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.

it hurts like a mutha

"Mom, I never, ever want to be tattooed, ever again."

Message sent to Mom.

Thirty seconds later: Incoming call: Mom.

"So did you or did you not get a tattoo?"

"I did, and I'm never going to get another one!" I said, that made Mom laughed really loud. It was not just an amused laughter, it was triumphant, filled with victory.

"I told you. How big is it anyway?"

"Eighteen centimeters (that's about eight inches)." UPDATE: apparently, the tattoo is 23 cm (about nine inches).

"Okay, well, it's good to know that you've had enough."

Then the phone conversation ended.

I always backtrack, and I'm going to backtrack this post yet again, because I just think I should blog about it after writing my conversation with Mom. This one is with my boyfriend.

"So, the picture doesn't have orange or red, while the real eye peacock feather has that red and orange and yellow hue. You have to make sure I get those colors. I don't want the tattoo to be too bluish," I told my boyfriend.

"What? I thought you were going to come too."

It took me about five seconds to realize that he was joking.

"Geez. Since it's my skin, of course I have to be there, duh? But I can't see behind my back, can I? I need you to tell the tattooist to make sure he gets the colors right."

In the end, my boyfriend did play a significant role in taking the pictures, cleaning the new ink when we're home, and applying the antiseptic lotion.

Froggy, the guy who did my tattoo at Bali Ink was supernice, superfunny, superartistic, and superprofessional. There was almost zero drop of blood.

Every time I saw people walking with their tattoos, my scar pounds mercilessly on my back and I feel that stinging sensation from the piece of jewel I will never ever see with my own eyes.

It hurts like a mutha and I'm scarred for life now. Literally. But at least it's a pretty scar. A pretty, peacock-feather-shaped scar.

even heroes need holidays

And I'm not a hero! So I'm entitled to more holidays!

I arrived in Jakarta on 21 June 2011 and flew to Bali on the 27th.

On the first day of my arrival in Bali, my boyfriend and I went to La Ota for some porridge - that's how we always start my trip in Bali. Then we headed to Bali Ink to set up an appointment for my first (and most probably my last) tattoo. How do I know it's going to be my last? Well, when I was in San Francisco, suddenly Mom sent me an SMS message telling me that she had heard of my plan to get a tattoo. She pleaded (basically told me) to not get one. I replied to her that I'd discuss the plan when I got home.

On the eve of the flight to Bali as I was packing my suitcase, this conversation ensued.

"Mom, why can't I have a tattoo? Are you concerned about the cleanliness and hygiene of the place?"

"Yes, I'm worried about that," she said.

"But they have clean and new needles and stuff. They'll show you the new needles, just like they do at the facialist," I replied, referring to the dermatologist where we usually go to. Then I realized I had made a weak preposition, and so I added, "Or like the clinics and hospitals where they always have new needles and sterilized equipment."

I showed her the designs: the cats, the bell jar, the mandala, and finally the peacock feather at the back of the neck.

"That one is pretty," she said, pointing at the peacock feather.

"It is! And I want it."

"Why can't you have it for a temporary tattoo? And anyway, it will hurt, won't it?"

"Yes! But that's the essence of getting a tattoo: a painful commitment for a thing of beauty that will last forever!" actually as I was saying this, I was involuntarily reminded about the pain that I'd have to endure (around 90 minutes - the front-desk person at Bali Ink said). I think I flinched a bit.

"This one," I said, pointing at the bell jar design, "I made a promise to myself that if I were accepted at a school I wanted, I'd get it." The bell jar design was inspired by Sylvia Plath's one and only novel.

"Well, okay... but you have to choose. I want you to only get one tattoo. That's it!"

"One... full body?"

"No, just one tattoo. And I prefer you get the smallest," she sternly said.

"Gosh. How did you find out I was getting tattoos anyway?" I asked. I had remained silent about the whole thing. My plan was to silently get my tattoos done and then came home with them.

"I read about them," she replied with her usual poker face.

"From where?"

"The newspapers..." she replied. I almost giggled but also maintained a serious air - I was in the middle of a business proposal, not unlike when I asked for an Acer Ferrari laptop seven years ago.

"Oh, well. I'll get the peacock, then" I said decidedly.

And here I am, in Bali, anxiously waiting for two more days and reading about tattoo aftercare.

Sigh.

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:

things i'll miss and won't miss

I'll miss:

1. My friends and teachers at EF school.
2. The MUNI (and the relatively convenient and fast rides).
3. The ClipperCard (and its convenience).
4. Windows and sunlight that goes through it and illuminates my room.
5. The cool air that deletes the need to install air conditioner.
6. Chinese Pancake with Rice that I purchase every weekend after dance conditioning class from a nearby Chinese restaurant.
7. The relative absence of noise from the streets outside.
8. People in the hostel and at the school that I can talk about.
9. The big city air and feeling and walking down UN Square to the BART station through the stalls selling knick-knacks and foods I never bought.
10. The proximity to FatChanceBellyDance studio.
11. RAs at the hostel.
12. Restaurants at the Fisherman's Wharf.

I won't miss:

1. The abundance of poo (hopefully excreted by dogs) on the streets.
2. Noisy bitches (boys and girls - mostly French speakers and Arabs) in the hostel and at school.
3. Liplocking students - minors or otherwise.
4. Said bitches who think they're cool either by talking so loud and socializing with many people or by being aloof and silent.
5. Seeing dirty syringes and condoms on the pavement.
6. The homeless people (although they are an interesting bunch of people).
7. Unfriendly hostel staff.

little town, it's a quiet village

Remember when I complained about Santa Rosa and Sebastopol? (Geez, I use the same opening for the blog entry)

Well, I'm damned now.

Okay, probably not too damned, as I feel positive about going to St. Mary's College, CA.

Yesterday, I spent the whole day going to SMC. It took me approximately 42 minutes from Civic Center BART to the Lafayette BART (the train departed at 11.18 and arrived at 12 noon). There was nothing wrong with the BART ride. It was not uneventful - just flat and nothing interesting, really.

The first thing that I saw upon exiting Lafayette BART station was a hill full of white cross. That'll be somehow serenely eerie when I board the evening train home. Or probably not serene. Just eerie, and in a whole lot of sense, cryptic.

Here comes the good news: the bus ride from either Lafayette BART station or Orinda BART station right to the heart of SMC (how convenient) takes approximately 25 minutes. However, the bus comes every two hours on certain periods. I had to wait for a full hour.

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," said Dorothy to her dog in Wizard of Oz. I didn't have Kitty with me (my sling bag is broken and my tiny bag is... tiny... and stuffed to max) to share that feeling, though.

I guess the reason that the bus frequency is kept at minimum is because no one really rides it. When I returned from SMC to the Lafayette BART station, there were only three passengers, including myself. The two of them descended shortly and I was the only one left for the whole ride. I am relieved to know that my evening classes won't be later than 7 PM. That means I can catch the 7.19 PM, the 7.41 PM, or the latest, 8.21 PM buses to take me to either Lafayette or Orinda BART stations. Now I only need to invest in a watch.

According to Google Map, it is a 5.1 mile walk from SMC to Lafayette BART station (am I being somewhat pedantic by writing "Lafayette BART station" over and over again?). It's not that it's not doable. It's just that on some parts of the roads, no pavement is available. I got off on the wrong stop on my way to SMC, but there was a hiking and biking trail that I could walk on. I can't ride a bike. I know, I've tried, I just can't. I can rollerblade, but I don't think the path will be smooth enough to do it. During the walk, I came up with a brilliant solution: Segway! Although, you know, with the current Segway price (I heard it could come all the way up to USD 8,000!), I'd rather drive a car.

SMC was so peaceful when I arrived. It was the off-season I assume. Had I arrived in the Fall, I would have been freaked out with so many people. It's just amazing how I felt the need to be with people, yet crowd seems to make me feel uncomfortable. That's why I chose to live on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley instead of North Berkeley (YES, I'VE FOUND AN APARTMENT and have signed the contract! I'm moving in on June 15), because, in the words of Virginia Woolf in The Hours, "I choose not the suffocating anesthetic of the suburbs, but the violent jolt of the Capital."

Well, Telegraph Avenue is not exactly the Capital, but I hope you get the picture.

With the absence of the Clipper Card in the public transportation in Moraga, and the total uselessness of the said Card in BART stations in areas outside San Francisco, I won't be using it when I return. I've calculated the costs. It's much, much cheaper to pay for one-time bus rides and refill the BART card.

Now that everything is settled, I can't wait to go home.

Still, one more question ensues: I won't be living in San Francisco anymore; I wonder whether or not I should change the title of the blog and if I should, to what?

awards, goodbyes, little miss sunshine, and fisherman's wharf

There will be times when I gloat, and no matter how often those moments appear, I never seem to be able to show off my academic intelligence.

This is the first time.

Yes, yours truly here is the recipient of the Award for Academic Excellence for being a student with A+ average. You'd better believe it. I didn't believe it myself but then I opened my score card and there was that A+, neatly printed on the paper. A miracle. What's next? A cure for AIDS?

That wasn't the only award I received, though. On Memorial Day's BBQ Party at Mr. Stephen's, I also earned a gag award that said "Most Original and Only Bellydancer". I love that award so, so much, and keep it close to my heart.

I know I'm backtracking in this entry, but please bear with me as I'm going to backtrack once more.

The day before graduation day (here's the timeline: graduation day was on Friday, June 3; Memorial Day BBQ was on Monday, May 30) - Thursday, June 2, after a nice lunch at Grande Kamekyo across EF's Fisherman's Wharf, Leo, Rex, and I decided to walk to the beach. It was a nice, sunny day, although the wind was cold. And so we chatted.

"I've been here the longest," Rex said with a cigarette wedged between his fingers.

"How long?" I asked.

"Fifteen months."

I gasped. "Fifteen months?"

He nodded. "I started in Oakland. They didn't have UP (University Preparation - language drills, application assistance, gmat/gre/toefl preparation, truckloads of books enough to give us hernia) program then, but I had paid, so they put me in the AY (Academic Year [General English] - mostly fun, games, light grammar, virtually no books). I was in AY for 6 months, then I got into UP for another nine months."

"How was it?"

"Well, at first, I couldn't even say a word in English. The first day, I didn't even smoke because I didn't have my lighter with me and I didn't know how to ask for fire. After it became unbearable, I just asked the other students, 'May I have fire?'"

"But that's great! I mean, it's also common to ask for 'fire' when you want to light up a cigarette," I said.

"Yeah, but the other students were also as stupid as I was and they didn't know what I meant. It took us a while," he laughed endearingly.

I'd heard the same thing from my friends: Najla (an Arab), Andrey (Russian), and Leo as well. They had benefited a lot from staying in the USA and just talk. There is a huge improvement between when I first met Andrey and Leo and now when I'm talking to them.

On Friday, just before all of us went to Tiernan's for the graduation ceremony (it was dreary outside and our principal said that the weather didn't permit us to hold the event on the beach), we watched the conclusion of Little Miss Sunshine in Lauren's class. I cried a bit while watching it, I didn't cry at all during the graduation ceremony, so it was reasonable when I burst into tears in the middle of the night as I watched Leo's videos featuring collage of the students' photos.

And so, what else could I do but write a poem?

fisherman's wharf

there is always the pain of meeting someone,

and getting to know that someone for the briefest moment,

but it feels like it's been a lifetime.

and then you have to say goodbye.

this pain;

it rips open my chest and crushes my heart.

this pain;

it will always be there.

but I have the memories to remind me

of the magical moments of friendship.

five damn months

and the pain when I said,

"what the hell am I doing here?"

are gone.

that pain disappears.

but this pain remains.

and I hope

not even senility

nor dementia

nor all force or disease on Earth

will wipe away the memory

that feeds this pain.

for I know I can take it.

I can live with it.

but I sure as hell

can't live without the memories

of my friends

of the classes and the books

of the bus rides and car lifts

of the here and now

of fisherman's wharf.

and so I cry

as if each choke

each tear

could ease my suffering.

and yet I smile

for it is not a suffering

but a privilege

an honor

of sharing lessons

of learning and teaching

of murmuring and wailing

of walking down the corridors

of fisherman's wharf.