shopping for silver

Mom has a thing for bags... And brooches... Well, and flower seeds and gardening. She tried to resist my offer to buy her something from Bali, but then she said, "Well, if you INSIST, then a silver brooch," to which I replied, "But Mom, I bought you a silver brooch when I came to Bali two years ago and you never wore it!"

"Says who? I wear it often! The thing is, it the pin was bent, so I'm worried it'll break," she said.

So off we went to Ubud, where silver jewelry (the highest quality in Bali) abound. If you're looking for silver jewelry or silver artisans, Bali and Yogyakarta (central Java) are famous for silver. The designs and the craftsmanship are exquisite (this was the word I kept muttering when I saw the silver collections).

Our search began in several artisan shops in an area called Celuk. They sell exquisite jewelry from rings, brooches, hair pins, to earrings, and bracelets and bangles, and decorations made of silver and or gold. We went to one artisan shop and there was this exquisite (see, I keep repeating that word) brooch. The price tag was around USD 600. The seller saw that we were locals, so he gave us USD 300. When we were about to leave, he gave us USD 100.

We went to other artisan shops, including one called UC Silver. Their collections are beautiful, but too crazy contemporary. Too modern for my taste. I was looking for something more local, more traditional, more Indonesian, and definitely not that expensive (Ruby encrusted brooch for USD 1,200? Really? I guess they have to pay for the billboards, the shops, the personal assistants for shoppers (yes, kidding I am not), the display, the decor, and the renovation for the new parking lot).

Then we began our search to smaller silver boutiques in Ubud, and I found the perfect brooch for Mom. Strangely, it was at CV Utami, the store where I bought Mom her first silver brooch.

Isn't it just exquisite? I couldn't find a cat, so I chose a peacock. Hopefully it'll remind her of my tattoo and give her subliminal messages to allow me to get more ink.

Finally, we had lunch at Tutma, a cozy open-air restaurant in Ubud. I had Vegetarian Platter (seriously overpriced and not even tasty) and iced tea (which had an icky aftertaste), and Cinnamon Roll (this one is crazy good. It was big and warm, picture attached). 

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.

and then it sinks in

This frustration, this anger, this feeling of worthlessness, of being told that what you like, no, love to do, what you think you're good at, is actually the opposite, that you're just never going to get it, never going to create a value out of it, never going to show the importance of it, never going to convey it successfully, even if you are trying, attempting to leap over the boundaries, the long hours.

When it's all read and done, it's going to be locked up forever, or worse, thrown into the recycle bin, or the shredder, or deleted, if it's digital.

Where's the value of it? Where's the importance of it?

Will I ever get it? Will I ever succeed?

Addendum:
Do you want to know how this feels? Do you want to know? I've had gangrene taken out of me, I've had my skin slit opened so the pen could be installed to support my fractured bone, I've had my skin tattooed and the needled bored into my bones, I've had teeth taken out of my jaws, none of those is as painful as how this feels.

Do you want to know how this feels? Do you want to know? I've had suffered broken hearts, I've been cheated on, lied on, bullied, locked up, none of those is as painful as how this feels.

Do you know why? Because this feeling is intangible. Because the intangibility of this feeling seeps deep into my heart and rots it from inside, until it's left frozen, withered, barren, devoid of emotions, but not of pain.

But I don't know why, I don't know why this is happening to me. I don't know why I'm inflicting this upon myself and set myself up time and again. I don't know why I open my ears and my eyes to believe in what they're saying (perhaps because deep within me, I know it's true? Perhaps I'm in denial?).

Do you know why?

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.

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?

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 (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.

St. Patrick's Day Parade

Veronika and I went to the St. Patrick's Day Parade up on Market Street this afternoon. We were... late. Bahahahaha...

So we only got to see the last bits of the Parade. But it was fun. I got to see some of the shops on Market Street like the Westfield, which surprisingly was dark and kind of gloomy. I prefer malls in Jakarta. Then again, I don't know why I need to go to the malls here for.

Which reminds me... While I was there, why didn't I go to MAC (the make-up, not the fruit) to get the Strobe Cream? Ever since Princess Farhana recommended the cream. And I just feel that my facial skin needs some glimmer booster.

Oh, well... I've got plenty of time to go shopping later. Meanwhile, here're the pictures from St. Patrick's Day Parade.

Photos taken on Saturday, March 12, 2011

Using Olympus Mju 850 SW

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.

what does friday mean to you?

It is already Saturday morning in Indonesia as of the time of this writing. And that means: weekend.

On a normal Saturday, I'd usually wake up at 9.30 AM, wash my face and drive to teach an Oriental dance class at Dancewave Center. If there's no class to teach, then I'll wake up at around 12 for the Intermediate class at 12.30.

Now that I'm in a foreign land, I am thinking about several possibilities. No, wait, let me talk about Friday first.

Friday is going to be a laid-back day. There's going to be only one class: Writing for GRE Essays and I think I'm really going to enjoy it. The second class is like 3 hours away, and that's TOEFL. I don't normally enjoy TOEFL because it is somewhat tedious and challenging (it's completely different than GRE or GMAT English, the three of them have different levels of difficulty, but all of them are hard).

After today's class, since it's really sunny, I am going shopping to CALA Foods and to Walgreens to get my Clipper's Card (because I've totally run out of 1 dollar bills). It's right there on the corner of Bush and Larkin.

UPDATE!!

Okay, so I just got back from watching The Black Swan over at AMC Van Ness. It was so intense. The last time I got this intense from watching a movie was way back after Matrix: Reloaded. And for the record, I hate Matrix series. So there.

I'll have to write something about the movie over at my original blog.

Now, you all know how much I get lost and stuff, right? I've blogged about it so many times. Well, there's a place called "Walgreens". It's a medium-sized store that sells basic things like tissue, food, etc, and not-so-basic things like cosmetics.

A few days ago, I located the nearest Walgreens in a map. From looking at the map, I concluded that it should've been a two to five minute walk. Well, I walked round and round with my grocery bag and I couldn't find it even after 30 minutes. So I got back to the hostel.

Today, I got home at 5 and told myself that I should do grocery shopping and buy a Clipper Card to commute. When I boarded the bus, it was already getting dark and so I was going to cancel the whole grocery shopping thing until... when I got off the bus... I turned around and saw... WALGREENS!!

So I did my shopping (couldn't find pasta for dinner, though) and got my Clipper Card. Of course I used my Bank of America debit card for the first time and... Well, here, we have to swipe our own card... And needless to say, I made a complete ass of myself.

But, I got my Clipper Card and I plan on using it almost everyday! I have to spend at least USD 70 until January 31st and then I'll have to add value into it to use it again in February and so on and so forth.

Ohhh... I post a picture of a plate of fried rice. I was walking down the Colombus Street today, looking for lunch. I remembered that when I was out walking to Bank of America, I saw a restaurant with mean pizzas! But I couldn't find it and instead, I found a Thai restaurant called Tuk Tuk Thai. Funny, right? In Indonesia, "tuk tuk" is what we call "bajaj", a noisy, wobbly three-wheeler that people take to go to places in short distances.

But the price was right (It was USD 8.5 including tax and tip) and the portion was so big but I gulped it all down. Yay!

And today's Friday, that means it's weekend. The guys over at the hostel are going out for a night in the town. Well, I no longer club. It's bad for the bones. And I don't bring fancy shirts. I'm just going to sleep so tomorrow I can go take my Clipper Card for a ride to the... ODC Common dance studio!

One more thing before I go... I was heading back to school and just walking and walking and minding my own business (and obviously looking at the gates and front doors of buildings I passed because...) suddenly I saw a sign with a very familiar language.

And so, I discovered the Indonesian consulate in San Francisco. Well, that'd come in handy.

I'm starving! I gotta get something to eat.

on my way up there

It wasn't as far climb as yesterday's hike to EF school, but I felt that it was going to be one long road up ahead.

I went to University of San Francisco today and had a chat with one of the lecturers. I was late, of course. But this was not because I was late (as in woke up late, ate late). But I had miscalculated the distance between HI-SF and USFCA. I walked for 50 minutes and ten more minutes to find the hall where the session took place.

There were six people already and I was the seventh. The lecturer told us about the campus life, the tuition, how to write the statement of purpose, the essay. Some of the highlights were that the people over at admission do not want us to try damn hard to impress them by writing stuff like, "I've been writing from the age of three," instead they want us to write them like a friend would to one another. About the goals, the long process of getting into, what we'd like to achieve... Well...

Each year, USFCA admits 10% of the applicants. That means 30 - 40 people. I asked how many of them were Asians, he said this year, there are 3 non-US residents or international students. I almost died.

He also said that the TOEFL is not that needed by the faculty, but by the university. Obviously he'll know how good the English is through the sample of manuscript and statement of purpose.

I was rather late that I didn't even stop to take a photo of the facade. And when the session was done, I felt so cold that I decided to hurry back to the hostel to eat something. And on my way back, I saw one of Harvey Milk's centers. I also saw this a few days ago when I was carrying ten kg of grocery on my back (NOT) so I didn't stop to take a picture.

Well, I'm trying to finish my sandwich as I'm writing this. And then off to FCBD and ODC studios. Toodles!

of dirt and distance

Whoa, okay. I know Jakarta is not clean because it's a city in a third-world country. Somehow, that fact makes people forgive the lack of cleanliness and attitude towards cleanliness in Jakarta.

But San Francisco. I saw peeled orange skins, papers, cheetoz bag lying on the sidewalk. And I saw my first beggar. I was walking to EF at the end of Hyde Street. I didn't mind the distance. It was the hiking and the weather. I swear, I was so scared I'd die out of hypothermia and cardiac arrest.

When I began my trail, I saw the beggar. She was sleeping, covered in layers of blankets although I believed those layers weren't enough to keep anyone, including well-fed people, out of the cold. And about 50 minutes later (yep, it was that far), on my way back to the hostel, she was still there. Her position was almost unchanged. I wondered if anyone ever bothered to check if she was dead.

Although I knew nobody cared.

So yeah. Today's adventure is quite well. I'll be having brown rice I bought at CALA Foods Nob Hill. I'm having Softies donuts to stuff my face with. I just found some more grocery stores that have even better rating than CALA and they're also within walking distance. There's City Supermarket on Geary St. and Tsunami on Turk. So I'm going to try them. Tomorrow... Or Sunday.

Should I or should I not go to University of San Francisco today? I'm so damn tired.

And is the kitchen opened yet?