cabin fever and other fun things

I was sneezing continuously during the Tannourine show and on the way home on the BART train. When I finally got home, I was too tired to do anything, so I just washed my face and didn't drink vitamin C. The next day, I was also sneezing a lot during class on on the train. Still, I didn't drink the vitamin C. The result? I couldn't get out of bed on Sunday and had to miss Dance Conditioning class. I was so sick that I had to miss the earlier class on Tuesday. I've been taking drugs like candies, but I'm feeling much better now.

There have been a few memorable conversations that I had this week, either with someone else or with my brain. And so, for the sake of not posting assignment-related entries, I give you the memorable conversations.

With a dance sister backstage at Tannourine:

She: I really enjoy your blog! How do you balance between dance and school?

Me: I forsake the cleanliness of my apartment (I said as a matter-of-factly)

She: Whoa. I'm very picky about my nest. I have to live in a clean environment.

Me: I really envy you (I really do)

The truth is, I purchased a vacuum cleaner from Amazon.com and it came almost a month ago and up to this day, I haven't taken it out of the box. Of course then I got sick. This morning, I felt energized that I finally did my laundry and cleaned my kitchen and put new sheets on, but I still haven't vacuumed my apartment.

With the same dance sister backstage at Tannourine:

She: Yuska, you know, I know how hard it is for you to take a compliment.

Me: (Nodding) I know... I'm working on it.

She: Well, let me tell you this: One of the signs of humbleness and humility is the ability to receive compliments gracefully. Just smile sincerely and say, "Thank you!"

Me: I will try.

After the show, I received compliments, including from her friends when I went to their table to say thanks for coming. My dance sister was sitting there and when she heard the compliments, she held my hand and said, "I told you so. And you're doing a great job in accepting them."

Thank you, Bethany.

With my classmates during class. Someone passed pieces of cakes from his birthday from the weekend. Our table was the last one in the room, so all the pieces were on our table.

My friend: Have some.

Me: I'm scared.

My friend: Of gaining weight? Come on.

Me: No. I'm scared that if I start, I won't stop. And that's going to be an embarrassing mess.

True story. About the messy, addicted to cake thing, I mean. I love desserts.

With a senior at Orinda BART Station:

Me: I don't get it why some people drink whenever they want to write something.

Him: Well, what do you do?

Me: I usually eat cake.

Him: Whoa. I gotta try that one day.

I suppose eating cake does make the piece turn out to be happier.

With myself when I was having really bad runny nose and looking at myself in the mirror in campus toilet.

Me: Damn, my boogers look like dangling icicles. Hmm. That's a good line to use for my book.

Yep, sometimes I amaze myself.

more stupid things

Look at what I did to my pan and umm... plastic strainer thingy! I got these two with the apartment and I had been loving them until one day, after cooking pasta, I put the plastic strainer on top of the pot and both of them on the still cooking stove.

It's one of those fireless cooking stoves. I mean, yes, it's safe and all, and there's a light that indicates if the stove is on or not (and I totally forgot to see that). I came back from my room ready to eat when I smelt something burning, and then I saw this:

The horrible thing is, I had to throw out not one BUT TWO utensils and then I had to BUY another strainer. There's still a pot, though. Smaller, but it'll do. For now.

Oh, and this is just a reminder: this entry is labeled "stupid people", and from time to time, it's not about other people, but about yours truly.

the perfect pasta

I love pasta. I really do. What can I say, I love carbs! Carbs give me my curves... Okay, I'm probably delusional.

However, I had an epiphany just last night. I said to myself, "I'm going to make a garlic bread!" not unlike the way Ms. Vida Boheme (RIP Patrick Swayze) told Ms. Noxeema Jackson and Ms. Chichi Rodriguez that it was going to be a say-something-hat-day nor the way Mrs. Dalloway said that she was going to get the flowers herself.

So, I did.

There was no pestle and mortar, so I had another epiphany and decided to chop the garlic into fine, tiny pieces (thank goodness the IKEA knife was not sharp, otherwise I'd have lost two fingers), then dumped them into a little glass, threw in a lump of vegan butter, and mixed them together with spoon. I spread a bit on a slice of bread.

Next came the pasta. I put the pasta into boiling water and after about 7 minutes, I threw in the spinach (washed, obviously). After approximately one minute, I took the pasta and spinach out of the water. When I was cooking the pasta, I fired up my frying pan, put in the garlic butter until it sizzles, then I threw in the mushrooms. After the mushrooms were golden, I put in the pasta and spinach, sauteed them a bit, then put in the sauce, some tomato slices, and stirred some more. The timer in the little oven went "ding" and I saw the garlic bread, all toasty and ready.

So, yes. I just cooked, and I loved it. Who knew?

There's nothing better than a delicious and satisfying meal on a warm, lazy Saturday.

such is life

"Happy birthday, Ma," my voice trembled across the long distance line. This wasn't the first time I felt homesick on my second long trip to California. It had merely been two weeks and I was already longing for a hot tropical weather, a traffic dead-lock, and idyllic excursions with my felines. The fact that I wasn't home for my mother's birthday seemed to put even more weight on my already hunched back.

These past two weeks have been rather strange, to say the least. I was merrily walking on my weekly grocery trip to WholeFoods and when I crossed the parking lot (on a crossing that was meant as pedestrian crossing, obviously), a woman in an SUV said this to my face (she had her window down), "I had put my blinker on and I was politely waiting for someone to cross the road and somebody else stole my parking spot! So thanks a lot, Asshole!"

Needless to say, I was stunned. I still couldn't figure out if she was directing her anger to me or to another driver who took her spot. Must be someone from Los Angeles.

Another time, I was on the BART Train, on my way to dance class, and I had put on my earphones and played the music on full blast (I know, this was my mistake) and I was reading James Joyce's Dubliners. To cut the story down to the gist: don't ever do this. I learned the hard way and had a guy with a bike make everybody on the damn car look at me as if I were some kind of an inconsiderate asshole. Out of confusion, I said "thank you" instead of "sorry". English has never been my first language.

Then just last week, I witnessed seven police cars busting one sedan. The picture only shows three police cars, but I have two videos of it on my Facebook (I have edited the setting so you don't have to be my friend first). It was right under my window (I happen to live on the second floor of an apartment building). At first I thought it was just some crazy guy yelling on the streets but the shouting kept going on and as I looked out of my window, I saw police cars lining on the streets, their siren lights were on but no sounds. It started at around 2 AM and it took more than an hour to get everything cleaned up.

I found a latex glove lying around the next morning. Do police officers get tickets for littering? I guess not.

Then finally, I received my 12-inch frying pan from Amazon. It is just the right size and I went straight to making sauteed tofu, mushroom, and broccoli and much to my dismay, I realized that the kitchen in my apartment does not have an exhaust fan... Or a door. So, everytime I cook, the rest of the apartment smells like the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. I had to spray deodorizer afterwards and just open the window.

I've found a perfect solution to this issue (as well as to my diet issue): I will only cook heavy meals for lunch and eat sandwich for dinner. Therefore, I don't have to worry about sleeping with a heavy scent of sauteed tempeh with soy sauce around me.

It has, indeed, been a rough week. However, I'm sure others have had worse. Like the Irene for example.

Well, such is life.

el cheapo

Apparently, this apartment did not come with a steel contraption that is used to hold plates and pans and forks and whatnots to dry; and after a few days of being cheap creative, I finally decided to just purchase one and live free from fear of breaking the free IKEA plates and bowls by putting them on this:

Ingenious, I tells ya! That's not all, though. Usually there is a plate and a bowl on the empty space on the right. I can use the space between the metal bars to hold the plate up.

Now it's like this:

Not too shabby, eh?

Yesterday I went to SMC for the whole registration thing and I finally received my little schedule, and yes, it's... little. For this semester, I only have classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. Classes begin on 1 September and end on 15 December. After that, it's Christmas and New Year break. There is a January term, but I had prior commitments so I'll just return to the US in February... 2012. Yes, we're inching ever closer to the end of days.

Also, I was told that the SMC student card was good for a free bus ride... Except for graduate students. Upon hearing the sad news, El Cheapo in me died instantly.

jetlagged much?

I promised myself that I would go straight to FatChanceBellyDance for a class. I took a little nap after lunch (I had Chinese). The nap was much needed because I just carried tons of WholeFoods stuff for five blocks. After setting the alarm on my cellphone, I dozed off. I woke up to a strummed guitar sounds from my neighbor and realized that it was 7 PM already - I had missed my class.

Lord knows how many times and how hard I've been kicking myself on my arse.

By the way, the Chinese restaurant located right in front of my apartment doesn't sell the Chinese pancake like the restaurant near the hostel. However, the Kung Pao Tofu was quite delicious and satisfying and I was also given a treat: a fortune cookie! So after the nap, I opened the cookie and guess what's inside the content:

Yes, me and hundreds of other people who received that cookie. Creative? Perhaps. Original? Who is anymore. Alert? BAHAHAHAHAHA... I wouldn't have missed my class had I been alert.

Anyway, for dinner, I made myself some toast, cut a half of a tomato and microwaved (!!) several pieces of broccoli nuggets, all served with a decent serving of vegannaise... That 4-month old vegannaise. Thank goodness it was the last serving. I had to go back to WholeFoods to buy more.

Oh, well. I forgot to purchase some few items. Plus, I have plans to clean the whole apartment tomorrow... If my mind decides to be alert.

it hurts like a mutha: let the healing begin

I need to tell you how painful the tattoo process was. At least to me.

A couple of my friends told me that getting their tattoo was a breeze. I didn't believe them, obviously. I'm afraid of needles (the medicinal one, I love sewing, on the other hand) and so aside from the Abdomen Ultrasonography (USG), I also dreaded getting my blood taken during last year's medical check-up.

I've read many websites for tattoo virgins (first-timers), the fears of getting inked, the aftercare, etc. Now it's time for me to share my own story.

First, I gotta tell y'all: it hurts. It *#$&@#!(* HURTS. There were moments when I felt like I almost fainted from the pain. Call me a wuss, call me hypersensitive. I don't care. It was so painful that I almost told Froggy, the tattoo artist, to stop for a while, but I held myself and had the job completed in approximately one hour. It felt like a knife happily slicing my back. I remember the needle drilling into the skin of my back - the worst moment was when the vibration of the drilling machine reverberated all over my skin.

So, yeah. The slicing sensation was dreadful.

Also, despite my boyfriend saying that he didn't see any blood, I felt Froggy repeatedly wiped something away from my back. I've seen YouTube videos and I know that the act of wiping must have something to do with blood.

When the tattoo was done and I was shaking from the pain (yup, I really was shaking from the pain), it was covered with Saran and I was told to take it off after one hour. The place was out of tattoo aftercare lotion but the front desk guy told us that we could buy an ointment called Bepanthen (an antiseptic). A friend told me to purchase Bioplacenton. So off we go to the nearest drug store to buy the two of them.

"Do you have Bepanthen?" my boyfriend asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes, yes we do," she replied and turned to her friend, "Could you pass me Bepanthen?" her friend quickly walked to the shelf to retrieve the ointment.

"Bepanthen is good for rashes and skin irritation, it is also used for tattoo aftercare," said the countergirl's friend.

"How could you tell I just got a tattoo?" I jokingly asked. The friend didn't say anything. She just stood there, poker-faced, looking at my boyfriend as if I weren't there.

Oh, well. At least the ointment works (I'm using Bepanthen). I think. So far there has been no blood. Now I have to make sure that there's no scabbing.

After all, I don't want to have a polka-dotted tattoo. I mean, it's not that it's going to look awful, I also don't think I can afford (financially, physically, and psychically) getting a touch-up.

ADDENDUM: I also read somewhere that you should treat a new tattoo like a third-degree burn. That is: no swimming, no bath-tubbing, absolutely no sea water (unless you're a hardcore masochist). When we finally arrived home, my boyfriend gently peeled off the Saran wrap, washed his hands, rubbed his palms with alcohol, and washed the wound with soft cotton balls dipped in warm water. Finally, he generously applied the Bepanthen ointment.

It's day two now and although I can still feel the pain at times, it's greatly subsided.

Again, I hope scabs won't appear.

excess baggage

Well, here I am again at San Francisco International Airport, the SFO. It's pretty bland out here in the check-in section, but probably because it is just what it is: the check-in section.

I'm grueling over the fact that I might be charged for excess baggage. I mean, I won't mind paying, I just want to go home. I really do.

Everything in the two bags is essential to be brought home. I might not return with them when I'm going back in August, but I really need to get these things home.

It is now 3.58 PM. My flight is at 1.20 AM. The ticket counter is not even open yet.

I'm worried, but I'll blog later.

ADDENDUM:

I just got in! SQ took my baggage and even gave me a little tote bag so I can put some items from my overweight backpack in the tote bag.

Oh, and I had to endure the full-body x-ray. Well, no departure stamp or any immigration issues (it was cancelled in April 2011 - it was a legacy of Bush's era), but I JUST LOST MY FRIGGIN' PRIVACY.

It's like... someone just took a picture of my private parts!

Here's what a full-body x-ray looks like:

a big city boy

Remember when I went to Orinda and I complained?

Well, I'm now in Santa Rosa for Tribal Fest 11. The festival is actually in Sebastopol, that's about 20 minutes by car from Santa Rosa. However, I couldn't get a room in a near hotel called Sebastopol Inn because it was fully booked, so I'm staying in Travelodge Downtown Santa Rosa (see, I can be a budget traveler).

The hotel is decent. With the price, I can't really complain much. It's an old hotel but the room is spacious and there's a little nook to do ironing as well as an electronic safe.

Here comes the however part.

I just don't know why Tribal Fest is held in Sebastopol. I mean, this place is a suburban nightmare. Sure, it's scenic and the weather is amazing (made me wish I hadn't brought my jackets with me - San Francisco had been raining for three days when I left, so it was cold there), but the transportation system is so... unpredictable and archaic. There's no digital cards (I paid five buck for a one-way-trip that normally cost USD 1.80. I didn't know neither the machine nor the driver would not provide a change), no digital signs (there were friendly CityBus staffers who told me where to go, though), no frequent services (a thirty minute interval if you're lucky??).

So, on my way back from the remote Sebastopol Youth Center, I couldn't find the bus stop (!!) so I went to Sebastopol Inn and asked a very nice Indian gentleman to call me a cab. We chatted briefly and I learned that apparently, Travelodge Downtown was also owned by the Indian family who ran Sebastopol Inn.

After about 15 minutes, my cab arrived. The driver's a very friendly, albeit chatty, big guy, who answered his phones while driving on the freeway (!!!!).

"No, I can't pick you up and fix your tire!" he said over the phone.

"Because that means I'll lose thirty minutes of my time and my money! My time! My money!" he answered to the voice that was unintelligible to my ears.

"No, I'm not being a dick! But I also can't afford to lose my time and my money! Look, I'm on a fare right now. I can't talk," and he hung up.

"I hate women," he said. And I just sat there in the back seat, smiling. I didn't know if I was smiling because of his statement or because I was just glad he turned off the phone and concentrated on the road.

"So, what brought you to Santa Rosa?" he asked.

"Oh, there's a dance festival. I'm staying until Monday. It's a beautiful city, but I don't understand the transportation system," I confessed.

"Well, sometimes you'll have to wait two to three hours for a bus," he said. My jaw fell. I wondered if that was the truth or if he was just trying to squeeze some buck out of me. However, I did notice that the local bus schedule was just unbelievable: one bus for the whole day. Getting to Sebastopol from Santa Rosa was fairly easy, but getting back to the downtown was another thing.

"Tell you what," he continues, "I'll take you to and from Sebastopol to your hotel for 50 bucks a day."

I looked at the meter and my pupils dilated. It was already USD 30 and we hadn't arrived yet! For the same time and the same mile, it would cost me USD 10 in San Francisco! I guess that was another sign that the public transportation in from Sebastopol sucked: expensive taxis (does that happen in New York?).

Well, at least now I think I know how I'm going to commute here.

house hunting

I kind of understand why it's hard for ghosts to let go off a house they're haunting. If you found a perfectly good home, why would you want to leave?

My being admitted to St. Mary's is, without a doubt, very exciting. It's one of my dream schools and I believe that St. Mary's MFA program in fictional creative writing can really ameliorate my writing skills. I need the discipline and catalyst to write. Furthermore, I need to find my true voice without sounding as if I'm trying too hard.

Nevertheless, that excitement comes with a price: I have to find an apartment. I'll be commuting to several areas: Moraga (where St. Mary's is), Alameda (FCBD East Bay class), and San Francisco (FCBD regular class & Dance Conditioning). I once visited North Berkeley to see a nice little cottage and was immediately smitten with the serene atmosphere. It was Friday evening yet it was so peaceful and quiet.

I told my parents that I didn't want to live in the in-campus housing because I'd be lazier than ever. I need to commute, to go people-watching and sight-seeing, to gather inspiration along the way, to eavesdrop on conversations between lovers, among friends, among frenemies, to see same-sex couples holding hands when strolling down the road and have my brain struck with ideas. In other words, I need a little Viagra for my writing, and being confined to a beautiful hill won't do any good to my shaft of inspiration.

Yet, it is so difficult to get a decent apartment in a safe environment with just enough leverage for a first-time international applicant with barely there credit record (I don't normally use credit cards) and references (I suppose I can get references from my current Residential Advisors at the hostel). Additionally, time is running out. I'm going back to Indonesia on June 18 and returning to the USA on August 10. I really hope to resolve this matter before I leave. All those listings, including Craigslist, barely show apartments or studios that are available in August. I won't be in the USA for the whole month of July 2011. It would be an utter waste of money to pay a month's rent without actually staying in it.

On Mr. Stephen's suggestion, I have also included Orinda and Lafayette in my search, thus broadening my range of possibilities.

There are certain things I look for, though: the house must be in a quiet and safe neighborhood with quiet neighbors, preferably furnished with wi-fi and comfortable bathroom, lots of natural lights, and close to BART station. And under USD 1500 per month. And, contrary to popular belief, I do not require the presence of a naked butler.

Anyone willing to help?

red riding hood

I've read so many versions of the Little Red Riding Hood. My favorite is the one with the evil, sadistic, and manipulative Red Riding Hood, tricking the Woodsman that the Wolf was the bad one. In the end, it was the Wolf who actually tried to protect the Grandmother.

I like that version simply because I love animals and abhor children.

Additionally, I am also a sucker for werewolf movies. That being said, I didn't even have the heart to torture my senses by seeing any of those Twilight movies. I did watch Wolfman, though and thought it was brilliant. Then again, Emily Blunt can't do anything wrong.

So naturally, I was excited to see Red Riding Hood. I mean, Gary freakin' Oldman is in it. Virginia freakin' Madsen is in it. And then Amanda freakin' Seyfried is in it. I totally ignored all the bad critics bashing the movie.

I should've taken heed of the warning.

I sat through a grueling 1 hour and 46 minute acrid fest of sweet love. I mean, oh my God. I'm eating right now so I don't really think I can write a review about it.

Let's just say that Red Riding Hood had such a promising write-up. Maybe I was a wrong target audience. I should've realized that it was meant to be yet another tween-teen-romantic-witchcraft-magic movie. Like freakin' Twilight. (Oh God, I'm using "freakin'" repetitively. I'M TURNING INTO A TEENAGER!! MY BRAIN'S A MUSH!!)

Even the lead love interest of Amanda Seyfriend's character (Valerie, alias the Red Riding Hood) looks a lot like Robert Pattinson's rip off. He's all sparkly and dark (he's so sparkly and wears all black ensemble) and he's not even (SPOILER) a vampire nor a werewolf! Well, (MAJOR SPOILER) he becomes one in the end.

I really wonder why anyone actually produced this movie. Twilight Series have a cult-like fan base. You can't rip the market by putting up another lame product. I mean, at least make the guys look a lot different than the Twilight guys. I don't think it's going to attract non-Twilight fans either because those sane enough not to like Twilight should be sane enough not to like Red Riding Hood.

And I'd like to just say this: MY GOD, VALERIE, YOU ARE GOING TO LOSE A HOT GUY BECAUSE YOU'RE BETROTHED TO ANOTHER HOT GUY. MANY OF US AREN'T THAT LUCKY YOU KNOW SO STOP THE DRAMA.

I have to balance my brain by watching a completely difficult and brilliant movie. Like The King's Speech. Forget Rango. I need my long due dose of Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter.

stupid people

I feel like I have to get this out of my chest.

In addition to being a xenophobe, I'm also an enochlophobe: I'm afraid of large groups of people.

Now here I am, away from home, in a foreign land, in a hostel filled with international people. I'm the only Indonesian. Apparently, there are many people from French-speaking countries and Spanish-speaking countries that they bunch up together in dining areas or in the kitchen, OR DOWN THE CORRIDOR WHERE THEY TALK AND LAUGH AND CURSE LOUDLY.

I just don't get people who talk and scream in front of other people's room doors. It's just so obnoxious. And then there are people who just can't hold the door and have to bang it in order to shut it. SERIOUSLY??

Just the other day, I heard laughter and loud footsteps - people were laughing while climbing the stairs running and stomping their feet. Lydia, one of our RAs, had to go out of her room and told them to be quiet. I smiled with pure satisfaction. One of these days, if I can't take it anymore, I'll do the evil eye.

Where was I... Oh yeah, getting something out of my chest. Man, that reminds me so much of chestburster from Alien.

Well, I assume those French-speakers or Spanish-speakers are filthy rich. They just bunch up with their friends and talk in whatever language they speak BUT English. And when they do speak English, well... Sounds a lot like gibberish with heavy accent. And some arrived in San Francisco the same time I did.

I assume those guys are rich because, hey, you've obviously spent a lot of money to get here and the cost of living here is just so damn high (OMG, a weekly trip to WholeFoods costs me a monthly grocery shopping at Carrefour in Jakarta).

Get out of your comfort zone, ditch your friends and walk alone, speak English! Isn't that why you're here?

But then again, it's not my problem. I only wish they'd stop hanging around in the kitchen when they're done cooking so I can cook.

and so...

So I've been lagging behind my writing for the blog. But I have my reasons!

Don't believe me? Check out my dance blog, the pinkcoinbelt chronicles.

I'll blog more soon. Trust me.

Oh, and here's a piece of advice: when walking in any street in San Francisco, avoid eye contact with strangers, avoid talking to strangers, avoid strangers who approach you (especially those with dowdy clothes; except those with maps - they might be tourists).

The reason I'm telling you this was because some guy just approached me, asked me what date it was, I told him the date, and he kept asking, "What did you say? What did you say? What did you say?" and I knew he wasn't deaf.

Bone-chilling.

kiss the cook

Yes, yours truly here prays every night to God almighty to confront his fears and soar like an eagle in the sky.

One of those fears being conquered is... COOKING!

Okay, folks. This is extremely easy. I mean... I'm cooking illiterate (whatever that means. You get what that means, right?) but it's easy as apple pie. (OKAY SO MAKING APPLE PIE IS NOT EASY. BAD ANALOGY.)

Here's what I did:

I took a bunch of broccoli, chop them up and even keep the stems. I steamed them in already boiling water for two minutes until they turn bright green and just yummy. I added some salt too. After some more stirrings, I took them out of the pot and set them aside.

I bought the tofu off WholeFoods and it turns out to not contain water (or at least minimal), so I didn't have to dry it. I just dice-cut it and prepare it with some sliced mushrooms.

Now for the frying pan, I used an iron pan because I'm somehow scared of using teflon. So I used quite a lot of vegan butter to grease the pan and make it non sticky since I heard tofu can get stuck on to the surface of the pan. After the butter is all melted and sprinkly, I poured the tofu slices in and sauted them until they're golden brown. And then I added the mushrooms, sauteed a bit, and added the steamed broccoli. I also added an extra pinch of salt (I really should've bought maize powder and soy sauce to make that thick sauce), and voila! It's done!

Just for a little taste, I put mayonaise as a dip. Next time, I should learn how to cook rice. I can always buy cooked rice from the nearest Chinese restaurant. It costs less than USD 1.

I deserve a kiss!

strangers on the streets

I don't know in which part of San Francisco Mom and my brother stayed when they went for a visit in 2004. Mom said that the city was beautiful.

A lot of things could've happened in 6 years. Or Mom and my brother simply stayed in a better part of San Francisco. Either way, I don't think San Francisco is as beautiful as everyone has said. True, there's the glamorous Union Square and there's an area called the Geary Boulevard that's just so tranquil and serene and gorgeous.

And then there's Tenderloin and Mission with scattered used condoms and dog (I hope) poo on the pavement, the homeless and the crazy, and various other gritty stuff. Whenever I walk in the Mission district, I always encounter crazy people shouting about. When I was walking back to the 16th / Mission BART station, I saw two policemen searching an alleged drug dealer. One time, I saw a man kneeling and handcuffed in front of an adult store.

However, there are also homeless people in the most beautiful and upscale areas in San Francisco, such as the Fisherman's Wharf. Sitting in a cheap, Chinese-run "authentic Italian pizza" joint generically called "Pizza Zone" offers me a great view of the world. I'll be doing my homework while munching on my USD 5 slice of vegetarian pizza, looking out at birds (robins, pigeons, seagulls) and homeless people rummaging the dumpster across the road.

Looking (and videotaping) homeless people is evidently a lot different than interacting with them. One time as I was walking down Fisherman's Wharf, I walked pass a woman who suddenly stopped and called me. She said, "You! Your aura tells me that you've been broken-hearted twice, haven't you? Come here. Let me give you a reading."

Obviously, I was tempted. But I got a hold of myself and told her, "No... I was broken-hearted three times," which is obviously not true... Or half true. Or two-third true. I mean, I don't even have enough money to pay her to read me. And how on earth did she pick that number?

And then, as I was waiting for the bus on Van Ness Street this afternoon, a tall, dark stranger approached me. No, it's not as romantic as you think. In fact, it's rather disgusting. He was noisome and cross-eyed. He began with a little talk about what I was reading (I was reading the Word Smart book) and then he said my zipper was undone (my damn zipper of this particular pair of jeans always becomes halfway done though I've pulled it all the way up) and he asked my name (WHICH I NAIVELY GAVE AWAY - note to self: NEVER USE REAL NAME). And what started as quite an innocent conversation turned out to be weird: he asked for money. Luckily my bus came and I boarded it as fast as my dainty feet could carry me.

Now I'm becoming paranoid because this is where I usually wait for my bus to go to school every morning. Oh, well... I can always walk to school. OR NOT.

God, I'm such a weird-people magnet.

bridget jones's diary

No, I'm not single or desperate for a boyfriend. I have one who loves me just as much as I love him. And no, I'm not writing this because VD (venereal disease Valentine's Day) is coming.

There's a scene in Bridget Jones's Diary (the movie, at least), where Bridget says, "It is a truth universally acknowledged that when one part of your life starts going okay, another falls spectacularly to pieces."

Well, I think I'm doing well in dancing. I'm up for the General Skills Training and Teacher Training 1 & 2 with FCBD.

And I'm also kind of doing well in the mid-term exams. I'm not really sure why. But at least I got an A+ in Writing, so I suppose I'm off to a good half-way.

On the other hand... I'm starting to have doubts and fear regarding the status of my future in getting an MFA in Creative Writing. I mean... I am not talented in writing. There are just so many things that I can learn: the styles, the way to use words to get the impact of writing, and most importantly the discipline. I know that Sylvia Plath, my hero, went everywhere with her Thesaurus. She also made descriptive notes about the places she went and people she saw and that took discipline. I want to earn that. I want to force myself to have that kind of discipline. I know it will improve my writing a lot.

Some previous entries ago, I wrote about how I hated GMAT. To tell you the truth, I've taken a GMAT preparation course back in Indonesia with Direct English and I have to say, it didn't work. The quantitative review (Math) didn't work (well, obviously - I'm just *that* stupid), and shockingly, I did bad in the verbal (English) section also.

However, learning GMAT with EF (my verbal teacher is Mr. Stephen), has been an interesting experience. I can actually tell you that I am starting to get better. Especially in Critical Reasoning. And you know what, I LOVE CRITICAL REASONING! It's even much easier than Sentence Correction.

Sadly, I won't be needing to succeed in GMAT. Or at least, I won't need it now. What I need is a good score in GRE. I mean, University of San Francisco and St. Mary's College of California both don't require GRE, which is good, and I've already sent my applications to both schools. But I need a third school and I'd like to try Boston University. I know it's in Boston - a boring city. There's no FCBD there, but there are sister studios - I've checked.

Boston University's deadline is March 1, 2011. I can still manage it, but I need to take GRE and have the result sent to the university on time. Otherwise, taking GRE will just be a waste of money, time, and energy. Although it's good to actually measure how far I am in this whole Master's Degree deal.

Then again, it's the GRE! Ken, our quantitative GRE teacher, is doing an awesome job explaining things to us that I think I'm falling in love with Math, which would've been absolutely impossible before EF University Preparation program. But it's the fact.

So I'm still pondering, sometimes to the extent where I feel malaise. I'd love to be accepted in Boston University. I know it's a good school. But I also know that both USF and St. Mary's College are good universities. However, I can't just hang my hopes on two schools. What if they don't accept me?

Well, anyway... I hate to say this, but my contingency plan is to just make the most of it. I'm in my second month here in San Francisco, and time does fly away so fast. It didn't feel this fast way back in 2003 when I was in Nice, France. Perhaps because I didn't have the internet and not this much homework and pressure.

Nice, no matter how much I loved it, still felt a bit hellish. My time here in San Francisco, however, is mellifluous. They put us in Tenderloin - the ghetto, seedy area - and I still love it.

And I finally activated my Bank of America card. I specifically chose The Human Society of the USA (BoA doesn't have PETA card, but HSUS and PETA are basically the same, so...). And that's my new pink Logitech mouse! I finally have a mouse! Yay! I've been doing quite a lot of shopping lately. I have to stop myself from seeing good things.

I've added a new label: Photo Essay. There are some days when I just can't think of writing anything but I still feel the need to post something, so I'll post pictures.

the internet and antisocial behavior

Years ago, when I was with EF in Nice, France, I had... quite one of the best times of my life. I lived with a host mom (and grandma) with a bunch of other kids. I was the oldest in that bunch. At one time, there were five of us: an American girl, a Russian girl, a Swedish girl, a Dutch boy, and an Indonesian ... teenager (it was in 2003... I won't tell you how old I was).

Since it was in an apartment, there was no internet connection. There were internet cafes (I used a nearby cafe one time) and of course, the school. So I checked e-mails and chatted with my friends mostly at school.

It was more than 7 years ago and things have greatly changed since then. I'd say that almost all cafes along La Promenade des Anglais (the main beachfront road in Nice) will have had a wireless internet connection by now and I could sip on a cafe and eat a croissant while looking at those Arab playboys seducing blonde girls and just scoff.

Without the internet, we, that weird bunch of melange, bonded.

Only the American girl brought a laptop along with her. The others didn't.

And now, I live in a hostel where there's wireless internet connection in the lobby, on the mezzanine floor, I can eat while surfing the net if I bring my laptop or my Android phone, and to make matters worse... since I moved down to the third floor (I was on the fourth), I've been getting an internet connection inside my room. How cool is that?

Now I don't have to go down to get internet.

It's a single room, which means I don't have a roommate, and I'm totally alone, and I love being alone and having my own pace.

When I had a roommate, if I woke up in the middle of the night (or at 2 AM like right now), I'd so carefully get my laptop and books (of course bumped into something here and there... I'm so clumsy, I can't help it, and the wooden floors always creak) and just go down to the mezzanine floor to do my homework.

When everything was done, like at 4 or 5 AM, I'd creep back upstairs and into bed.

I am nocturnal. I love that about myself. I've been developing this habit because I appreciate the stillness and quietness of my home in Jakarta where I live with my family and nobody is nocturnal.

And besides, people here (mostly Europeans) don't appreciate the quiet time in the hostel. Just a few hours ago, I woke up to the sound of an annoying laughter (consecutively, for about an hour, no kidding) of a girl. My new room is so great because it's near the stairs but the entrance is so private so I don't hear people going by. So that must mean... They weren't in a room, but in the hallway, doing something that ellicited a noise.

Why they were in the hallway in the first place baffled me. Some people are just so crazy and rude and crazily rude.

Anyway, we did the GMAT exercise again today, the Critical Reasoning one (I so hate this one), and I got... da da da... one answer right! That was an improvement since the last time I did that, I got all the answers wrong!

Well, GMAT's not my thing. I won't be taking it for sure, but it's really fun to learn new things, right?

I'm putting up the picture of Spongebob and Mrs. Puff because Spongebob reminds me of myself (saying "hi" to everyone) and Mrs. Puff reminds me of a teacher I greatly admire in the school.

Oh, and that's my new room and the view from my room.

breakfast on a friday

So after a bout with brisk insomnia due to the fact that I'd slept all day, I decided to let my room-mate sleep while I went downstairs for breakfast.

I didn't find anything nice to eat, so thank goodness I bought strawberry cereals and soy milk. Had that for breakfast. Tasted like strawberry ice cream (heaven).

Last night, when I was going to ask the front-desk officer about the status of my room (need to follow-up on that) I made hot tea and found San Francisco's Guardian lying around. I opened it and was delightedly surprised to see an advertisement of University of San Francisco's MFA in Creative Writing. They're having an information session tomorrow (Saturday, January 8) in their campus. So I'm planning to visit the campus today to make sure I have the right way to walk.

And I'm just going to take the time right now to say that GoogleMap rocks!

I think today will be a day filled with walks. First the USF, EF San Francisco, and finally FCBD studio. Or maybe I can postpone the FCBD studio tomorrow, right after the information session at USF.

This truck passed by my window when I was eating breakfast. We're on the junction of Ellis and Larkin. For many people, it's easier to mark the destination in San Francisco by the junction of the two roads, because all two roads will most likely cut into each other and the blocks are mostly squares.

As for me, since I have no sense of orientation whatsoever, I always think that I will get lost.

A Miller Beer truck. You don't see that in Jakarta.