accident prone

I haven't written in such a long time. I was going to blog two Thursdays ago following my nasty accident, but I was so caught up in my homework and tending my wounds.

But, enough about the homework. To tell you the truth, I'm not really feeling this semester. Or should I say... I haven't really felt this semester. And by that I mean I haven't been enjoying myself too much. Don't get me wrong. I really love the courses and the subjects and the professors are great, but I'm not too fond of late classes and the idea of missing the bus ride (it comes every 40 minutes and the last bus is at 8.20 PM or something) haunts me whenever we get overboard with the time.

That was precisely what happened on the night I had my accident. I was fidgeting much in class because it was already time (7.30 PM) but we were still talking about our assignments. I really didn't want to miss my bus. I was tired and hungry and Thursday is the last day of school week so I was looking forward to a nice long weekend.

We got out of class at 7.40 PM and I hurriedly walked to the bus stop. It was freezing and my teeth were chattering and I cursed because it was 7.41 PM and that was when the bus was supposed to come and I didn't see any bus. So I thought I must've missed it. I braced myself to wait for forty minutes and decided not to wait in the library because I wouldn't be able to see it if it came. Instead, I walked to a nearby classroom (very warm and cozy and empty) with windows through which I could see the bus stop.

Just when I plopped my ass down on the chair in the class, ready to rub my freezing tropical palms together, I instinctively looked outside the window at the bus stop and lo! and behold, the bus was there. So I did my best Wonder Woman impression and ran. I ran and I ran and I ran and... I jumped over two stair cases. The first jump was quite a success. I wobbled a bit when I landed, but I thought, oh f*ck it, I'm going to jump over the other. So I did, and landed on the asphalt on my palms and knees like a little bitch.

My stuff was all over the place and I picked it up and ran to the bus. The nice driver apparently saw something on the ground and said that I had dropped something. I went out again and realized that I had forgotten my glasses and they were there on the ground.

Well, the bus was empty and I was the only passenger even when it arrived at the BART station, so I guess I was lucky. I suddenly felt stings on multiple parts of my body, namely my right palm, some fingers of my right hand, and my right knee. So I looked, and sure enough, I was bleeding. The right knee part of my jeans was torn and I peeked inside and saw that I was bleeding hard.

The bus ride was twenty minutes long to Lafayette BART station. Then I had to wait for about five minutes until the train arrived. The train ride took about ten minutes to Rockridge BART station. Then I had to wait for about fifteen minutes for the bus from Rockridge to the nearest stop from my apartment. The bus ride was about eleven minutes, and the walk was about seven minutes.

In the words of Plankton, let no one say I don't suffer for my art. Or something like that. And actually I don't suffer for my art technically speaking, but you get the idea.

After the jump, you'll be exposed to the gore fest that is my wounds. They're healing now. The one on my right palm is still raw but at least it's not bleeding anymore. My knee, on the other hand, suffered quite a deep gash, and since I can't stop walking (and dancing - although I've been restraining myself from doing floorwork), it's healing somewhat slowly.

But before that, here's some more Wonder Woman goodness. I personally prefer the theme song where the singers sing the whole song, but those other clips don't show Ms. Carter jumping around.

Perhaps that night before I jumped, I should've twirled so I could change into my Wonder Woman costume, huh?

To think I was interested in doing Parkour.

See my wound after the jump (pun intended)

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.

really?

Quite a few oddities and stupidities happened during the time I was absent from posting entries unrelated to school work.

I know, I know... Posting assignments from school is a cheap way of making sure something is still being posted here. However, this is my blog and I reserve the right to be cheap lazy posting whatever and whenever I want. I am an artist, damn you!

Yep. I'm reminded why I didn't want to get a job in advertising agencies. It's the same mentality over and over again. The mentality of an artist. The mentality of being high and mighty. The mentality of (thinking of) being superwitty, supercynical, superknow-it-all with that smarter-than-thou attitude. I am pissed, but I will persevere. Albeit with being silent and hiding in the dark. Like latent disease.

On to school work! Last week, I had Saturday and Sunday off since there was no dance class nor dance conditioning class. I had a submission to be critiqued coming up and I felt imperative to imprison myself in the barricade of my little apartment and just write. I lived like a hermit. I ate little, I didn't shower. The new vacuum cleaner that I just bought was lying there in its uselessness. I will have to clean up my apartment this morning.

The reason why I felt it was necessary to cram myself up from Friday to Monday, was because my submission would be a long one (it was 69 pages at that time). We are required to submit a big chunk of work (around 100 pages and more) two weeks before the actual reading and critiquing session. My classmates and I have been handing out stories of ten pages or fifteen, and we are always given one week to read and write our critique. With the length of my submission, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to turn it in a week or two weeks before.

Regardless, I finished the draft. Then, proudly and happily, I shot an e-mail to my professor, Lysley Tenorio. I wrote that I had crammed myself in and was finally done with the submission and whether I should turn it in on Wednesday, October 12 to be critiqued in the next two weeks, November 2. That's right. I wrote "two weeks".

Mr. Tenorio replied to my e-mail, saying that two weeks would mean turning my draft on October 19. He told me take time with my draft, to cut out any unnecessary scenes and edit out things.

I was flabbergasted. I replied to his e-mail, sheepishly saying that clearly, my mathematical genius had eluded me yet again (I was being ironic, as if you couldn't tell).

Nevertheless, I'm happy I still have time. I can't say I'm doing a good job with cutting and shortening the draft, though. It's actually expanded into 72 pages of double-spaced, 12 pt. Times New Roman.

Oh, and to help me with my writing, I bought tons of books about cats! Can you guess what my submission is? I will try my best to review all of them.

Now another topic: public transportation.

I'm happy with BART and AC Transit is sufficient. Let's talk about the latter first.

AC Transit here in the East Bay is the equivalent of Lamorinda's County Connection, in that there's always a seat for everyone. The good thing is that, well... there's always a seat for everyone. The bad thing is that it means not many people use the public transportation. Therefore, unlike the SF Muni buses which are always full no matter what hour or what day, both AC Transit and County Connection's services are somewhat limited.

The AC Transit bus, the one that goes from the bus stop near my apartment to Rockridge BART where I usually start my BART ride to SMC or FCBD studio, arrives every half hour. I've missed the bus more than I care to count as it just wheeled pass by me when I was still a block away. That means I have to either sit and wait for another thirty minutes or walk six blocks to another bus stop that is passed by a bus line that arrives every fifteen minutes.

Apparently, as is evident in the picture to your left (or above), AC Transit won the 2006 National Best of the Best Award, whatever it is. Now, don't get me wrong. There are nice AC Transit bus drivers who will acknowledge you coming in and paying your fare (I use Clipper Card. The fee for each ride is, oddly enough, USD 2.10. I don't feel like fumbling around to get the ten cents). There are those who are also nice enough to reply to your thank you when you hop off.

Then there are the jerky drivers who make you know that they have the worst job in the world and that your very presence on the bus is only making them feel more miserable.

Now, on to BART.

I like BART. There have been news written by some New Yorker about the unsanitary conditions of BART and Muni. Ha. Their subways and buses aren't exactly clean.

Still, after reading the article, I felt compelled to try not to sit down. At least not for a while. Commuting from Rockridge to Orinda/Lafayette and to 16th Street and Mission is a long voyage. I have to sit down.

The picture to your right (or above) has a spelling mistake. Can you guess which word? The photo was taken at Orinda BART station on Tuesday, October 4, 2011.

Just tonight, as I was coming home from FCBD studio, the stations after I got on were swarming with Cal fans. You know, the blue and yellow team of Berkeley or something. I don't really know.

Anyway, those Cal fans were pushing and shoving their way into the train cars. I was sitting happily in my seat (thank goodness), and we heard screams as people pushed others to get into the train. I'm telling you, I was reminded of Jakarta where people are rude and impolite and can't even form a proper line.

Then, the BART operator tried many times to close the doors but he couldn't because people were still jamming the doors. Then finally, he succeeded. We saw that there were still many people being left behind at the Civic Center, Powell, Montgomery, and Embarcadero stations. It was around 9.30 PM.

When we arrived at 12th Street Oakland Station, the Cal fans had decreased in numbers, as they had hopped off along the way. Still, there were some who stayed. And then, again, the BART operator seemed to have difficulty in closing the doors when we finally heard him saying, "Please keep your heads inside the train. It's much safer that way."

We all laughed. Some ignoramus felt like being killed.

This particular BART operator is just amazing. He's the guy who always reminded us to keep the seats near the door for wheelchair users and the elderly because "A) it's common courtesy and B) it's the law." and to not put up our feet on the seats nor the windows because, "It's a karma thing."

I promise that if on my last day (or night) in California, he's the one operating the BART train, I will have to tell him how much he's made me laugh.

That's a photo showing an advertisement at the 16th Street & Mission BART Station.

Now back to the Cal fans.

Apparently, so many of those creatures study in UC Berkeley. Well, it's not a surprise, really. I mean, they do sport the familiar blue and yellow insignia of Cal.

Anyway, I found a throng of students who obviously just came home from the very same game and they were waiting for the bus. This bus is the only night bus that will take me near my apartment and it shot straight from Rockridge Station to UC Berkeley where many of those fans live.

We hopped in and they began talking so loud and cheering and things and then we passed by Safeway and one guy cheered for "More beer! More beer! More beer!" and the other students went along until the lady driver grabbed her mic and told them to be quiet because they were on a public bus and not everyone on board was a student of UCB. The mob said sorry, but the same guy looked around and pointed that only few were not students until his friend scolded him and said it didn't matter.

One girl (an Asian-American. Geez, why do Asian-American girls have to be so damn irritating? They always seem to wear the skimpiest, sluttiest outfits when even their Caucasian and African American girl friends wear normal clothes. They always seem to be the loudest too) obnoxiously said to her friend (they were sitting near me) that the bus was a public place and so they had the right to exercise their freedom of speech.

Obnoxious and appalling. Thank goodness my stop was right after that. I am so glad that don't go to UC Berkeley.

That was rather ironic because as I was sitting on the bus one day, there was this poster on the back of the seat of a missing Asian girl. Her name is Michelle Le.

Well, that's it for now. Phew, I've blogged quite a long post, eh?

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.

big guns

I'm a big fan of Xenomorphs (Aliens) and Yautjas (Predators). What can I say, I'm a big geek. Still, I don't watch Star Wars.

During the flight from Changi to SFO, one of the movie selections was Predators. I love the first Predator with Arnold Schwarzenegger (I'm actually a big fan of Schwarzenegger's, and probably I'm being a douchebag by saying that I still like his movies despite of his affair; I can't say the same thing about Mel Gibson, though) and Predator 2 is also one of my favorites in my limited repertoire of extraterrestrial gore movies.

However, as I'm watching Predators, I can't help but wonder why some people think it's a good sequel, like Aliens to Alien. Some people even went as far as saying that Predator 2 was shitty.

This entry won't be a review; it's going to be a rant (AND IT CONTAINS SPOILERS!).

Rant #1: The score. It doesn't mix with the scenes. I hear the influence of not only Predator and Predator 2 music scores, but also from the Alien Saga. Predators' score is grand and is meant for grandiose long and wide, impressive, dramatic shots - shots that aren't found in Predators.

Rant #2: Adrien Brody. He is boring, monotonous, and completely lacks the personality that Schwarzenegger or Danny Glover showed in Predator and Predator 2 respectively. I thought I almost killed myself from boredom whenever Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne steps onto the screen on Dark Knight, but Royce (Brody's character in Predators) made me an inch closer to actually committing suicide.

Rant #3: The cast. Oh geez. One of them is actually an SMC graduate. The dark, handsome one, with the unpronounceable name.

Rant #4: The pace of the movie. I know the need to build up the suspense by showing absolutely nothing on screen, but at the movie's rate, it was mind-numbing.

Rant #5: The f-word and the tough talk. They just aren't believable enough, just like the cast.

Rant #6: The writing. (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER) One alpha-male and the only female came out as the survivors. Where's the twist in that? In Predator, everyone was equally strong and equally smart.

I found Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem completely unbearable (with all due respect to Milla Jovovich, I don't think Paul WS Anderson can either write or direct movies) and Alien vs. Predator was mildly tolerable.

Okay. Rant over. Now I can't believe that the nearest Boost Mobile shop is closed permanently. I think that means I have to go back to using MetroPCS. I hope I can get my number again.

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:

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.

people say the strangest things

During EF Graduation Day Ceremony for Late Winter 2011 Term:

A friend asked me to take a photo of her with one of her teachers. I don't know the teacher, though. So, click click, and this conversation happened:

Teacher (to my friend): So, are you leaving?

My friend: Yes. I'm going back to my country.

Teacher (to me): How about you?

Me: Oh, I'm staying until June.

Teacher (to my friend): I hope you wouldn't leave. (then looked at me and said to my friend:) I hope he'd leave, not you.

And I had that WTF moment. I mean... This guy is a new teacher and he didn't even know me. Am I that dislikeable?

In a Godiva Store in Westfield:

Supernice Salesgirl (to my friend): Here, why don't you try this? It's a new product! (handing a chocolate sample from her tray)

My friend: Oh my God, this is so good!

Supernice Salesgirl (to me): Here, you can try one too!

Me: Oh, no, thank you. I am prone to break-outs.

Supernice Salesgirl (to me): Oh, that's wonderful!

Right.

broken things

In addition to being the week of the finals, which I think I've done pretty well, it's also the week of broken things.

To start with, I accidentally flicked open the W key on my notebook's keyboard. It began in the wee hours of Thursday morning while I was giving myself a crash course on GRE Math (test was on that day). I didn't know what happened, but I was in bed, working with my notebook placed on my lap and the big GRE book on top of the keyboard. I hastily get off the bed, I think to turn off my cellphone's alarm, and when I came back, the W key was already flicked open. I was already panicked because I hadn't studied well for the GRE Math test and then the incident happened. Turned out, there's no Acer service center in San Francisco, just generic computer services. So I took my tweezer and tried to get the pieces together with a tape. It's a bit awkward (and hard) now when I need to press the W key, but at least it's still working.

And then, I found a hole on the left knee part of my jeans. I've had these jeans for only a year, so I don't know what happened. Umm... okay. After reminiscing, I think I know. Back in Jakarta, I was on my way to a place and there was this kitten running in the street. The traffic lights turned red and it just stayed under a truck. So I got off from the car, crouched under the truck, took the kitten, and put it on the pavement. When I got back to my car, my left knee felt hurt. I guess it took a while for the jeans to get a hole. Oh, well. I'll get a patch.

After a hard day at school, I went back to the hostel and found my room opened. I almost screamed bloody murder. Apparently, a Mexican guy was fixing the plumbing system of the room above mine. I had to wait for two hours to get

back to my room that day. The Mexican guy came back again on the next day to fix the ceiling of my bathroom. He didn't really fix it well, though. I hope it's going to be temporary.

Well, it's spring break time. I really haven't planned anything... But I think I'll have to comb different parts of San Francisco every day. I have two weeks.

Then maybe, just maybe, I'll go to Las Vegas and Los Angeles.

Then again, probably not.

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.

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.

lucky ones

I was undecided whether to call this entry "Lucky Ones" or "Burnt-Out". But I guess I'm not burnt out (yet) and lucky ones best describe those people I'm going to write about.

I'm talking about the lucky people in general. There are factors like hard work, talent, and perseverance, but I gotta say, luck does come in handy. I mean, you know what I mean, right? I don't have to explain.

And I'm not one of those people.

I guess somewhere in the blog where I wrote something about xenophobia, I said that if I were in a hostage situation, I'd be the first one who got shot or blown up to smithereens. I always think I stand out for all the bad reasons.

I've finally made a few friends here and somehow, some of those new friends also said the same thing: enrolling in the EF program (whether General English or University Preparation) is the only way for us to be in San Francisco, or USA.

Some of them realized that the universities are just too expensive or that they wouldn't have good TOEFL / SAT / GMAT / GRE or whatever score they need to be admitted in the colleges and universities of their choice.

Whereas for me, I feel I just won't be accepted at all because of my unimpressiveness. Yes, I can write, probably above average than many Indonesians (especially in English), but that doesn't mean that I can beat 10 other people in my league (University of San Francisco and St. Mary's College admit 10% of applicants). And I just don't feel I have that L-Factor. I just don't feel I have luck.

But while I'm here, I'm going to just work on my dance and the EF programs, and make the most of it. If I get accepted: yay! If I don't: well, no worries, at least my time will have been well-spent.

Here's a video I made. I had fun with Windows Live Movie Maker and found that the original length of the video (54 seconds) matches with the length of one of the songs in Coraline's soundtrack.

Coraline's one of my all-time favorite movies, too. Just so you know.

And I really have to remember to make more wide-screen videos.

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.

everyone seems to be having a great time

Everyone, but me.

Early today just before the GRE Math class, a classmate complained that he had to bring so many books to school. Well, tell me about it!

I don't know if it's how I manage my time here, but I almost keep forgetting homeworks eventhough I've put post-its on the pages that needed to be done. Just today, after recharging myself with a long sleep, I hauled myself off the bed at 4.30 AM and started doing the GRE Math homework.

The GRE Math class is on Tuesday and Thursday at 8.30 AM. That means I have to wake up at 7 AM, eat breakfast and take a shower (or take a shower and eat breakfast). I have to be at the bust stop at 8 AM by the latest to arrive just a mere minutes away from the schedule.

The class is right next to the lounge area where they have a pool table and everything, and today, when we were faced with integers and fractions and graphs and whatever Math has to offer, I could hear people playing pools.

Being a positive person, I could see the irony so I just laughed it all away.

Well, tomorrow's Friday and that means a lighter load. And I'm smiling all the way even when I'm writing this.

Let's just hope I won't meet those crazy kids on my way back.