cali

I can't believe I'm back here in California. I can't believe I'm back here in my apartment, listening to my neighbor upstairs playing guitar in the middle of the night (something that I quickly avenged by Skype-ing loudly with a friend). I can't believe school is starting tomorrow.

To be perfectly honest, I'm here for the dance. But don't tell my mom.

If I'm not too lazy (I still have the jet lag to blame), I'll be posting the pros and cons of being here, of pursuing a chunk of my dreams far away from home, far away from the comfort, safety, and certainty of a city I call home.

However, I have to admit that when I boarded the BART train from SFO to Rockridge a few nights ago, I didn't feel like a stranger.

Perhaps it was the ultimate surrender. Or, the jet lag.

Yeah, I think it was the jet lag.

that time of year again

Well, I'm here at San Francisco International Airport, dutifully waiting for my flight back home in approximately one more hour.

I didn't go to the full body X-Ray thing tonight, so that was fine.

I'm dressing in my Cat Regalia (pictures later. I couldn't get my damn webcam snapper to work).

An odd thing: my seat number isn't assigned yet, and that makes me wonder if I'm actually boarding Singapore Air or Air Asia.

Well, the air hostesses are rolling in. I'd better turn off my laptop and ask for a seat number.

it's that time again

Well, hello there, Suitcase.

As much as I'm excited to be in California, Jakarta is still my home. I'm looking forward to driving my car, being caught in the traffic jam, practicing and dancing with my troupemates, rehearsing our upcoming dance recital, seeing my family and my cats, and inhaling the pollution.

Still, I have to sort the stuff I'm packing inside the Samsonite. I have to start bringing things home since I only have four more chances, including this one, and when I leave the USA for good, I don't want to leave anything behind.

Well, here's to travelling transcontinental Economy Class.

eulogy of sorts

"Are you happy now?" he asks.

"Why should I be happy? I just lost someone dear to me," I answer.

"Well, it's not like you did anything to help him. Financially, I mean."

"I was broke. I was piss poor. I was out of the country. What was I to do?"

"Liar. You were neither of those. You had spare money and you were back in Jakarta long enough to do something," he says. That shuts me up. That shuts me up as if someone had his fingers and palms around my neck and gripped it tightly, crushing the bones, sealing the air that fought its way in.

"Yes. So you're right. There. Are you happy now?" I ask him back.

"You know that I can never be happy. Unlike you."

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it why did he have to die?"

"He had brain tumor. It's probably for the better," he replies as slews of profanities spew forth from my mouth like vomit.

"He was your first friend at junior high. He was your very first crush. He sat there in the library during the orientation, and he was the first person who extended his palm to you as he said his name and you accepted his hand and shyly told him yours," he says.

I nodded meekly.

"During all those hours of lectures and talks, you stared at his brown, sinewy thighs, amazed by the sight, by how strong they looked, how impressive they were, even without him trying to show them off," he says. "But you fell for another one."

"It wouldn't matter. He was straight. They both were. The other one is still straight. He got married a year ago," I balk.

"Yes. The other one. The short, yellow one, whose name echoes yours, who treated you like shit when he found out you liked him. But it didn't matter to you then to sleep with 'straight' people. And this one, your first friend at junior high, he never treated you badly. He always smiled to you, flashing his pearly whites to you."

"It won't matter anymore. He liked girls and he got one before he died. It can't matter anymore to him because now he's dead. It can't matter anymore to me because I have someone who loves me," I say, screaming.

"Are you sure?"

But silence swallows me once more and it looms over me, its dark presence hangs above me as layers of gray clouds copulate with one another in the morning skies of Berkeley.

***

RIP Temmy Haryono (23 October 1981 - 17 November 2011)

I'm sorry for being late

For not acknowledging the

Part that I needed you to know

For not wanting to let go

This blurry vividness

Like this half-eaten

Sandwich in front of me

Serves as a sliver of memory

If one sorry could take us back

To that day, that afternoon

I'd murmur ten thousand more

Until my lips and tongue went sore

White space and your

Grinning face

As we run and ride and race

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.

the b*tch is back & the joys of flying economy

Yes, people, I'm back.

Some notable things:

One search officer at Soekarno-Hatta airport in Jakarta attempted to speak English with me. I could only assume that he thought I was Singaporean or Malaysian or whatever. When I showed him my wrist weights (I had to put the bloody things in my backpack since my suitcase was overweight... AGAIN), he asked if I was a boxer.

On the airplane from Soekarno-Hatta to Changi Singapore, I found myself sitting with one father and his son. I sat next to the son (around 15 years old) who dozed off and I realized he looked like a skinnier, Chinese version of Taylor Lautner. No, I don't have pictures to prove it, so you might as well accuse me of lying.

I got wedged up in the front row seat of the economy class for the whole trip from Singapore to Hong Kong and Hong Kong to SFO. Next to me was an Indian family with a baby who cried all the way. Thank goodness for SQ's in-flight movie selections: I watched Kung Fu Panda 2, The Princess & The Frog, Battle: LA, and Rio (FINALLY! I love that movie) and also the British comedies The Vicar of Dibley and Come Fly with Me (with David Walliams & Matthew Lucas of Little Britain). The vegetarian meals were so-so but they did give Magnum Classic (not too shabby) and my favorite Haagen-Dazs Cookies & Cream.

I was reading the delightfully morbid Notes of A Native Son by James Baldwin (a book-reading assignment from SMC) when a Chinese man with garish ensemble (red jacket, yellow t-shirt, pink sweat pants, yellow shoes, topped off with colorful LeSportSac fanny pack and one pink small suitcase with Hello Kitties and another red small suitcase with My Melodies) set himself down next to me.

He said, "Indonesian?" and I replied, "How did you know?" (mind you, he was boarding the plane from Singapore to Hong Kong). He answered, "You have Garuda (a bird - the Indonesian national symbol) all over you." (This is figuratively speaking - I didn't wear anything with the Garuda emblem on it.) Then we chatted for a bit about his son who went to USF and transferred to UW. Right.

I was also being quite the eavesdropper observant and realized that unlike the characters in Amy Tan's The Joy Luck Club and my own private experience, there are children of Chinese immigrants who actually speak with utmost respect to their immigrant parents. All of the parents were mothers during my observation at Hong Kong Airport. I happened to sit next to a pair of mother and son on the flight to SFO - the mother, obviously a Hong Kong resident, spoke accented yet quite good English, while the son spoke English with American accent, but they went along well.

Finally, I managed to observe that those in First and Business Classes are pampered twats (I saw a five year old girl having her own Business Class seat and drinking Evian). If I could get straight As, I promise, I'll talk my parents into getting me a Business Class seat.

Then again, for a person who decided to take the BART from SFO to Ashby and then walk for 1 km to his apartment while carrying a backpack weighing 7 kg and dragging a suitcase weighing 24.3 kg just to save money (I managed to shell only USD 8.6 for the trip), I don't think I will fly anything other than Economy.

And it is also fortunate that tonight's weather in Berkeley is sufficiently friendly. Not too cold, not too windy. Just right. Now all I need is to eat just a little and sleep in my bed. A friend posted on her Facebook wall, asking about the details of tomorrow's BART protest and the delay that it would cause. I shall worry about that later.

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:

house hunting (part 2)

The story continues.

I just went home from house hunting this morning. I forfeit Dance Conditioning class at FCBD just to go to North Berkeley to a shoddy cluster of apartments in a quiet neighborhood. The affordable units didn't pique my interest. The only good thing about going there was that in one unit, there was a house cat who (yes, I use "who" to describe animals that familiarize themselves with me) stood to attention - the cat was curling on a stool - when I came in. So I quickly gave the cat some strokes and pets and the cat nuzzled me back in return.

How I miss my cats back home.

Yesterday, I went to Orinda to see a house. Apparently, Orinda is very different from San Francisco in a number of ways: one of them being bus shelters with no digital sign of when the next bus is coming. To make matters worse, I was late. So the very nice landlord decided to pick me up.

There I was, being driven in a black Porsche to a grand, luxurious house with plush carpeting all over, state-of-the-art kitchen, high-speed internet, furniture, and exotic bathroom (for USD 1275, no less). It was beautiful all over, even the garage had a great view of the clearing and bits of the forest down below. It was so quiet that I could hear the howling of the wind as the long blades of grass swayed and bent under the strength of the air.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to ask my parents to finance the apartment. And anyway, it was so far from the BART station. The bus came every 30 minutes or so (and I thought waiting for the 47 Muni here - coming every 5 to 10 minutes - was an unnerving task) and I'd have to walk uphill for about 2 miles from the bus stop to the house.

The landlord dropped me off at the BART station. He was such a nice person.

"Do you often do this to your potential renters?" I asked.

"No, my potential clients have cars," he said, not cynically, but with warmth. There I was, a foreign graduate-student-to-be, carless, unable to ride the bicycle, wanting to rent a house in a non-walking distance.

We chatted long in the car in front of the BART's station entrance. I could smell his sweet and musky smell of cologne. There was something in the signature scent of successful, proud, confident older gentlemen that always seemed to sexually arouse me. The landlord was about 60 years old, and he was not my type, but he was so cerebral and visceral at the same time. I had intended to stay in the car for only 10 minutes, as I tried to get back to San Francisco and catch the FCBD dance class, but we ended up talking for more than an hour.

"Do you often see movies?" I asked again when we passed the houses on the way down hill.

"Sometimes. Why?"

"These houses remind me so much of those from Stepford Wives," I said. He laughed.

"Yes. Here, people seem to go back to the greens, choosing to have a secluded house," was his answer. "You know, when you e-mailed me and said you were from Indonesia, I thought you were a conman."

"What? Why so?" I was intrigued.

"Well, you called me and you didn't have an accent. I often go overseas as I have offices in several parts of the world including Asia, but everyone I met had an accent, but you... You sound like a regular American."

"Why, thank you. I started learning English when I was 4 years old. I used to have a perfect British accent but I lost it to Hollywood," I said, inciting his laughter. "My English teacher said that if you learned English after sixteen, you'll retain your original accent, no matter how hard you work."

"That's true. I can distinguish the accents of people from parts of the US, I know how French people sound when they're speaking English..."

"Oui, zei talk like zees..." I said, imitating the Francophones, and he laughed again.

"Yes, they do talk like that. But you sound like you came from Chicago."

"I guess now I kind of know the reason why most landlords from Craigslist didn't reply to my e-mail," I said with a sighed. I sent and called at least 20 resident managers and none of them replied my e-mail. Big apartments, small apartments... Almost nada. "Maybe when I said I was from Indonesia, they thought of jihadis and terrorists."

"Well, this is a tumultuous time," he answered sympathetically. I just nodded.

The conversation went on. At first I kept glancing at the digital clock on the middle dashboard, but after a while, I didn't mind. This gentleman showed me a lot of insight on living abroad, on living in Orinda at his house, on life in general. He poured his experience into me, and I, a glass, only about 1/8 full, gladly accepted his generous, rich liquid.

As I bid him farewell and closed the door of his black Porsche, thoughts ran in my mind, criss-crossing like vehicles on a busy intersection. I was happy, though - my confidence in being a potential renter was restored. And so, bubbly, I walked to the platform to wait for my train that would take me back to San Francisco.

f*ckin perfect

I don't know if viewing this video is allowed in Indonesia (sometimes it's not for many reasons), but here goes:

This song is by Pink. I love her so much. She's controversial, but she doesn't spread hatred (unlike Eminem, etc). She speaks about insecurities so many times through her songs. Plus, she's an adamant animal welfare defender. Can anyone be that perfect? Oh, and her husband, Carey Hart, is just a damn hottie.

To tell you the truth, "F*ckin Perfect" is my saving grace song for this week. I almost refrained from taking GRE. But I remember my mom - she obtained the certification of finances IN ONE DAY (!) (bless you, Mom!) and mailed it first class express so it reached me only two days later (!!). Right then and there, I told myself, I'd just die trying.

GRE is offered in many parts in San Francisco. There was one place where I could take on Wednesday, February 16. However, due to a mistake (on my part), I didn't get the confirmation from Boston University that I could submit the GRE scores later than the deadline (March 1). When I finally received the confirmation e-mail, I quickly registered for GRE and that one place was already full. The closest alternative date was February 18 (Friday) in a place called Oyster Boulevard in San Bruno. That's in Southern California. There were two alternative hours to start: 8 AM or 12 Noon. I chose to do it in the morning.

I worried about two things: getting there (I finally decided to take a taxi to go there and return by BART) and getting good score (I've only been in the GRE class for 5 weeks).

So I took a taxi from the hostel at 6.15 AM and arrived there 35 minutes later. I paid the driver USD 35 (including tip). It was hellishly cold. It's been raining since Monday. That's right. VALENTINE'S DAY! Sometimes the temperature could drop to 5 degrees Celsius. Then there was the wind that almost broke my umbrella (I bought a new black umbrella with cat pictures - so cute! The green Samsonite Mom gave would not withstand even the softest wind).

But yeah. Despite my hunger (although I ate breakfast that day), I could relax and got an okay score: 580 for Verbal (English) and 690 for Quantitative (English). GRE's score ranges from 200 to 800. Surprisingly, my Verbal score is way above the average score of graduate students admitted to Harvard. The score was sent to BU. *Cross fingers*

And surprisingly, my FCBD teacher, Ms. Anita Lalwani, also went to BU for her graduate degree.

Man, she's smart.

chinese festivities

When I was working for Shangri-La Hotel & Residences, Jakarta, we used to have this big celebration every Chinese New Year's Eve and Day. Lion dances and dragon dances would dance and bless all parts of the hotel and apartment, including our offices.

I always thought Chinese New Year back in the property was a delightful and superexciting celebration. And then I went to San Francisco.

So there I was, coming home from my Dance Conditioning class at FCBD and weekly grocery shopping at WholeFoods; I had my gym bag, yoga mat, two HEAVY shopping bags, and one overcoat slung over my arm (it was raining and extremely cold in the morning). I was tired (the Dance Conditioning class was exhausting, but so fabulous), but when I saw the street filled with stalls and people everywhere (they even installed a tall slider and ferris wheel!), I had a big smile on my face.

I missed the Dragon and Lion dances, but I'm entertained by the Chinese songs sung live from the open stage. I don't know any of the songs or understand the language, but it was so fun.

You've seen the view from my room: I can't really see anything from up hear, but I can hear the songs and now they're singing English / American songs with upbeat tempo.

I love street fairs. They're just so exhilirating and most probably filled with pickpockets. It's also a good chance to meet people. I may not be Chinese (or Vietnamese - for some reasons there are also Vietnamese stalls here), but I'm Asian. And that's enough to make me homesick.

Oh my God, they're singing Bob Marley's "Everything's Gonna Be Alright". I feel like crying.

i cried

I just received an e-mail from Dad and I cried. Yes, apparently, I can cry.

It's not sad news, really... He wrote about how Kenji is becoming clingy to Mom and yet doesn't stay inside the house at night and goes out with Mita. Kenji usually stays inside the house and sleeps with me. For those of you who don't know, Kenji and Mita are my cats. I have six cats at home.

I miss Kenji the most. He is very close to me. He strangely embodies all the traits and characteristics that the previous cats who were very close to me had. It's just so weird. In him, I see all of them. I see Poussy, Heidi, Monchi, Mimi, Luna, and even Cuplis.

He's this very clingy cat (he likes to sleep on my armpit) and I like to tease him a lot, blow kisses (and kiss) his furry tummy and just make him mad so he'd chase me around.

So yeah, I cried for the first time.

I knew I was going to be homesick sooner or later. In 2003, when I arrived in Nice for the first time, arranged the room I was give, and basked on a sofa in the balcony, just relishing the warmth of the sea sun, I almost cried. It was very quiet and peaceful and I missed home.

Now, with the internet, I could hold it for about 3 weeks. But I really miss my family and my cats.

Here, I don't really have a friend. I have acquaintances. I talk to some of them, I always play nice, but I always keep my distance with the students who always bunch up with others from their country or from other countries that have the same language. I always have the notion that I'm her to study, not to make friends. But it's always the right thing to be nice to everyone.

And I'm nice to everyone. I even say hi to every single bus driver. I even said hi to the one particular immigration officer who wasn't nice to me back in the airport.

But I can't help it. I see the positivity of Flapjack (from the Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack) and Spongebob Squarepants. And I want to immitate it. I want to bring positivity and positive attitude, not just to people around me, but to me personally as I need a positive attitude in the middle of this uncertainty.

So yeah. Today, I also introduce a new label: homesick.