got to the peephole.

Turns out it was our downstairs neighbor complaining about our supposedly dripping AC. After harassing my doorbell to no avail, he/she complained to the security guard.

I'm sure our landlord will find someone to come check out our AC soon enough and fix whatever dripping there may be. Until then, the fan will have to do. It's no biggie, really. But the only thing I could think of when I learned that someone was bitching about our AC was how we've put up with the dripping of someone else's AC from upstairs night-after-night since temperatures started flirting with the 30°C mark, and how it has never even occurred to me to complain.

I thought long and hard about the process of attaining this level of serenity as not to be bothered by the minor things that could drive some people crazy. Minor things like the rhythm created by falling droplets of dirty water hitting the AC that’s mounted on the window against which your bed is placed ― a rhythm that’s just slightly faster than your pulse and starts making you nervous once the lights are out because it resonates like the beat of the background music in the first kill scene of a horror movie, and throughout the course of the night bullies your heart rate into syncing with it.

The thing is, with a “Fortress” brand AC that’s at times as noisy as my washer on its 900-spin cycle, my upstairs neighbors’ ACs could’ve been popping out gobstoppers for all I know. It’s only when it occasionally quiets down that I manage to hear the soccer fans' uproar from the cha-chaan-teng across the street in the middle of the night.

Ironically, one of the first things I’d had trouble adjusting to when we first moved to Toronto was the deafening silence at night. The ticking of the clock in our living room would echo through the house and that would be the only sound we hear until the birds start chirping at dawn.

We have birds here in North Point too. One in particular has a distinctive call that sounds like a defective noise-maker and starts at precisely 4:07 every morning, as if to warn nocturnal creatures like me of the impending sunrise. We also have dogs, one of which must be the victim of serious neglect as it’s heard either whimpering or barking at any given time. Unfortunately, the surrounding buildings create such an echo in the area that I can’t make out where the cries are coming from.

I’m surprised that the familiar clacking of mahjong isn’t heard more often here, considering how local the residents are. More often I just hear my next-door neighbors conversing in Hokkien, and their toddler running around the apartment in her squeaky shoes (they like to leave their front door open to let air circulate). Then there's 1305 banging their metal gate close and sending shudders down everyone’s spine; 1304 coming home and giving verbal commands through the door to his wife inside to let him in instead of using keys or the doorbell; and occasionally, 1303 blasting Alan Tam’s hits from the 80’s on his stereo that sounds like it could be from the same era.

Get Me a Pole and I'll Show You

Finally got a chance to try out pole dancing with a couple of friends. $200 per pax bought us a 90-minute "trial party" where 17 girls plus an instructor shared five poles, some laughs and a lot of confused looks. Sexy, confused looks.

We weren't afraid to flaunt our firefighter moves, except for me with my wimpy arms. Soon before long we were thrusting hips and pouting lips. One girl in particular perhaps showed a little more potential for a first timer than called for. The most impressive move we learned had to be the twirling, much like that executed by Natalie Portman in Closer the moment Jude Law saw her in the strip club. It's surprisingly effortless and feels a bit like going down the swirly slide on the playground. I have such an urge to twirl some more I don’t think I’ll ever see a signpost the same way again.

Only towards the end of the class did the instructor put on music. By then we had learned a whole "routine" which we were to practise with supposed sexy music in the background. But soon as a remix of "Touch My Body" came on, all I could think of was this rendition of the song I recently discovered, regrettably:

Truth be told...

...I remember very little about living through SARS in Hong Kong. Like every other sane person, I wore a surgical mask on my way to and from work everyday. And since I was working as a teacher, I had to keep the mask on during most of my workdays as well. Updates on confirmed cases and death toll then read like news on the Hang Seng Index last September. And with the exception of maybe a few bars in Lan Kwai Fong, a giant black cloud hovered over the city.

What I do remember is how I lost my job. I had handed in my resignation in December 2002 when I realized I wasn't going to make a career out of my first full-time job. But because another teacher had given her notice around the same time, and the owner is a friend’s friend, I offered to stay on till they found replacements. I was subsequently given some administrative duties that were supposed to give me hands-on experience outside of teaching and get me interested in staying longer. April came and schools faced mandatory closure for a month in an effort to contain SARS. However, all of three teachers including myself, along with the receptionist, were told to continue going in full-time even though there was no class to teach. With the endless amount of time we had every day, we prepped for classes through to the end of the decade, we played Scrabble, we exchanged life stories. No class, no income, someone had to go. And since my resignation letter was already conveniently in the owner’s hands, they didn’t even have to compensate me. My extended notice period was repaid with an order for immediate departure. The only thing more ridiculous than that was the owner calling me up a few months later asking me to go back to work for her. I had to suture my lips shut just so I wouldn’t tell her to put hers on my buttocks.

I was never one to stock up on canned goods when the typhoons hit, or rice before the price hikes, but for the past two days I went on a hunt for surgical masks. Mannings was out of stock. A staff at Park n’ Shop told me though they don’t normally carry surgical masks they just might start selling them in a few days. The local pharmacy downstairs my place had a waiting list for individually packaged masks selling at $100 for 60. I was lucky enough to get my hands on the last box of 30 adult-size surgical masks at Japan Home, which I’m ready to resell to good friends in need ― for a small profit, of course.

My travel plans have been put on hold since the announcement of confirmed swine flu cases in Canada. But since it's only a matter of time before there'd be confirmed cases in Hong Kong too and this is going to be a global pandemic, does it really matter where I spend my summer?

1301

I got a letter in the mail a couple months ago. It wasn't addressed to anyone, but my full address was handwritten on the envelope, along with an actual HK$1.40 stamp. Inside was an A4-size photocopy of a handwritten note, with reference to a Mr Lui in unit 1301 owing some people some money.

Naturally I went to check out 1301. I hadn’t even figured out what I’d be looking for when I noticed an envelope right by their doorstep. Apparently, at least every flat on the 13th floor had received the same letter in the mail that day, and 1305 was naïve enough to think that the sender had simply written down the wrong unit number on the envelope.

Thinking it could be presented as evidence in court someday, I made sure the letter was safely kept ― on my refrigerator under layers of bills and multiple industrial-strength magnets. And there it stayed, forgotten, until today.

There’s something about the interior of our building that creates the biggest echoes in the corridors. Any talking, knocking or doorbell would be amplified and resonate through each of our flimsy front doors. So I’m pretty sure any of my neighbors who was home around 2:30 this afternoon would’ve heard the banging on the steel gate and the yelling in front of 1301. It only went on for a minute or so and I couldn’t even make out what they were yelling, but it was enough to make me contemplate putting on some pants just in case my safety was seriously threatened and I had to make a split-second decision to leave my apartment. Through my peephole I watched as two big guys came within three feet of my home to go into the stairwell. My guess is that they didn’t want their faces recorded on the surveillance cameras in the elevator.

I live in 1308, which despite being all the way on the other end of the corridor is actually physically right next to 1301. There’s but a single wall between my bedroom and theirs. I don't know if I should be more worried about the debt collectors upping their game with more drastic measures which I’m certain is bound to happen unless Mr Lui magically comes up with however many dollars it is real soon, or about Mr Lui being pushed beyond his breaking point and pulling drastic, tragic measures of his own.

I’m going to have a chat with the security guard tomorrow to try to get more info. But what more can one do in a situation like this?

Sweet Bitter

I often don’t realize how badly I need a vacation till I’ve come back from one. Five days in Phuket left my spirit refreshed, lungs cleansed, muscles tenderized and skin toasted. I want more.

The land of a thousand smiles is every bit that. For whatever reason, the few people who didn’t readily offer us big beaming grins were either wait staff at overpriced western restaurants, or tourists. Now that I think about it, that’s probably a chicken-and-egg thing.

We were greeted by rain and thunderstorms every day that we were there, but the sun always managed to come through the clouds shortly after so you’d quickly forget about the bad weather. What’s more, the seawater’s so clear you can see the details on corals meters below; the sand’s so fine it turns into a smooth paste when met with water; the sky’s so blue it makes the fake sky ceilings inside the Venetian look realistic in comparison. What’s not to smile about?

It didn’t take long for this trip to take me back to a eureka moment I had while on a cab in Bangkok 11 months ago, the moment I realized how good life could be and should be, and that it just hadn’t been because of the decisions I was making. I think this trip also put J in perspective about just how toxic Hong Kong really is and made him appreciate the urgency of getting the hell outta here.

This awakening was reinforced as the trip came to an end. We’d barely settled into our seats on the return flight to Hong Kong before the guy sitting next to J spills hot coffee on him and takes a good five minutes to get a single “sorry” out of his mouth. But he didn’t wait five seconds before chatting me up while J went to clean up in the bathroom. This is the same guy who needed a flight attendant to personally come over and tell him to turn off the iPhone in his hands for takeoff, then later left it on where else but on his open tray table during landing; the same guy who despite being only 2/3 of J’s size, helped himself to 1/3 of J’s leg room by spreading his legs Sharon Stone style the entire time.

Our flight arrived 10 minutes late, so we had a hell of a time trying to make the very poorly planned out transfer at Bangkok. We ran like Forrest from one end of the airport to the other just barely reaching the gate before it closed, only to be in the uncomfortable presence of Thai Airways ground staff who neither smiled nor offered any verbal acknowledgement of our existence. No attempt to lift the corners of their mouths, no eye contact, no sawasdee, no good evening, no thank you. It’s strangely unsettling to see anyone working frontline in the service industry not even trying to be polite; to experience this in Thailand of all places was just surreal. It was as if they knew we were headed back to the land of no smiles and gave us a preview.

I saw it coming, but J was surprised and pissed that our overhead compartment was already full by the time we got on the plane. There’s always someone who buys too much and someone who brings everything carry-on. Soon as the seatbelt sign dimmed the woman sitting in front of J ― whose wardrobe, hair and full makeup screamed high maintenance ― got out of her seat, opened our overhead compartment and pulled out a bag. J and I exchanged a “that explains a lot” look.

I was trying to relax and hang on to my holiday mood for as long as I could by staring out the window into Bangkok’s evening skies, when I was nudged in the arm by a fugly foot in a pink sock that decided to use my arm rest as an ottoman. If it hadn’t made physical contact with me I probably wouldn’t even have noticed it, but once I’d come face to face with it, it had to go. So like I would with other pests I shooed it away with the in-flight magazine. This being my experience, of course the foot made its way back and I had to confront the face behind it with a clearly worded explicit request and a very sarcastic "thank you". It was either that or yanking the pink sock off the fugly foot and tossing it out the window. She's lucky the windows don't open.

Interestingly enough, neither the coffee guy nor the foot woman was Chinese. I'm starting to think there’s something in Hong Kong’s polarity that makes people less and less considerate as they draw near. No race is safe.

It was only fitting that we were cranky and stressed out by the time we set foot in Hong Kong again. And just like that, we’re home.

Phuket, Baby!

The Search is On

I don’t want a job, but society would have me believe that I need one. Recruitment agencies have never been really helpful in my job search, and none of them has stepped up to prove otherwise just yet. So I’ve been relying on good old JobsDB and its match-making magic. I’m reluctant to update my online resume because I always get bombarded with resume requests for days to follow ― requests from insurance companies trying to recruit insurance agents in its many disguises: agency manager, business manager, management trainee, financial planner, etc. And no matter how I set the filter, they always manage to creep into my inbox.

Not all job search engines are created equal. I’m barely amazed by the decent job JobsDB does, but why has the competition remained so far behind? I get “matched jobs” by email from Career Times and Classified Post too, but they are just almost never relevant.

The email job alert from Classified Post rang in with 10 jobs today, all but one of no interest to me. No surprise there. The only one that looked remotely relevant to my past experience left me very, very puzzled ― at first by poorly written tag lines, then by a sudden and total loss of sense.

TEACHERS WANTED

You want to be a “teacher” of your own will but not any curriculum?
You want to control your own career path but not your supervisor?
You want your devotion and effort be awarded with incentive?

We want members from the teaching profession.

After passing Paper I Principles & Practice of Insurance and Paper III Long Term Insurance during your Easter Holiday, we offer you an internship program as a financial planner during your Summer Holiday.

What? And more importantly ― What?

Valentine's Secret

I just love this one:

(Borrowed from PostSecret)

The Crush of '93

W was in grade 11 when I met him. To fulfill the compulsory art credit he was stuck in my grade 9 art class. I can still remember stealing glimpses of him from the other side of the big U-shaped table.

My then best friend H asked me to go to the mall one day. Her cousin’s boyfriend who was old enough to drive would take us there, she said. H’s cousin J went to a different school, a public school in the same district, where she had a reputation for her good looks. “You’ll never guess who J’s boyfriend is,” H said over the phone. I didn’t have to guess. With my luck, it could only have been the boy I liked.

It wasn’t till later that I told H about my crush. So there was no way she could’ve understood what hell I went through that day in the backseat watching J feed frozen yogurt to W as he drove.

Considering what an introvert I was, I probably would’ve never managed to befriend W if he hadn’t been dating my best friend’s cousin. Outside of art class, we might as well have been complete strangers. But in a unique and narrow dimension, he quickly became one of my best friends. We would sit together in class every week and doodle dim-witted notes in each other’s art books while the lesson went on with its business. For the rest of the year we exchanged letters back and forth, on school-related bits and pieces, general likes and dislikes, future goals and dreams. And as if that wasn’t enough, we would talk on the phone after school practically every day, which went on even after he switched to J’s school the following year.

It was the best non-relationship any teenage girl could have wished for.

Food, Glorious Food

Degustation menu at Amber:

Old Bastard

I can't help but feel a little apprehensive as I count down to the big 3-0. Naturally, I turned to the great King Google for words of wisdom. I looked up "turning 30" and found that the insightful Andy Rooney had this to say about women over 30:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 30 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 30 will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 30 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it's usually something more interesting.

A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a damn what you might think about her or what she's doing.

Women over 30 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.

A woman over 30 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women.

Women over 30 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 30. They always know.

A woman over 30 looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women or drag queens. Once you get past a wrinkle(?) or two(??), a woman over 30 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk if you are acting like one! You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 30 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of 30+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress. Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Here's an update for you: Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig, just to get a little sausage.

It's always pleasing to hear words that work in my favor, especially when they're that close to being all true. But soon before long it hit me that when aging is what you're sensitive about, comments from someone three times your age may not be the best remedy (incidentally, Rooney himself is turning the big 9-0 this very day).

Another quick search revealed that Rooney had another piece on women over 40, except it's not another piece but the exact same piece with all the "30" replaced by "40". And the same fucking piece was used again on women over 50.

Not so insightful after all! And I used to wonder how this guy never seemed to run out of material. Turns out the trick is to out-live your audience and reuse your stuff unnoticed.

Now I'm miserable. Damn you, Rooney.