a twenty-something flight attendant

Love... Actually....

2012-01-23T01:45:00.000+04:00

A pretty concise depiction of some of the best relationships I have in my life.

Names blurred out because I want to display my photoshop skills.

Do you ever miss...

2012-01-19T03:37:00.000+04:00

being at home when the sun lights it up like this?

I did. But I'm grounded.

....Which means that I am not flying.

(i.e. I have been on-ground since January 2nd).

And it is now January 18th.

Note to air hostesses: just because a great portion of your life is lived at thirty-nine-thousand feet, doesn't mean that you don't have a life on-ground. SORT YOUR LICENSES OUT...unless you want to end up like me, expired licenses and bludging. *smirk*.

It's pretty fitting that this is my 100th entry and we have entered a New Year. I'm glad the Mayans got their predictions wrong about the Apocalypse, because so far, this year has unfolded rather nicely (minus my smack on the hand for work-related delinquency). It feels like just yesterday when I had sweaty performance anxiety when touching a turntable and not knowing what to do with it, and this year, I was able to baptise my practise by being the designated DJ at a house party. Progress? Well, my Mum thinks so anyway.

I don't know about you, but I'm feeling good vibes. I feel like I have risen, spawn of yesteryear, ready to reap the opportunities that all of 2011's learnings and trainings were made for. I'll spare you the elaborations 'cause this is the jazz I harp on about all the time, and leave you with this: opportunities are revealing themselves, and now I am just happy to practice my practise. TGIF(T!). Thank God It's Fun Times!

To tick off January as a success, I've registered myself into a 10-kilometer Road Race. This may seem like a minor feat to a lot of you, but I used to be Miss Kristine Wtf-I-Can't-Breathe-After-3-Minutes-Of-Jogging Fernandez, and since having started running, like 3 years ago, I think I'm ready to compete for a place in this 10-k challenge...preferably finishing not too far from the first, baring in mind (pussy disclaimer #1) I don't have the most regular of training routines and, (pussy disclaimer #2) it's Australia Day the day before the race and I will probably have every desire to douse my liver in celebratory beer which means, despite the training I have done, this could be a struggle. It also means that I am stupid, but I know that already, so the struggle shouldn't be a surprise. I just blatantly hope that I'm not running against the likes of supersonic mega humans, or else I'm screwed. Wish me luck. At least they give medals out no matter where you place.

I'm responsible for your safety.

2011-11-04T20:21:00.000+04:00

my life in quote marks 2

2011-10-21T18:51:00.002+04:00

I took this picture

2011-10-21T18:45:00.000+04:00

Forbidden City, Beijing, 2011

I know. Even I was like, damn, girl. Good photo.

Enter the Spark-Plugs

2011-10-15T23:58:00.000+04:00

Okay folks, let's get this straight. This blog needs to be reborn. I don't know what on earth has happened that this blog has just gone down some sort of toilet hole and it's author has gotten a hit of "shy". Like, hello?

To be honest with you, I think I just got my panties in a knot with the fact that nothing extremely radical was going on anymore, and that things that used to surprise me, and appealed to me as funny had actually become very everyday (okay, except for this one recent incident on a flight where someone asked me for "eye closers" as he pertained to "eye shades/masks" - and I started imagining little aluminium clips that attached the eyelids to the lower lash line. Ha. Oh I still shed a smile). Furthermore, what was novelty for me then, became pretty stock-standard life for me now; work and play, sleep and non-sleep, mind-body-soul balance and imbalance, growth, stagnation, etcetera, etcetera. And then came performance anxiety. Gentlemen, I feel your pain.

Let me continue on this thread of honesty here. Right now, I'm in a motion of basically trying to get my sleep right. As in, I am down to the ultimate basic of basics, learning how to sleep seeing as I'm not the biggest fan of resorting to narcotics to aid myself in one of the world's most natural things. Because right now, I sleep like a baby…a crying little baby sitting in a diaper of poo - with mad nappy rash, and maybe even a little residual cold from the temperamental weather outside. So basically, I am not sleeping, and that shit just ain't right.

Secondly, I have issues. But you probably do too (Ha. Sorry to drag you into this one), and so does your mates' shrink. However, I've always been a little bit neurotic about my issues and what I do best (worst) is, try to solve them in my down time - which at this moment, is scarce. So basically, I should stop - especially that I do realise that trying to solve a problem by thinking about them over. And over. And over. And over again, is about as useful as chewing bubble gum to solve algebra, but somehow, I've honed a useless little habit which only adds to my already hefty sleep problem. But okay, I'm getting so over it that I'm only itching to make the next move, which means I can finally stop ranting about my pity-party and be awesome again. Lack of sleep and oestrogen - you can only blame those sons of bitches for so long.

Finally, I've been diggin' for inspiration, and I've been diggin' everywhere I know, because 1. I've been having trouble finding it from within, and 2. deep down inside, something is begging for growth, but the surface has been too chicken shit to make a change or take an overdue plunge. Instead, I go and find myself a bitch of a distraction and learn that when it comes to boys, I am still an idiot, and may as well have stuck my nose in a bowl of porridge because that's about the same amount of goodness as it does for me.

So there. Those are my confessions. Now allow me to restart this blog and write like no one's reading, 'cause shyness never got anyone anywhere. And Mum, this is really for you. You're the reason I started it in the first place, so let me pick up from where I left off, let off some steam and hopefully be normal again soon…

There has been a big disconnect between my mind and my body as of late, and so the soul has taken a beating. I'm still trying to mend the gap, trying to sew the trio back together. Sometimes, the gap is smaller, but sometimes, the forces of my - dare I say it - 'lifestyle choices' are desperately heaving them apart. The answer lies there actually, and I know it. It's just about growing the balls to make that lifestyle change, which I know will lead to a more poignant balance.

Is it time for me to move on out? I'm don't know, but it's like the blinking arrow is manically pointing at the Yes sign, and I'm trying to throw-in some blinders (or a shot of Sambuca) to say I don't see it (or remember it).

What would I want to do? Well….

I know my story is not a rags-to-riches story, because I cannot really say that we were ever in rags, nor can I really say that I'm swimming in my riches, but I still believe in my story and the legacy which I aim to leave behind, because every person has an energy and therefore every person helps shape the world. Everyone can make a difference, and the part that I want to help mold and contribute to is the one that brings smiles to peoples' faces - the simple things that make you warm from the inside; I want to help create aspirations and somehow light a few paths. I want to draw attention to what's beautiful about the world and humanity, and remind people that we're part of a beautiful thing. …that sort of thang. I know. Punch me, because not only do I sound high, but those are some of the biggest cliches of them all. But that is what I want now. Point blank. I want to use the medium of my dreams and addictions, which is television and publishing to share experiences - mine and others - to help build ambitions and drive others to take their due and overdue plunges. I want to be in the position where I can let people know that ordinary folks have a chance at their dreams, because I am ordinary folks, jack of all trades, master of none, so single it either makes people laugh, owner of quirks in a caliber that probably makes my momma want to pull her hair out, and a holder of a degree which, at this point, may as well have been used as a placemat because that way, I would have at least tried to use it. But that's what I want to do. I want to reach my medium so that I can help others reach theirs. I've learned that my stories have inspired people (and muchos thank you's to those who have emailed me, given me feedback and asked me questions), and have helped to steer their lives in directions that make them happiest, like my mentors have done me. I want to become the best at sharing these experiences because I want to make it worthy of peoples' time, because we all deserve the best, especially when it comes to our minds and our hearts.

I aspire for my next platform which the last four years has prepared me for. Watch this space, because something tells me life in the big picture is about to rattle again.

I have been away on a soul-searching holiday...

2011-10-05T20:20:00.001+04:00

but I'm feeling a little bit lost being away from a proper computer for days at a time, not because I can't Facebook, because now, I am mobile Facebook (thanks and a middle-finger to it at the same time), but because my unsolicited rantings and unfounded Googlings are confined to 1x2 inch screen and noisy little buttons smaller than pine nuts. On a lighter note, the sun has started shining after a heavy downpour this morning.

On an unrelated note, I just spent the evening of my 27th birthday washing dishes and organizing the kitchen as opposed to attending what I know would have been an amazing hippie-chic underground music video clip. All by choice. I call this the ingestion of inspiration that slapped me in the face from the moment I stepped into Julio's apartment whose lounge room wall was lined with about two-thousand vinyl records...and I'm not even exaggerating. 48-hours of concentrated life-steering talk and experiences to kick me up the bum and remind me to do what I love for the sake of doing it because it makes me happy. 48-hours of therapy to tell me the only one racing against me is me. 48-hours of reminding me that I'm 27-years young, not 27-years old. I needed to absorb and get a good rest. A birthday evening well-spent, sitting around Boogie's marble kitchen bench, eating last night's left overs polished off with a cute little ice-cream birthday cake.

Today is the first morning of 27. Top of the mornin' to ya, from San Francisco.

my life in quote marks

2011-09-21T11:03:00.000+04:00

Getting to the Greek (2nd installment)

2011-08-26T20:53:00.009+04:00

Now let me continue to tell you how Greece went down - end to start...or maybe in little junctures, Pulp Fiction style.

Athens to Dubai

I recoiled in anxiety and my heart sank when we reached the airline counter just ten minutes after it had closed. We'd missed the flight and the assumption that we would have been granted our two seats made it worse. I hadn't shed a tear in almost 2 years and this was about to do it. I felt my eyes warm as they welled up with a thin layer of moisture that glazed over them, not because I was sad, but mainly because I was tired and probably a little frustrated that we were so happy-go-lucky, licking away at vanilla gelato and sipping on freshly-squeezed orange juices in Placa in the heart of Athens just a mere two hours ago, we had to now face this other dilemma. How do we get back to Dubai? This minor predicament molded a little bit more into a personal crisis of course with the fact that it was now the 25th and I had to be on duty, back at work by the evening of the 26th, and there are big repercussions when one does not show up at work right after annual leave. And being the goody-two-shoes nerd that I am, I actually gave a shit. But then I composed myself. Kat gave me a reassuring look that everything was under control and I at that moment, I decided that it was only a matter of time before we found a solution.

Long story short, we sought an alternate airline which would fly us back from Athens to Dubai on that same day. The only problem was that most of the flights had already departed, and we were left with one sole flight that would take us via another major city, after which, we would hop on another plane that would land us directly back into Dubai. Except for one other thing, or one other somebody to be more accurate. The douchebag behind the sales counter (pardon my language for a quick second and allow me to explain). According to him, there was only one more seat left, and this one seat in Economy, was going to cost me just under a rich 1-thousand euros, and if I didn't purchase it, he would sell it to someone else. So basically, one of us was going to be left behind, and the other one of us was going to end up shelling out over a thousand US dollars to fly 5 to 6 hours in coach. REALLY???

This was the lose-lose situation that we had to deliberate over. And for me, as much as I find it hard to justify a thousand euros on a one-way plane ticket, which I could very well, and much more happily spend on clothes, shoes and bags that I don't need, I do have every inclination to pay this stupid price to avoid what ever other future stress would be brought upon us if I chose not to pay it. Secondly, I don't enjoy crying. And just as I prepared to lamentably swipe my plastic, the staff behind the counter is switched. The new guy, who also doesn't really seem interested in the whole debacle, complacently asks me how many passengers were traveling. "Two" I tell him. He tip-taps on his keyboard. "Yep, that's okay" he says. This prompts a new thought. I tell him I'll be back. That douche-lord who manned the desk just before him was lying! I power-walk back to Kat in high-spirits with my bright idea in-tow. She had been sitting by the cafe trying to get an internet signal and tell her that there are seats for two and that we MAY have a chance to book open, discounted tickets if a. we finally get some signal and b. if this particular airline allows for online bookings and provides e-tickets. Boring boring boring. Anyway. After another hour of solidly focusing our attention on making this happen, we are granted two whole boarding passes all the way to Dubai. I was so happy that I gesticulated a Thai-style "Wai" greeting to the lady behind the check-in counter (in this context, as a symbol of my appreciation), put my hands together in the form of prayer and bowed my head along with a nice, ear-to-ear smile. [On a side note: I have been getting sent to Thailand a lot with work and have adapted this as my new way of showing anyone a high level of appreciation. I find it such a generous act of gratitude, and on my part, a humbling experience that I've chosen to pay it forward and noticed that it has the same effect on other people.]

Setting aside what now, in hindsight was just an annoying gob of unfortunate events, the entire trip in itself was amazing holiday that has certainly left a luscious trail of memories.

Dubai to Athens

First and foremost, I went with Katherine. Katherine, the flatmate-slash-cousin-slash-one-of-my-closest-BFFs-here-in Dubai. Kat and Kristine on holidays together already has its own implications without a blog story attached to it. She is the yin, I am the yang. Actually, sometimes we were both "yangs" in the strange way that it sounds on its own, and in the way that perhaps sometimes, we needed to balance each other out a little more in order to maintain harmony. Nonetheless, there was plenty of harmony flowing through our dynamic like unspoken guidelines to keeping each other sane and compromising in the name of love, giving and holiday-making. We also concluded by the end of the trip, that if you really want to get to know someone, go on a frivolous, energy consuming, do-as-much-as-we-can, time restrained "holiday" on standby tickets and you will learn more than you ever will about them than you would living with them for over three years, because that's exactly what happened to us. For example, Kat learned that I am unreasonably painstaking when it comes to eating time. Without food at necessary times, I am the equivalent of a raging hypoglycemic bitch low on sugar, short of patience and lacking humor. I learned that Kat has the stamina of a zebra on red cordial to party. Despite the fact that we'd lived under the same roof for over three years now, we'd never been in each others' faces, day-in-day-out for a span of 9 days straight, sharing the same toilet and hair conditioner, which weren't as much the most glorious of things as it was sharing similar but different wants and needs within 24-7 co-existence. But one thing is for sure, we learned how to be patient with each other, which allowed us to come back home in one gleaming, overly-tanned yin-yang piece.

We actually started our holiday the evening before heading out to Athens. There was an all-in framily (friends who are family) dinner at our place, while I was missing in action for a couple of hours, engaging in entertaining activities of my own. The dinner wound up and found my framily at the bar/club around the corner from our apartment building in a little booth at the end nook of the establishment, drinking beers and vodka-sodas prior to my arrival. I received about six text messages (each coming from a person comprising of said "framily") given my tardiness that night. The first two came from Sarah and Taye advising me that they were leaving the apartment. The third one came from Kat, predictably followed by Amy, predictably followed by Taye (again) and approximately ten minutes after (which I'd quoted to my friend who I was, in the meantime, spending my time with, "wait for it. Give it about ten minutes, and I'll get the last text from Sarah"), I'd received Sarah's "haul-ass" message. I finally got myself to the bar where I received a standing ovation from my friends to draw attention to my late arrival. This elicited both shame and pride on my behalf. Who would have thought that that was even possible? God, I love my friends. I ordered my fish and chips while everyone continued on drinking, merry-making in our own framily bubble. I didn't feel like drinking that night, so I dedicated myself to my sparkling water and lemon and embraced the night as it wore on. This worked out quite superbly actually, because one of us had to be the other's wake-up call the following day of our flight to Athens. (Perhaps I had subconsciously pre-prepared for this situation given the last time Kat went on holidays to Beirut, we also had a night out prior to her flight; subsequently, her approaching hangover craved a burger, which she and her holiday comadres succumbed to, which led to them missing their Beirut flight, resorting to a flight to Damascus instead where they were supposed to swiftly be able to drive into Lebanon - had they not been detained for four hours as illegal visitors until their Lebanese rescue squad of friends had taken the drive up to Damascus to save their apprehended asses). Basically, I had no plans of being an illegal entrant in any city whatsoever, so I guess that helped me forgo the booze in exchange for sober but amusing spectatorship. I was the wake-up call and Kat was my entertainment, and by entertainment, I mean both Kat and I were convinced that she was still at least half-drunk come the time I cranked the music as I nagged "GET UP. KAT, GET UP. WE HAVE THIRTY MINUTES".

We proceeded to the airport and by the grace of God and the low flight passenger load, got our boarding passes immediately. We even had enough time to go through Duty Free and grab a couple of cigars which neither of us ever smoke, but thought would be super cool to have and light up on our Grecian porch. Kat grabbed a coffee, and I, a frozen yoghurt. We even met a couple of Russian men at the coffee shop while waiting in line, who insisted on talking with us even though they did not speak an inch of English, and I only spoke beginner Russian, and by beginner, I mean "da", which I think means "yes"...in another Eastern European language. I.e. I do not speak Russian - at all.

The flight was smooth and pleasant. One of our friends was operating on the flight and gave us a few traveler tips and a couple of cheeky champagnes with floating strawberries (which isn't custom, by the way, but our friend is overly hospitable, and one should never turn down hospitality).

We reached Athens and took the next boat out to Mykonos. I had never taken a boat to anywhere before, nor have I ever been on a cruise. I had only taken two other boats before: the ferry in Sydney's Circular Quay which takes you to the Taronga Zoo, and that ferry in New York that takes you to the Statue of Liberty. And those ferries are a little different from the ones that take you from island to island in Greece. Here, there was a cafe and a little shop inside the boat which was also decked out in seats that look like they came from the cinemas. This in itself pleases me. We nap and then have another couple of coffees on the deck, and soon after, reach Mykonos. We de-board and find ourselves standing in the taxi line...for forty-five minutes. We would have thought that the taxis would be abundant and waiting in line for unorganized tourists like us, eager to get to our accommodation in the heart of the city.

Negative.

There were none. There was one that came after about twenty minutes, but we weren't first in line. Then another one came about 15 minutes after that. We started chatting to the American couple behind us. They were getting wary of the idea that they might end up waiting another 40 minutes before they got their taxi, or even worse, what if no more taxis arrived? So they were on the phone to their hotel to see if they offered some sort of shuttle service. Eventually another taxi arrived and we hopped in and shared with that couple. We small talk with the driver, and he tells us that there are only 29 taxis in the whole of Mykonos. TWENTY-NINE - as in, I can actually count that many sheep before I fall asleep; twenty-nine - as in, people on this island actually know how many taxis exist on this island. So we considered ourselves lucky to have scored one of the twenty-seven remaining taxis that night...

...to be continued. I have massaman curry to eat.

beijing

2011-08-25T16:50:00.004+04:00

August 26, 2011
12.49pm

I wish I had a friend with a baby. I just came back from Beijing, and let me tell you, shopping over there is no joking matter. In fact, I'd never been pulled back - and here I am not speaking figuratively - I'm talking about - lady grabs my arm and power-walks me back to her stall all while yelling "OKAY OKAY MADAM, I GIVE YOU 80. 80 R-M-B!!! I HAVE MEDIUM. OKAY OKAY YOU BUY, I GIVE YOU". Welcome to New Market. I was walking through the baby section, and the tiny little clothes and the unreasonably tiny little shoes and puffy little jackets just absolutely undid me. If only I could put them to use. Am I feeling clucky? No....oh goodness, no. This is why I need a friend with a baby. Not like, toddler-baby, but like, infant baby, to be able to wrap them in all sorts of fandangled cocoons. (The word "fandangled" gets a red underline? Well I'll be damned...)

Scatter-brain

2011-08-21T01:14:00.000+04:00

August 21, 2011
1.14am Dubai

I dosed off around 9.40pm thinking that this sleep would lead me into the sunrise hour, instead I woke up two hours later just approaching 11.30pm, wide awake. I've been having problems sleeping lately, sometimes passing up the opportunity to rest in exchange for something a little more exciting, a little more productive, and then literally, standing the test of time to see how long I can carry my consciousness out for, until the body gives in and can no longer carry out anymore exciting, productive entanglements. There is unrest here and I wish to say it was slight, but I'm not too sure that it is. Perhaps I am going through some sort of lifestyle change which I haven't completely grasped just yet (I had recently moved onto being licensed to only fly one aircraft which is able to only go to 13 different destinations, as opposed to being licensed to fly on 4 different aircrafts which visit the rest of the hundred-plus other destinations that we have). Routine. Is it this that's bothering me? I'm not too sure.

Are we (and by we, I'm talking about the Framily [i.e. my friends who are family] who I love ever so dearly) going through a phase of coming down from one of the most callously carefree times of our lives which always pitted at the bottom of my stomach as maybe being a little too debauched, a little too grandiose, filling our agendas with our pleasures and our pleasures alone? Is this an acute awareness that things are moving on and that some sort of stagnant is about to seep into our systems? Have I been mulling over irrelevant thoughts undeserving of the luxury of time for its being so rudely hypothetical and little? I'm a little scattered. Can you tell?

I had lunch with one of my girl friends in SoHo last July. She is amazing. A wonder woman of sorts and an inspiration to a number beyond what many of us can count. I told her that I want to write - for real - and begin the conception of a goal - a first real goal for me to reach, something that I would be proud of when I get there. My complex is that I recognise that I am not as intelligent as those writers that I look up to, or as eloquent or succinct or as witty as them. Boy, the insecurities of comparing oneself to the best and then competing against yourself to be as good as them. She told me to write everyday, even if it was really short. To make a proclamation is kind of a big deal for me because I like to be a lady of my word, but here goes…starting today, I will write something everyday, even if it's really short. Hey, at this point of imbalance and agitation, I need to make a change and bring forth new habits for the soul.

I am boldly posting this entry realising that it is well dissociated from the definitive easy tone of this blog, and also realising it leaves me wildly vulnerable to judgement, but I also realised that some of the most compelling reads I dare not put down, are written with honesty, not shielding the fact that sometimes, in life, we find ourselves walking barefoot over harsher stones and pebbles to get to the next destination. This is me acknowledging those stones and pebbles and taking the walk.

To Sarah Meier Albano, thank you.

My 347th Digression

2011-08-09T16:58:00.004+04:00

August 9, 2011
4.14pm Dubai

And I realise that this is not a new thing given my Train of Thought ADHD, so allow me to stray from the tales from the Greek Odyssey a little bit. I know that normally, my world is generally filled with roses and glittering unicorns, and the air in which this all exists smells of frangipani and jasmine, but today, I beg your pardon, but where the fuck did the roses and the glistening horns of those pretty little flying horses go? Hello jetl-ag (Oops. Did I just really hyphenate that like that? Dang). Strangely enough, I walked into our apartment, back from Beijing, (where, by the way, I slept for a solid 16 hours with a breakfast break in between), and our house kind of wreaked (and I should be embarrassed to say this) of rubbish which both Kat and I had forgotten to take to the garbage chute before our last flights (Hello post-holiday lazy bitches). Yeah, it was a little stinky. But this didn't bother me like the many other strange and stinky things that stop bothering me when it is past 4-in the morning and I am just staggering into my apartment (and in this context, I'm not even talking about no drunken stupor or anything mildly belligerent that I may be linked to for obvious and irreproachable reasons). I mean hey, I'm home, I'm well-rested, now I can just wash my make-up off, kick back with a paperback and read myself to sleep before getting up for a good skip and double-skip on the treadmill.

Until I woke up 4 hours later feeling like resurrected roadkill; muscle strength: down, serotonin levels: transient and shifty, general motivation: ________ (I'm drawing blanks). All this along with the inability to just go back to sleep because really, this time, I've actually had too much of it - sleep that is. Low and behold, that is the truth, amigos. I actually, for once in my life, maybe, had had too much sleep…or perhaps, just enough to make up for almost four years or dormir-deprivation. No bueno.

So after a couple of indecisive hours, tossing and turning, drawing and un-drawing my curtains, getting out of bed, getting back into bed, I decided to brew. I brewed myself a double-shot of Italian blend with a double serving of honey (I see you squint in both skepticism and possible disgust…but don't knock it till you try it). And henceforth, I am here, ranting about the shitty state in which I am currently pulling myself out of. Furthermore, my double-shot is three-quarters gone and I am actually starting to feel *takes a sip* delightful….or wired. Haha.

Moral of the story (or Note to Self): Next time you feel jet-lagged and bleugh, okay, fine, take the limited time to feel meh for a bit until you get sick of it, then make the decision to turn things around so as to bring back the roses and shiny floating unicorns. Now let me just down the rest of this espresso and haul myself to the gym. Huff.

Getting to the Greek (An Intro)

2011-07-30T15:37:00.006+04:00

July 30, 2011
3.09pm Dubai

We almost didn't make it back on time. It was past 5am on 26th, I had a flight which needed me to be at work by 12.20am on the 27th (i.e. that night). Once again, I was on a standby ticket, but it wasn't the ticket's fault this time - Kat and I had actually missed our flight by miscalculating 1. our efficiency, 2. the Greek metro system's timings, and 3. underestimating the fact that in Athens, taxi strikes come about as often as the sporadic tourist who decided to hop on a boat at an unanticipated time of the week to go and party up in Ios. Lucky for us, there was still that little part of our brains that functioned well enough to find a solution, despite the fact that we'd been on the go since 6pm the night before, because this Greek Odyssey was certainly not going to end up in tears.

Kat is my cousin-slash-flatmate, and after having lived together for 3 and a half years, we'd decided to finally hop on a plane together to go wade the waters of the Aegean Sea and to bask in the merriment that is the Mediterranean sun. This is what our self-designed holiday package was made of, including, but also not limited to: dancing on bar tops and in giant birdcages, going up and down hills and mountains atop both donkeys and quadbikes, the bi-daily dose of the well-balanced gyros, meeting, greeting and coffee-ing the odd random folk from 2 years old to 60-something, the complimentary shots of Ouzo, cherry liqueur and other colourful drinks-with-a-kick, and penetrating the sites that beautiful pictures are made of. God, it was a bountiful 9 days....

Click here to get a little bit of video action.

Text at Jetlag

2011-07-12T03:19:00.002+04:00

A Halt on the Exclamation Point

2011-06-20T01:45:00.007+04:00

June 20, 2011
12.40am Dubai

I forgot how much I loved having the apartment to myself. When you're perpetually in a mix of wonderful people, wonderful food and conversations that should be in black and white, the vision of a wonderful silence becomes a little hazy. And the want for it becomes even hazier.

It's been a month of few flights. One to be exact. This has left my mammoth-sized thoughts and I invariably running amok up in my head, but it's funny where you find inspiration sometimes. What's funnier is when you find it within yourself because you almost can't believe that you, this tiny little presence in the universe, is actually capable of finding happiness in yourself and in nothingness. (And it's ironic to be able to put the words "yourself" and "nothingness" in one sentence and perhaps convey the utmost importance of their symbiosis).

I clicked Play. I forgot, music sounds different through this little hallway when it resonates on its own. I forgot what my footsteps sound like when they're not so erratic, and what the toast that just popped out of the toaster smells like when it's quiet. It smells different. It smells like just-toast, not like toast buttered with a to-do list of at least 20 items. I took a little trip outside of my body, to watch myself brewing that cup of tea, in my dressing gown and that silly right-on-top-of-my-head bun, and saw that I was actually content this way. I shed a smile.

I sat back down and clicked Pause. It's almost surreal when I'm not coming out with sarcastic, smart-alec comments punctuated by full-stops...because that's what I do. I talk a lot. It's nice when the brain comes to a lull. The soul breathes for a second and all that's left is the sound of the crickets, 3-floors down reminding you that life still exists even if when it's just you, here, by yourself. In fact, who knew that the feel of life would be amplified when it's just you, here, by yourself.

I often have to fight my thoughts ferociously at bed time, but the thoughts win sometimes, and two hours later, my alarm clock goes off. But tonight, I'm going to tuck myself into bed and fall asleep to the beautiful silence, both outside and in.

Goodnight everyone :-)

I ♥ NY

2011-06-18T16:58:00.006+04:00

June 13, 2011
10.25am New York

I ran, weaved in and out of other runners, those in their sweat shorts and moist t-shirts, iPods strapped to their upper arms; runners in hats, runners in headbands, runners in tights, power-walkers, that couple with their shiny black Cocker Spaniel, and the horses leisurely trolling carriages around with passengers of sorts; pendulums of long and short ponytails, hard-working calves. And sweat. A lot of sweat. Everyone is in their own bubble. Nevermind the fact that it is now 10.25am and that I need to be freshly-groomed to breakfast with my cousin in about 30 minutes, and I am still power-walking down 58th. I've got my blackberry out and I am busy typing this before I forget. NY. I love.

My senses seem to be heightened and everything feels louder than normal, but everything is separate from each other, as if hearing, seeing and feeling were segregated into their own compartments. I continue to walk. The air is cool and soft and I am watching the sites in front of me. There is a comfortable commotion like there always is, good ol' New York. I am walking behind a lady in a white frou frou skirt and black gladiator heels; I pass by construction men in their hard hats, steel cap boots and utility belts, and food vendors from all continents. The sounds of the tourists and their different accents, trying to figure out where is what and when it is right to cross the road. The sun streaks through the steel pipings and side streets between buildings and sky-scrapers, casting luminous morning rays on the streets disproportionately crammed by yellow taxis and other vehicles. Between the music that pumped straight through to my ears, the sui generis noise of the streets that near Times Square, the sounds of car exhausts and wheels crushing the roads, I feel my feet glide above the uneven pavement beneath them. NY. I love.

I get to the hotel. I hop in the lift. A man in thin, silver-framed spectacles, reading what looked like corporate paperwork steps into the lift too. He looks at me in acknowledgment. I look back at him and smile.

"Good run?"

"Yeah"

I pull my earphones out of my ears.

"Beautiful day. Not too hot, not too cold...not too busy."

I small-talk.

"Sounds perfect. Sounds like a beautiful morning."

I smile. "It was."

"Good morning then". He smiles.

"Thanks. Good morning to you too" I smile again. It's my floor. I step out.

"Have a good day".

NY. I love.

Revelations of the Check-In Bag

2011-06-08T20:03:00.001+04:00

I texted my friend, Frankie, while I was in Sydney. He detests the olive oil that I'd been using over the passing months that I'd set out to find something that Mr Olive Oil Connosseur would approve of. I don't get a response, so I go ahead and make a decision on my own. Anyway, he had decided to leave and go back to the life which he loves most - the one on the farm, spent with 2 puppy Dobermans which he'd purchased just before his move back. I missed his departure so I emailed him.

"…Oh and PS. Cheers for the EVOO advise. I didn't hear your message come through and consequently carried 4L of olive oil back in my luggage...along with a kilo of brown rice, a kilo of sweet potatoes, 2 bottles of red and a whole bunch of other unreasonably heavy stuff (organic honey, raspberry jam and a 1-year old pug…jokes). Ok mate. It's 2am and I just called sick for my first standby of my reserve ... and yes, it's genuine (not AS sick as 4 days ago, but recovering...and the thought of getting pulled out on a 6-day trip doesn't sound comforting at the very least), So I'm off to bed. Ciao."

Ever wonder what air hostesses carry in that 25-kilo capacity Samsonite? There's your answer….but then again, maybe that's just me.

Something about today and Something about Meeting Folks

2011-06-04T11:49:00.011+04:00

June 3, 2011

2.01am Dubai

Someone grab me a pen. All I wanna do is write stuff down. If for the moments I had walked down the alleyways of Bangkok, or sat across the Darling Harbour, people watching or making pictures, or ran down the paths of Central Park, I had a pen and a pad, then by now, I would have myself a book. Instead, at those moments, I think about what I would say if it were to be recorded in black and white and hope to myself that the whim of my memory will see me through at least some sort of soft-copy of what I thought that day.

I have been rather belligerent with my time and priority management lately, wound up part-confused as to how I seem to always be running out of time to live a little more or do a little more, but then pleased that I must have spent my time somehow well because time flowed like the chocolate fountain in that fondue at that Media One brunch from just a few weeks ago. Or perhaps, I have just been a little gluttonous as of late, drinking and being merry all too often. Bah, but then again, that seems to be the neuroses of my life and hey, I ain't complainin'.

I just got back from a 6-day trip to Sydney, Aukland then Sydney again. And between the comfortably cool winds, sweating it out through long, unsolicited walks of the lost (read: I got lost at least 2 times and power-walked myself blocks and blocks over until 10 degrees celcius started feeling hot), 6 and 8 hour time differences from base, I've found myself in a bit of a huff with this benign but radically annoying flu. And today is the I-am-sick-and-blogging entry which is kind of great because it's a means to a reconciliation between me doing stuff, and me doing this.

Did I tell you about how I bought myself this little set of toy decks the other month, from NYC because I had decided that it was time for me to learn how to mix music? Well, I did. I felt bad for Rafa, the dude who was teaching me, that I thought I'd save his ears and avoid testing his patience too much by buying this thing - of two turntables, a cross-fader, some other buttons which I still can't name (because I don't know what they're called) and a few other knobs and things - all in one piece of rather cool paraphernalia used to mix music. The pros may laugh at the beginner-level of my equipment, but the day that I know what I'm doing and have labels for each and every knob on this device, and even the knobs on their devices (mind out of the gutter, por favour), then I will be the one laughing. …provided that moment actually comes. Okay, so I'm still the early learner. Turns out, I'm not the disc-jockeying prodigy that I hoped I would be. Guess I'm going to have to learn the common-folk way: with time and perseverance.

So I was in Aukland the other day. Jet-lagged as usual, we'd landed in from Sydney and I'd somewhat passed out around 3.30pm. My alarm went off at 4.30, then again at 5.30 because I'd wanted to go for a run at the park of this scenic city. Fail on that account. I snoozed (button-ed) and snoozed (button-ed). Finally, I got up at 6, for continuing my snoozing, I would end up sleeping until 2am then being up all night for no good reason. Dinner at 6.30pm, went to the gym at 11pm-1am, and got to sleep by 4am. I get up at 11.30am in a quest to fit in some brunch before the 2.30pm wake-up call. I take the hotel shuttle bus into the city and split ways with the Captain (who had also managed to catch the same shuttle as I), given my search for a new set of headphones and my preference to walk around to build up an appetite. Having walked a few meters away from the shuttle stop, the guy standing next to me at the lights asks,

"uh…foreigner?"

I reply, "Yeah. No. …Wait, we're in Aukland. Yeah - foreigner. You?"

"Yeah! I'm from France, I'm French-Italian. I just came from Melbourne. I've just got something to do at the post office, but after, you want to go for coffee?"

"Yeah cool. I was on my way to breakfast anyway".

So we do that. He's a 28-year old hip-hop dancer who left Paris 4 years ago, and with his Australian Visa expiring, he had now moved to Aukland, 4 days ago. Breakfast was nice; we spent most of it talking about his work and his experiences over the last 4 days. He used to teach English at a Catholic school in Paris, and somewhere along the way, discovered that he could dance and that this was his passion. He moved to Australia and taught French. ...and he danced. That was our conversation. Amusingly enough, it seemed we were both comfortable enough having just met 10 minutes before the sit-down. Then again, I guess when folks are used to meeting folks, that whole organic part of you of just being a person over-shines any self-consciousness, that you can't help but fall into some sort of natural dialogue about things that aren't important, but things that are wildly interesting.

Anyway, I got back into Dubai and posted a picture on Facebook which I'd taken during the breakfast, along with a caption, quoting the conversation that took place prior to the breakfast.

My Mum comments: "Don't talk to strangers".

I respond: "lol. Just FYI, Mum, I'm turning 27 this year".

Facebook Notification. She hits me back in a heartbeat, "Even still."

Don't you just love it.

I do.

….If only she knew about the quotidian random encounters in the past month (sorry, Mum).

I had done two Bangkok-Hong Kong trips in one month, which means that I had four trips to Bangkok in the month of May; and Bangkok is the city where I generally gravitate towards anyone who looks mildly foreign for the pure purpose of superseding the challenge of the beloved language barrier. The most recent one involved a Singaporean, a Thai girl and a German girl, sitting at a little table in the corner of a local street eatery. Everything was in Thai: the writing was in Thai, the food…was in Thai, the people…were Thai. It is an open sort of eatery, packed with white plastic tables and plastic chairs which stood on bare cement, and a couple of electric wall fans, oscillating from side to side.

I am carefully weaving through the tables, looking up to the menus on the walls, looking for something that resembled English alphabet, or at least, pictures clear enough to depict whether those things were fish-balls or dim-sums. I look at the cooking stations. There are three. I don't even know how to order, or whether those three cooking stations are part of this one complex or just vendors on their own. Shit, I wouldn't even know what to say because I can't even figure out what it is that they are cooking. And what about the level of spiciness? How can I ask them how spicy something is or whether they can turn the spiciness down? But I am stubborn on this day and refuse to eat at a tourist restaurant. I want to eat here. I'm feeling like a raw cultural experience, even if it means looking like the idiot foreigner who ordered something too spicy and leaves the eatery still hungry because she had no idea what the hell was going on around her. But then I spot the white girl. The one with the mousey-blonde hair. She seems to have spotted me too. And so have her companions. What the heck. I mean, I AM the idiot foreigner who has no idea what the hell is going on around her. I succumb.

"Um. Hi, I was just wondering…how do I order from here?"

That one, hesitant little sentence sparked a nice lunch with these three folks. Despite the size of their table, they managed to make room for the hungry loner girl. The guy from Singapore ordered everything for me, and it was perfect: Dry noodles with sweet beef and soup on the side, and then offered me their satay chicken skewers and ordered my favourite Thai iced tea. They were in Bangkok for a work conference to last the week. They had just arrived earlier that morning, and were, like me, seeking the best food by eating where the locals ate, except the Singaporean had been there many more times than I had and he had his colleague/translator to make this experience a walk in the park. The girl from Germany was the youngest. She was 22 and already experiencing the cools of the PR consulting industry. It made me wonder for a second what it would have been like had I pursued a career that had something to do with my degree, until I remembered that I was also there in Bangkok also as a result of the cools of my own job. They were so lovely as to be so hospitable, considering they themselves were visitors, and then to remove from me the obligation to pay for my own lunch - that was - in all the positive sense of the expression - too much. The man gave me some fried-bananas to set me off on my journey to find my tailors who I'd left my dresses with on the last trip as I bid them farewell. God bless stubborn foreigners who like to eat at local eateries like me.

The day unfolded quite eventfully actually. After walking around, showing locals what was written on my piece of torn receipt paper (an address written in Thai script), and being non-verbally directed to which street I needed to turn into, I found my tailors - the ones who I had left my dresses with about a week ago. One man was especially helpful, not knowing how to help me in English, left his tuktuk and walked me around the street to physically show me where the little alleyway which my tailors' place was hidden in (story of how I found this can be viewed in this video). Long story short, I get to pick-up my newly tailored dresses and head out. I want to go to the weekend markets at Chatuchak, and I want to take the Sky Train. I take a tuktuk to the Sky Train, have a little argument with the driver who seemed to be taking me for a ride around town rather than to the nearest Sky Train stop, and I finally make it to the Sky Train. I hop on, and about 25 meters from the actual stop, the train goes tech. Yup. It stops working, mid-station. I think about this this technical problem for a second and wonder what would happen if I end up stranded on the Sky Train long enough to miss my wake-up call (even though it was only 4pm at this time and our wake-up call was around 10pm). We jerk and pause for the next 10 minutes, but eventually complete the 25 meters to the stop. Phew. I still get to shop. I change lines and get to the market. I peruse the art section for a while and regret that I am not able to fit not even one piece that I coveted into my suit case. I buy a wide-rimmed summer hat and a fedora, but the market is closing and I have yet to go to the shop for electronics to shop for a pair of headphones and a hand-held sewing machine which I saw last time I went through. I leave the market, take another Sky Train to another stop and make it to Pantip Plaza, where I walk out with speakers for my bedroom, an electronic cigarette with filters and a handheld sewing machine. How can a girl complain about all this inordinate goodness? I was on a roll. And I got to eat mango-sticky-rice too. I get back to the hotel by 8.30pm and have just enough time to shower and re-organise my suitcase before the wake-up call. I don't sleep before the flight, but that's fine being that it's under 6-hours flying time, and I'd slept-in till 2pm.

The backstreet where the house of tailors sits

But first, there was the night before, at NARZ nightclub. It was my turn for the round of drinks. I am with two colleagues, a girl from Brazil and a guy from Portugal. I venture through the people, rubbing shoulders and bumping elbows. The place was packed for a Monday night. I make it to the bar. The tall, broad guy towered over the bar and I bobbed to the left for me just to get a view of the bartender, to see how many more people he had to serve before I could even reach the bar itself. Until tall-broad guy turns around, all jolly,

"HEY! HOW ARE YOU?"

"GOOD! HOW ARE YOU?"

"I'M GOOD! ARE YOU FROM HERE?"

"NO. I'M FROM AUSTRALIA. I'M FILIPINO. FROM AUSTRALIA."

"OH! ARE YOU HERE ON HOLIDAYS?"

I think for a second. I cannot be bothered mentioning my job and then explaining so much about it - in a nightclub.

"YEAH!"

"HAVE YOU HAD A GOOD TIME? WHEN ARE YOU LEAVING?"

"TOMORROW!"

"OH! WE JUST GOT A BOTTLE. YOU SHOULD COME DRINK WITH US!"

"I'M WITH MY FRIENDS, SO I WANNA STICK WITH THEM"

"OF COURSE, NO, BRING THEM OVER TOO!"

"GUYS, THIS DUDE WANTS US TO GO DRINK WITH THEM. THEY JUST GOT A BOTTLE. WHAT DO YOU RECKON?"

"I'M IN!"

"LET'S DO IT!"

We go. We drink. We dance. I, knowing that I have a million things that I want to do the day after (eat, tailors, market shopping and electronic shopping), and knowing the near-impossibility of getting over a whiskey-induced hangover, stick to my one, lowly long island iced tea for the night. Yes I did. I know one should be ten-thousand times over cautious with these propositions, and believe me, even with my "Yes Man" approach to what seems like "all strangers", I do try my best to be vigilant and to be sensitive to all signs of shadiness and suspicious behaviour, so children, if you are reading this, don't be all crazy and start talking to all the random folk who approach you from left, right and centre; not that I am the queen of deciding on the best strangers to speak to and drink with and share meals with, but I take account for my own safety and am fully aware of the state of mind one needs to be in when making these kinds of decisions. Furthermore, my colleagues and I left together and ended up at the 7/11 across from our hotel, eating 8-baht servings of pork buns at 4 in the morning before falling into jet-lag-induced comatoses in our respective rooms.

But wait. Let me just end this entry about my adventitious encounters with one more saga. The one about the fire truck. I went on leave in April and return to Dubai to operate a flight to New York. If I had to love anything about my new license which only allows me to operate on one type of aircraft, which, at the moment, only goes to 13 destinations, it's that, I can keep going back to my favourite places over and over again. New York is one of them. I could talk and rave on forever about the things of New York, from the century-old apartment blocks, to the collective eclectic, to the fine details of the man who ran barefoot in Central Park in the opposite lane from me. I love New York like that. But this experience stands out the most thus far. I'd never, in my life, been dropped off to a bar on a Fire Department truck. You read right: dropped off to a bar in the Meat Packing district in a Fire Department truck. Veronica and I stood on the corner of a street nearby, having been dropped off to the wrong club. We tried to hail cabs for at least 5 minutes. None of them stopped. But then, I shit you not, a New York state fire department heffer of a truck pulls around the curb, and a man calls out, with a Brooklyn-sounding accent,

"You ladies alright?"

"Yeah. We're just trying to get a taxi"

"Where you try'na go?"

"We wanna go to the Meat Packing District."

"Oh, cool. Where you ladies from?"

"Australia".

"Oh wow. That's pretty far away! Well, Meat Packing is close from here. I guess, we can take you there"

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Yeah! Hop on in!"

Yup. We did.

"Nice ride."

The bouncer commends our wheels.

And that is the story about the time where we rolled up to a bar in a fire truck.

On that fine note, I bid you strangers and non-strangers a goodnight.

PS. to view a verbal account of the random events that took place on the Bangkok trip prior to this Bangkok trip spoken of, watch the video clip. Click this.

System Preferences

2011-04-09T12:07:00.008+04:00

April 9, 2011
10.32am Dubai

I took my first spinning class last night - as in, spinning records. I was so nervous. The guy gives me a quick low down on what we were doing, what we were trying to achieve - as in, we were going to try to "catch" the beat. "1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4." He counts with his finger, pointing at the deck. Every fourth beat, he cues me, "1-2-3-4. Okay, now you try". No fart-arsing around - except I have no idea what is going on. I had never touched mechanics like this before. I am irrevocably shitting my pants. 1-2-3-4 - I try to catch the beat. Except I miss it and consequently create a sour-sounding needle-to-vinyl scratch. I try again. I miss again. I start sweating profusely with my almost pathological need/want to be not-so-retarded at this which I thought I could smoothly slip myself into. I mean, it's music, for crying out loud. Music, my love. I sweat awfully because, at this moment, I am sucking, big time. Sweat beads rolling down my chest and everything. When he took my hand to position it correctly, he could have told me to stop and get out because not only am I breaking the music, but my sweaty palms are offending his decks. But I didn't hear a peep about either my audio-related dyslexia or my momentary gland deficiency. I've been wanting to do this for the longest time, thinking that, if the first thing that I do in the morning, is to send a renegade of sound waves through our walls (and the third floor's hallways), and the last thing I do in the day is to turn it off, then perhaps there is a part of me that is musically inclined and able to marry beats together. There's only one way to tell, and I'm onto it right now.

Now. Let me address the recurring question for once and for all. I mean, hey, it's not like I hadn't thought about it before, and it's not like I'd never come up with a page-long mixture of sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek, factual and idiotic dot-points explaining why "I am still single". I mean, shit, when it gets to the point that the check-out chick at your local grocer is asking you, "why are you always buying for one or a party of 10, and never for 2?" and all you have to give is a smile and some sort of side-stepping answer which doesn't really answer the question (and P.S. this is a repeat scenario which happened about 2.5 years ago); OR when you meet a total stranger who asks you "are you married?", and you are feeling both appalled and confused because you never thought that you were at the age where people forgo the boyfriend-question and go straight to the civil status question, you figure, there has to be a straight-up, one-liner which actually beckons the truth. Obviously, I hadn't summoned that one-liner until today, 2-hours short of a good night's sleep, it occurred to me while over a quick review on Twitter. Plain and simple. And don't vomit too much: I am waiting for someone awesome, who will try his best not to break my heart. Ever. (Insert Mona Lisa smile). So now that I've given a full, concise, truthful emo answer with violins in the background, can we please move forward and talk about more interesting and up-to-date thing, like the weather or something?

Yesterday, the trainee became the trainer. Except that was me. I'm glad the girl's got a sense of humor, because I, sure as shit, never thought that I would ever be handing anything down to anyone other than pre-loved clothes and a few crackpot jokes. Much less knowledge. I partook in a shooting workshop yesterday, and yes, I was the trainer (if you will). The best thing about it was that it was unplanned and that I was training one of my closest friends. I had a product shoot to complete that day, with the aim of both winning a job and widening my portfolio. I got a little frustrated and put the camera down as I learned that I much prefer shooting living beings. She picked up my camera from where I left off and started playing with it. Until next thing you know, we were onto the technicalities of it all - shutter, aperture, flash - e-t-c-e-t-c. Which are yes, essential, but to me, are as mundane as sauceless spaghetti. And no one likes to eat sauceless spaghetti. So we decided to shoot me instead. I can't deny the fact that I'd felt the desire to be photographed in the sexy-but-not-overtly-sexy way that I'd been shooting my models in the past. And now that Amy was keen to learn and my equipment and props had already haphazardly overtaken the apartment (and that Kat and I had carried our lounge room couch onto our balcony as a makeshift sunbed, leaving a nice space in our lounge room), we decided to just do it. It was a crash course on natural lighting, artificial lighting, textures, using props and directing. And for me, other than a walk down my Heyday Memory Lane, a stint at teaching, learning that sharing information and giving guidance isn't bossiness, because everybody knows how funny I feel about telling people to do stuff, or how to do stuff. It was a good day.

The fruits of our labour....

A Little Seoul

2011-04-03T02:49:00.003+04:00

April 3, 2011
2.23am Dubai

I sat there in the back of the food court watching the people go on about their midday. The bustle of lunch time filled the atmosphere, amidst the sounds of pan-frying and an almost rhythmic beat to the electronic ding-donging of the numeric cue in which everyone stood to wait for their food. I watch the Koreans eat the food that feeds their souls; I watched a family of four who sat in the midst of the quiet fact that traces of times like these are some of the most memorable mind-rearing and bonding increments of family life. The young tweens and their auburn-dyed hair and pretty faces behind thick, black framed glasses, sitting around the white plastic, marble printed tables, sharing food, eating in almost silence, consumed by their hot plates and chopsticks. Laughter from two tables over; I take a glance; it was a bunch of school kids in their hoodies and raincoats, merry-making around joint tables. It was a paragon of humanity, a parallel universe compared to my childhood, way back when. It resonates the fact that despite the multitude of systems that we all operate within from city to city, the great nature of people is one in the same. I watched, and it was unpretentious, unassuming and raw. People co-existed, unaware that the mere view of them sparks something from within me. I am reminded that, no matter what, no matter where, we are all just people.

I rest my chin on my cupped palm, realising that I'd forgotten that I'd decided to sit around for longer to find out what people did with their used trays of food. Little things like this vary from country to country. They always pull my attention. My eyes follow the lady who'd been sitting adjacent me. I thought to take her lead, except she walked further than I'd expected that I lost site of her. I take my tray, start walking in the same direction that she had taken, and ask a stranger where we should put our trays. Apparently we return them to the folks we bought the food from. "How polite", I thought to myself....

A Red Eye of Another Sort

2011-02-23T02:41:00.003+04:00

February 23, 2011
00:45am Dubai

Hanging off the highs from living la vida awesome, I woke up on the morning of the 21st feeling mighty and grateful. After landing back in from Adelaide, I'd given myself a day to settle back into Dubai before a trip to my favorite, New York.

I unpack, repack, sleep somewhere along the lines, then I hop on the fourteen and a half-hour flight across the Atlantic to then spend a couple of hours trolling the streets of Manhattan at 10am; I siesta by 2pm, get up again by 5pm to get ready for an early pre-Wicked (the musical) dinner. I go solo as the other girls opt for Phantom Of The Opera. The show was amazing even though I wasn't sat next to a handsome, single, skimming-30 year old who also came alone, and was set to cutely flirt with me prior to the show and during the intermission, who would then invite me for a coffee date, or cocktail after. But enough about my wild imagination. Back to the story at hand. The musical finishes around 10pm. I head back to the hotel wherein I check my Facebook and discover that my friend, who I'd originally met during my stint in the Philippines, who'd now gone back to live in San Francisco, was in New York for a few dj gigs. So I set a quick date with him. We catch up at the hotel bar around 11.45pm and I am back in bed by 2am. Wake-up call for Dubai-bound flight from New York: 7am.

By this time, I had had a total of 9 hours of sleep over 4 days, 3 nights and multiple time zones. Now that I am writing this out, it is becoming clear to me how this disaster (which I will speak of later) came into play.

So I land back into Dubai with an additional 2 hours of sleep onto the diminutive 9 hours and plan to finally, finally catch up. Until I realize that this was the day I had set to go and shoot rifle bullets at flying clay. So I forgo the sleep. This is not a problem for me seeing that I have already soldiered on for half a month between four continents. Surely, an extra day couldn't do me wrong. Besides, sleep is for the weak (i.e. the normal, the sane, the smart). So we go to the shooting range and fire at manually launched balls of clay. As if i hadn't had an exciting 96 hours already, we decide to prolong this and head to a laid-back, RSL-type place, to knock back a few. I stick to the sparkling water and order some food. By this time, my body has gone a little haywire on the appetite-front and has stopped indicating hunger and fullness, so I try to stick to the logical thing and order myself some creamy butter chicken and eat that. My attention span is in-and-out and everyone empathizes with me as they see me physically pulling my eyes wide open, with my fore-fingers on my forehead and my thumbs just below my cheek-bones, stretching my face vertically wider as if this would help the weight baring on my little Asian eyes. But it was okay as my delirium-fuelled wits would pop in and out for a bit of conversation, which carried me through the rest of dinner. We get back home around 8 or 9pm, which, by my days' standards would probably equate to one-hundred-and-six o'clock. Somehow, I was still awake and socializing with our mini dinner party. I stay up until 11pm, when my head touches a pillow and I blank out. Next thing I know, I am being held by my forearm, guided to my bedroom, as I had fallen asleep on my make-shift bed in the lounge room (in my attempt to stay social whilst attending to my human need for physical down-time, I took my pillows, duvet and fur throw over to the lounge and rest on that while attempting banter).

I have my first good sleep over five days. It lasted for ten solid hours, after which I felt game enough to start cleaning my room and arranging my wardrobe by colour. This must have been a symptom of whatever it was my body was going through, because it certainly wasn't an act of normalcy on my behalf. I fall into another lengthy 2-hour nap, until I get up to re-arrange that evening's plans. A group of 15 and I were to have celebratory dinner and drinks at a hotel nearby my place. Of course, this one got messy and ended up at a nightclub across town, far from my place, where I ended up having to do the walk of shame into my apartment at 10am the next day.

And no, the next day was not a day of Sabbath. It was a shoot day (one of the photo-type). So from Dubai, to New York, to Jebel Ali, to the nightclub on the other side of town, to this day of the photo-shoot, life had gone fast and days and nights melded altogether in one, big, fabulous blur of fanciful events. The day ended with the final shot being taken at the beach with the Burj Al Arab in the background. It was a nice touch to the wonderful life of, and as I packed up my equipment and tidied the house, I rejoiced in the tremendousness of my awesome life. I got to bed at a respectable hour and was able to sleep-in thanks to a late wake-up call.

So it is the 21st of February, my first real chance to shimmy back into my regular everyday, with a relatively quick turnaround flight to Damascus. I pull out the false lashes I'd put in the other night, as painstaking as it was, and went on to prepping for work and all its glories: uniform, cabin bag and hat in-check.

We get to work, get on with the drill and are approaching boarding. Except my left eye is tearing, and every so often, I am having to duck into the lavatory to wipe a teary eye. Soon after, the brightness of the cabin stings my eyes and I am unable to keep them open without having them tear up. This persists for a good 20 minutes. We are up in the clouds and people start pulling their window blinds down and the pain is slightly alleviated, but the sensitivity to light gets worse and both eyes start to get heavily agitated. By the end of the flight, landing into Damascus, facing passengers, I try to focus on the darkest spot of the cabin - the floor. I can almost sense that the man across from me wants to have a little chitchat, but my now-medical condition wouldn't permit me to look up. My eyes are burning.

We land and as much as I'd even like to look at people and bid them goodbye, I couldn't because it looked like I was balling my eyes out. The flight back was even worse. By now I could almost not work at all. And since it wasn't exactly protocol to make passengers aware of cabin crews' allergies and whatnot, I pretty much went through the service looking like I had been mourning the death of something...like my eyeballs, perhaps. The pain was immense. By the end of the service, I had sat myself at the back and was given a pair of eye-shades to keep protect my eyes from any form of light. They stung like a bitch, and rolled crazily even when they were shut. I had never experienced an eye condition like this before. But I was happy to just head home. I changed immediately and threw all of my clothes into the washing machine, thinking that they were infected by what ever it was that had infected my eyes. I washed my eyes with salt water, trying to cleanse them of bacteria. trying to make them feel better. That night, I slept with eyeshades on.

I get up at 7am and the eyes are no better. I suspect freak-level conjunctivitis. My left eye is fully swollen and my right eye - the stronger of the pair, was barely functional itself. I looked like the lovechild of Quasimodo and Mulan - if they ever had one. I call the clinic for nurse advice. Nada. I call the clinic to make an appointment. Also nada. It is too early. So I go back to sleep. I wake again by 10.30am, and with colossal difficulty in dealing with light, I struggle to even dial numbers because I cannot see them.

I get through to the Rapid Care Unit, and after I tell them my sob-slash-burning pain in my unopenable eyes, they slot me in for the only available appointment at 5pm. Soon after, the nurse from the Nurse Advice department calls me back. I pop a couple of paracetamols, wash the eyes with salt water again, and make an eye patch from dampened napkin and medical tape. QuasiMulan goes pirate style. All of that cool which I spoke of from just days before? Null and void.

For the record, this suspected conjunctivitis did prove good for one thing, and that was keeping me away from all forms of work which I coerce myself into when given the choice - which is pretty much, all the time. I mean, I had a bung eye, which meant that I wasn't presentable to our passengers/customers; I couldn't see, so I couldn't shoot or even sit at my computer to edit, heck I couldn't even Facebook. So I thereby find the sole way to forcing myself to rest. It is called, "conjunctivitis"....

Except it wasn't conjunctivitis.

I head to the clinic, and in an attempt to disguise my state, I don a cute pair of open-toed, beach sand-coloured suede boots, and tucked my acid wash jeans into them. I grab the over-sized sunnies which I had long hidden away to make room for aviators and wayfarers, and head out the door. I go for the "organized chaos" look even if a bit of medical tape extended above the frames of my sun glasses, just under my eyebrow.

But...SON. OFABITCH. THE PAIN. THE MOTHERFUCKING PAIN OF FIRE AND SENSITIVITY TO THE NERVE. I CANNOT BARE.

Suffice to say, I could not wait to see the doctor and see what antibiotics he had in store for me. So the nurse sees me and I am happy enough just to see a person of medical knowledge. She asks me the run-of-the-mill questions about "do you wear contacts?" "Are you allergic to anything that you know of?" ..."Have you had any foreign objects in your eye recently?" ....

I take this whole situation in jest and kind of blame false eyelashes for this infection. So I tell her...

Kristine: So. I uh...stuck on some fake lashes the other night.

We take entertainment from the perils of womanhood and vanity and how this has evidently sent us (me) to the doctor's office.

I tell her about how I tried to remove them, to which her retort of a story won over mine because when she once tried to remove her eyelash extensions, she ended up pulling out all of her natural lashes, which we both laughed at given the visual of an alien woman who had no lashes at all. She tells me that she's going to prescribe me some antibiotics and heads out to see the doctor.

Finally! Some drugs of matter!

The doctor comes in ten minutes later and I repeat to him what I have said to the most recent nurse, the nurse on the phone, my manager's assistant and Ardy. Then I tell him of the false eye lash story. He asks to inspect my eye.

He gently pulls up my eye lid and asks me to look down. He studies it closer.

Doctor: Can you remove the eye patch...?
Kristine: Sure thing.

I remove it.

The doctor comes back to inspect it closer.

Doctor: Ah...yes. I see, it's like the skin from your eyelid is even peeling...
Kristine: Mmm...about that. I think that might be from the napkin. I dampened it before I put it on.
Doctor: (laughs) Oh! That's right...this isn't gauze, is it? It's tissue paper.

My home remedies amuse both of us and we laugh.

Doctor: Do you wear contacts?
Kristine: Yes, but...I don't....

Doctor continues to look into my eye.

Kristine:...OH YOU ARE KIDDING ME.
Doctor: It looks like you've got your lens up there.
Kristine: (utterly dumbfounded) Oh My....You're....This isn't...NO WAY.

The doctor inspects my right eye without having to pull the lid up too much.

Doctor: Yup.

I easily pull the lens out of my right eye.

Kristine: Oh MY G...THIS IS BY FAR...

I try to feel for the one in the left eye, and it is sort of - missing...but it is there.

I am appalled for a good five minutes. We step out of his office and I wait in the waiting room as he goes off to write me a sick note. I hear hefty laughter from the other office. He comes out and tells me that he told the nurse what had happened. Then the nurse emerges and looks at me, both bewildered and thoroughly entertained. I realize that this is (or I am) one of those stories that will go down to be passed on from medic to medic, patient to patient for my accidental antics.

All of those times I've ever mooned and cerebrated over my grave mental deficiencies, this, by far, dwarfs them all to the deepest soils of the earth. And this all began when I skipped my first night of sleep and slipped in a pair of lenses to see a New York musical in full vision, from which I continued to extend my day(s) that I totally forgot about that little pair of clear plastic skimming over my poor eyeballs.

Moral of the story: Get some rest.

Short Stories from Thailand

2011-02-22T18:01:00.013+04:00

February 5, 2011

Kristine Speaks Thai

Today, someone told me in Thai "How are you". Trying to think quickly on my toes, I reply in Thai

....with a word that translates to "Thank You".

i.e.
Shop-keeper: Sabaidimai? (how are you)...
Kristine: Kapungcap (thank you)...

======

February 7, 2011
12.46pm Bangkok

The First Coffee Break

Manhattan Bargrooves spins in the disc player, my first caffeine hit in 8 days, a small two-by-three meter balcony, a well-written paperback, and the sun gently kissing the peaks of my shoulders, decolletage and the mere-mortal lengths of my arms and legs. A smile gently graces my face. It is a good morning in Bangkok.

I'd recently decided that it might be a good idea for me to detox during my leave this time around, but because my general tendencies of eating like I'm on death row always overtake whatever self-control I thought I had, I'd decided that it's best if I didn't deprive myself of carbs and meat. Yes, you may call this "eating like a normal human being", but I did decide to go on a caffeine and booze hiatus for the greater part of the 2 weeks, which roots the detox I like to call, "eating like a normal human being minus the fun parts". Figured that it was my arbitrary duty to offer this mind and body some sort of rest and give it a chance to function without my favorite little supplements. And 8 days away from my regular life was a good opportunity.

It's been a halcyon week of regular nightly sleep and bi-hourly daily siestas, which I am thankful for, but I'm coming around to the idea that maybe I'm not quite designed for limitless lounging. It is, after all, a far cry from my regular everyday where I have discovered that I thrive on time restrictions and eternal multi-tasking. So okay, I finally gave into my coffee bean crave and brewed myself a cup this morning.

So here's a thought that roots from my coffee juncture: they say, "Some people live to work, while some people work to live". I wondered: if work is something that you like, or in many ways, love, then would it be suffice to say that you can live to love or love to live?

Fat-free food for thought.

======

February 12, 2011
18:48 Flying over Northern Territory

The Lady at the Nail Salon

In the morning of the 7th, I'd decided that I wanted to fly home to Adelaide since I had at least half a week left towards my leave and an 8 month gap since my last trip home. So Veronica and I take a girly tryst to the nail salon. I decide on a pedicure and manicure. The lady doing my nails shook her head and gave a sour face in disapproval to the colour which I had chosen for my toes: a fairy-floss green (in my defense, pastel colours of the like were in season when I last visited Australia). She showed me a pearl pink and then a darker pink as a matter of suggestion.

Kristine: Mmm...naaah I think I'll go with the green. (I nod and try to pull a smile intending to convince) Nice!
Lady: (intensifies sour face) Not nice, old colour!
Kristine: Oh it's okay, I like it.

I laugh in appreciation of her honesty.

Lady: My niece like this colour (speaking of the fairy-floss green)
Kristine: (I laugh) Oh okay, is your niece like, 12?
Lady: My niece is 4.

Either I have the frivolous taste of a 4-year old, or the 4-year old has killer style like me. ...Or maybe, Aussie Summer fashion of 2010 had taken a turn towards the influence of Thai preschoolers - whose penchant for pastels happen to go well with tanned dermis.

She tells me that she has a 10-year old, and that she is 30, while her sister is 34 and is the mother of the 4-year old niece who likes fairy-floss green coloured nail polish. She repeated that she is the younger one who started earlier than her older sister. But she is so petite and her face is so fresh and line-free that I could have sworn that she wasn't a day over 20. I couldn't help but keep looking back at her face. She was very pretty and had such an unassuming look. She just looked so unfairly young! I hoped that my Asian genes would render me blessed in the same way, but then I pondered on my unsavoury skin-sins: love for sun, wine, and voluntary sleeplessness and surrendered to the fact that I may never be able to put a Pause button on my aging process. Ah but cest la vie....

She finishes up on my toes and motions over to start on my hands.

Lady: What your name?
Kristine: Kristine. What's your name?
Lady: Mam. Is that your friend? (talking about Veronica whose nails she previously did)
Kristine: Yes, she is my friend.
Mam: Where are you from?
Kristine: We're from Australia.
Mam: Ahhhh
Kristine: But I'm Filipino. And my friend is half-Filipino, half-Australian.
Mam: Ahhhh. I thought you Thai. You and your friend, very beautiful! You married?
Kristine: No, not married.
Mam: Have boyfriend?
Kristine: No boyfriend. You? Are you married?
Mam: Not married, but I have boyfriend. I no have friend.

I am quite quizzical about this because she seems like a really nice, warm person, so I ask.

Mam: I no have friend, because I no need friend. I can do all thing for myself. You like to have friend?
Kristine: I do. I think I can do things for myself too, but sometimes, I also like the company of my friends. You like to have friends?
Mam: No, I no need friend because I have boyfriend. Before, I am like you, also no need boyfriend, but I meet my boyfriend and he very nice. I am the last of 4. We are 4 in my family and I am the last, so I am very....ask for different thing. I am think different. But when I meet my boyfriend, he very nice and I am change - and he is change too! When you meet someone, you will change!

We hover around the topic. I listen and ask questions while she speaks of her experiences as an emotionally multi-faceted, youngest-of-four who would not settle to commit to just anyone. Then she tells me that she has been with her fiance for a year-and-a-half now.

Kristine: Do you want to marry him?
Mam: Yes I will marry him I think. He saving the money for wedding.
Kristine: Will you have a big wedding with many people?
Mam: No, only small wedding for family.

We talk a little more on the topic and I congratulate her on her future wedding. We finish up and Veronica comes to pick me up. I was in awe of the conversation: about Mam's headstrong decision in not needing friends, her independence, her pride for her tandem with her partner and her raw curiosity which almost obliged answers. I liked it. I admired that she knew what she wanted and didn't want, and the fact that she spoke of her plans like the future was written on paper - which - I would like to say is exactly the same for myself, but that might be quite a far stretch from the truth. Needless to say, I walked away, happy with a peach-hued manicure, mint coloured toes and an insight and some inspiration from the thoughts of a modern, working Thai woman.

======

A Comedic Taxi Driver and A Cowgirl at Bed

On the evening of the 7th, Veronica and I decided to break our vows against booze and walked down Khao San Road to join other tourists in a frenzy of market-shopping, street-food picking and beer-drinking. Nothing to an excess today, just a good ol' pint of Thai lager during a night stroll down the public streets of Bangkok. People go up mountainous regions, up into the provinces, or down towards the beaches and resorts to experience "real culture", but it occurred to me that some of the most real-life stuff you can find in a country is smack bang in the middle of the city, where the original residents of the provinces, mountains and coastlines have moved to the busy metropolitan in search of work or a better hustle.

Shops and tourists cram the road. With every meter, stands a food stall where they sell noodle dishes on the spot for a dollar to a dollar-fifty a plate; and behind, beside, adjacent and parallel is a stall which sells comic T-shirts and light-fabric summer dresses and jumpsuits - everything for under ten bucks a piece. And for every tenth store person/sales person, was one walking around the street with a necklace of wooden frogs - which - when struck on it's backbone, by the accompanying wooden rod, made the uncanny sound of the real-life version of this amphibian.

V and I walked the kilometer strip, pausing for some barbecued chicken, then some pad thai, then to haggle over T-shirts and bathing suits; then we continued on to mango shakes and eventually a quick, long island iced tea for the road
.

The clever marketing tactics lured us in.

The cab ride home was an interesting one, where the driver questioned our destination and acted like he didn't know where it really was, until we started speaking in a Vietnamese-English accent (long story) where the man took to our humor and found no problem in heading straight to our hotel. Our conversation was barely cohesive as neither of us could speak each other's language, but I am well-versed with this, so technically, our conversation flowed smoothly. We reviewed our counting in Thai; he would tell us short stories of family and friends with the main nouns spoken in Thai; he taught us how to say "Cheers", and then we taught him how to "high-five" - which, upon his first view of a raised, open palm, he responded with "bye bye!"

i.e.
Veronica: (raises open palm) High-five!
Samba (the driver): (looks back at Veronica's hand; he raises an open palm) Bye-Bye!

His hefty laugh was contagious; it sounded like a big man on a full-stomach and a slight wheeze. Every time he laughed, we laughed; every time we laughed, he laughed back. Thirty minutes of this later, V and I were back at the apartment, and decided that we needed to go out as a tribute to our trip to Bangkok together. I hadn't booked my tickets for Adelaide yet, but this could be sorted tomorrow.

So we head to Bed. A nightclub down the road from our apartment, but took thirty minutes, three missed turns, a phone call to the concierge, and a conversation with a semi-drunk but knowledgeable stranger who gave me his number but cared too much to tag along. We finally get there. It isn't full despite the way that they had closed the other rooms of this super club, but then again, it was a Monday. We climbed up the stairs with our vodka-tonics in-tow to get a bird's eye view of the club and the crowd. We were pleased to have hauled ourselves out especially after the market experience, which was enough to get us straight to bed. We danced a little only until about an hour and half later when the club was due to close. Here we met the pretty young thing who stood out from above for her cowboy hat and the way she seemed to enjoy the music and the club more than anyone else. She'd approached us in a slight drunken stupor and a peculiar accent. The girl with the cute, button nose, chin-length wavey hair and bee-stung lips confessed that she'd spotted us early on and wanted to affirm us - profusely - as girls on lots of vodka do. I presume we would have done the same towards her if only we weren't so sober; we hadn't quite inherited the part where girls shed out copious amounts of female affirmation to other stranger girls just yet. But we did admire her from afar. She was part-Thai, part-Iranian; grew up in Norway and was back in Thailand to finish her degree in medicine. Oh, and she spoke French too. Explains the accent, the looks and the general magnetism of this girl in a cowboy hat and tight-as-cling-film, high-waisted tights.

The club was shutting and she had insisted that we hop in the car and head to the next club with her, her sister and their friend. All the while, having haphazardly stolen the glass from the club and still sipping on something less appealing to the sober eye. And she offered us to share and drink with her - many times, as a caring, generous, intoxicated person would do. We politely declined. Repeatedly.

Okay, so we gave into the trip. Next thing we know, we've decided to embark on a random adventure with the cowgirl and her two mates. This must be what it feels like for guys to be charmed by a pretty, drunk girl. You do things you are unsure of because, hey let's face it, her carefree demeanor is engorging and her innocence charms your trust over. The battle between tiredness and fun-seeking is over for a little while, which finds us stuck in traffic with the pretty cowgirl telling us frustrated stories of how she and her boyfriend, thirteen years her senior, are fighting. A lot of it was repetitive, which, considering the alcohol-fused circumstances, was totally excusable; and some of it was in Norwegian, which we didn't bother to interrupt - considering the alcohol-fused circumstance - then came the most intriguing of English sentences which she uttered - about being a medical student in a sort of unusual relationship with her boyfriend which involved some detective work, petri dishes and other medical paraphernalia (or so I presumed). She says that she loves him to bits and he loves her back in the same way, and that their level of trust supersedes the normal-people type, because he too is a medical student and that they each have their ways to examine each other's uh...private bodily discharge to prove if the other person has been with a third party. You understood right. They each have access to a biological form of lie-detecting. And yes, it was confessed that they have each done it against each other.

And the reminder for the day was concluded: "Normal" is relative. Don't forget.

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful. Tiredness did settle in and we eventually hopped out of the car which was stuck in traffic anyway, claiming that I had to catch the early flight out. This wasn't entirely a lie, but more a tweaking of the truth as it seemed the only way for us to leave without too much convincing to stay. We bid them farewell and a nice-to-meet-ya and briefly joined a taxi-line of prettier-than-real-girls she-men; hopped in a taxi and headed back to the apartment.

======

February 8, 2011
22:34 Bangkok

The Spontaneous Trip to Adelaide

The airport and I: I call it a love/not-so-love relationship. It's the hub of all travelers: backpackers, suit-clad business people, honey-mooners, wanderers, families, jet-setting hipsters, holidaying veterans, overseas workers, diplomats and sometimes, movie stars. I love it for the legions of people that this pass-point brings together because goodness knows how I enjoy an pronounced view of human functionality, twenty-first century-style. Not-so-love it because I am, more often than not, on a standby ticket on a full flight and therefore get mini anxiety moments when I stand in the check-in line, knowing full well that they could send me back home. Hate it actually. But, If there's anything I've learned from having to always dress smart-casual (i.e. clean-chic) by company standards is its perks. No, looking casual-debonaire will not always get you a seat on a full flight, especially with silly illegalities like "humans are not to be stowed in free galley space, toilets and crew rest compartments" and that whole charade, but, under the circumstance of scoring a ticket, there are advantages, like, (hot tip, folks) upgrades and the novelty chance to go through the "diplomats" immigration line (thereby skipping the commoner line...which I am way too well-versed with), depending on the country/city which you are dis/embarking at. Plus, (bare with me for sounding like a princess, but) I can't deny that I do feel a little more fabulous in a leather peep-toe wedge and a dressed-down blazer compared to that last time I decided to travel in my comfy, ill-fitting pair of Riders, moccasin boots which looked way too much like my lounge-around uggs, and my trusty bonds singlet.

Anyway, in utter contrary of my whole preach about dressing nice when traveling and whatnot, today, I rocked into the airport straight from the outskirts of Siam Square, sporting some pretty unattractive facial grease, flipflops, short, distressed-denim cut offs, baggy blue-and-white striped beach-style, racer-back, locks in a haphazard bun...and a bit of dirt on my feet. I'd left Veronica at Siam while I hopped into a cab straight to the airport. I managed to grab a pack of make-up remover wipes at a pharmacy and speed-packed my airplane get-up in the easy-reach compartment of my luggage, I figured that I may just be able to clean myself up a little before my attempt to woo the airport staff. I rush past half-a-kilometer long line of people, haul myself into the ladies room, spot a vacant corner, unpack my change of clothes, and pull a Clark Kent-esque make-over and am out of the restroom in about seven minutes, all preen and faux-smart in my black-framed specs and "clean chic" attire.

Moments like these, I lust for nothing more than a long, narrow piece of perforated card inked with a seat number.

34B. The ground staff just handed me over my boarding pass. Phew. No matter how sure you can be about getting a seat on a standby flight which is supposed to have 20 spare seats and a humble 9 standby passengers, you can't help but breathe a sigh of relief when the pass is handed over to you.

Alas, I am getting on a flight and I am going home.

======

February 12, 2011
20:02 Flying over the Java Sea

The Guy Who Sold Fruit on a Wheely-Cart

Amy, Veronica and I had developed a little habit which involved gorging through episodes of Melrose Place while eating Thai food, which P.S., I loved, by the way. You ask whether this is what we really dedicated our holiday evenings to, and the answer is yes, widely. I don't know at which point traveling the world became the redundant part of our lives and when sitting on the couch (or in my case, laying on floor, cocooned up in the duvet) while midnight-snacking became the holiday, but I'm guessing this is just a phase which will soon die in ambiguity once we get over our need for in-ordinate musings over TV series and having food in front of it.

It was around 8pm, and we had decided that it was time to take a walk down the road to make our street-food pickings for that evening. The great thing about Bangkok is that, there is food everywhere, and not only that, but the food is on wheels and has the ability to come to you. We were walking down the road in search for some fresh fruit, when along came the man behind the wheely cart which sold the fruit which I had been craving. He had everything that I wanted: watermelon, mango, cherry apple and papaya, all fresh and ready to be peeled and sliced. I asked him how much and he spoke to me in Thai. Everyone has been doing this since we had arrived. I always reply to them in query, "English?" - to which most of them smile and laugh at, as if to say "oops, ha ha, silly girl". Luckily, Amy not only understands Thai, but speaks it too. The fruit man is in good spirits with us buying two or three bags of everything. I (with Amy's translation) ask him to teach me how to count in Thai. Ooonnnneee...Twwoooo....Threee....

So the man starts counting.

Man: Ngggggggg...Sohmmmmm...Saaaaaaaah....Siiiiiittttt....Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa

So I try to copy.

Kristine: Ngggggggg....(forgetting the second sound) Twoooooo....Saaaaaah

The man interjects.

Man: SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

So I copy: SAAAAAAAAAH

He says: SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA (inserts minor intended throat blockage) AAAAAAAAAAH

So I copy: SAAAAAAAAAAAAAA (intended throat blockage) AAAAAAH.

The man is pleased. So I start counting again, this time, with my fingers too: Nggggg.....Twooooooo...SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH....Siiiiit....Haaaaaaaaah

Man: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Kristine: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Man: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Kristine: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Man: Chai Chai! (says more things in Thai)

I start trying to mimick every single word that he says. Veronica is basically dying in hysterics imagining English-speakers teaching non-English speakers how to converse:

Veronica: Okay, I say, "Hello, how are you?" And you say "I'm good thanks".
Student: Okay I say hello how are you and you say I'm good thanks.
Veronica: No - I say - "Hello How are you" - and you say "I'm good thanks"
Student: No... Aiiiisaaaaaaaaaay hello how are you enyoosaaaaaay I'm good tenks.

As much as I love a good scandal on Melrose Place, this man is the highlight of my night.

========
February 12, 2011
The Best Chips in the World

I landed into Adelaide full of zest. This was a first. I normally land feeling haggard and abused, but I guess an 8-hour flight is much less taxing than a 14-hour flight. Plus, I'd managed to get a good 4-hours of sleep on the red-eye from Bangkok to Melbourne. Being that I hadn't booked my domestic Australian flights in advance, I had to purchase some full-fare tickets, which, apart from the fact that they are full-priced, are pretty freaking great because I get to keep my cool and avoid my mini-stress attacks when checking-in. Funny thing about landing into Australia is that it always makes me want to have a meat pie. You may laugh at that because meat pies are pretty ocker and cliche-Aussie, and I am a petit Asian girl, but this is what happens to me when my pumps touch Australian ground. So I got my fix from Adelaide-born Gloria Jean's. And as soon as I landed into Adelaide, the first thing that came to mind were the best chips in the world from a fish-and-chip shop a mere 7 minute drive from my parents place. Good ol' "Soto's". The shop is quaint and has nothing flashy about it. If anything, it looks like any other fish-and-chip shop down the road from it with the one large window, plastered with two intertwined cartoon fish stickers and text beneath it saying "Fish and Chips"; one entrance door; a glass casing separating the staff from the customers; two or three deep-fryers next to an large, old, black frying slate. One long bench for the customers to wait on, a cash register reminiscent of those from the 90's with analogue computer style chunky buttons, and credit card machine?...What credit card machine?

But they have the best chips in the world. So good that the one blackboard that separates them from all of the other F&C shops which describes in detail why their chips are not uniformly shaped and are so good. Yes, like any other good chip in the world, they are crunchy on the outside and soft and chewy on the inside, but the outside has something of a film-thin layer of some sort of batter that makes its crispiness almost flakey - a texture uncommon to the standard chip. My mouth waters as I think of it. These bad boys are so fresh and real that they shrivel up or become soggy if not eaten within thirty minutes of cooking. No Macca's chips here. So here's my word to you, reader: if you ever get a trip down to Adelaide, swing by Soto's at Semaphore Road in Semaphore. They don't know that I am a die-hard, so maybe if you do get a chance to duck in, tell 'em there's this blogger who craves their potatoes all the way to the Middle-East. Thanks in advance.

I missed my flight by 4 minutes. This is a summary of what happened 12 hours after.

2011-01-27T14:52:00.008+04:00

"Australia Day 2011"

Jumped around to good news. Devoured half a meat pie. Dropped the other half in the sand. Ate other peoples' meat pies. Made friends with folks who carried homemade boomerangs. Was taught a basic break-dance move. Failed to execute. Lost my purse. Kicked the footy. Danced on sun beds. Got told off. Tried to steal the inflatable kangaroo. Also failed to execute. Taught a yoga posture or two. Borrowed Rima's flag then watched her fight for it back when I parred it off to someone else. Watched the bouncer step in. Got lifted and carried around someone's neck. Got told off again. Sang the national anthem three different times with my right hand on my heart and my left hand in a peace sign in the air. Danced to John Farnham. Found my purse.

I love Australia Day.

One for Yesteryear

2011-01-04T18:18:00.007+04:00

January 3, 2011

6.45pm Houston

Everyone gets a little sentimental at the entrance of a New Year, but being that I'm always delayed in my reactions to big things like this (which I like to blame on the many hours I've gained and the many hours I've lost thanks to my ever-changing time zones), it has only sunk into me now, 3 days later, that 2010 is well over.

Today, over a facebook chat at 5am Houston time, James asked me, "What are your goals for this year?" I didn't know what to answer as I hadn't really put two seconds of a thought to it, but it occurred to me, "if I could just live out 2011 as awesomely as 2010 was lived out to be, then I'm happy with that". I read it back to myself and realized that my statement had cemented the fact that last year, despite its boulder-sized challenges, was a year well-lived. I had long decided that at the end of the day, the goal is to be able to go to bed and say, "thank you, it was a good day". I'd also decided that if I said this at the end of everyday, then by the end of the week, I would have had a good week; by the end of a month, I had a good month; by the end of the year, I had a good year, and by the end of my life, I had a good life. And so the goal continues.

There were challenges which dwarfed all of the challenges that the little-girl Kristine had ever imagined I would come across - things which I endeavored to not only accept but to embrace with utmost grace. Perhaps there were times that I faltered at this, which my loved ones would have witnessed, but without prompting, stood by my vindications and propelled me to practice humility and agility, side by side. I may sound like I'm speaking in code, but maybe, for those of you who have experienced new, unexpected troughs in the passing year, and have overcome them, you would know what I'm talking about when I talk about things that topple you over, test your resilience and your savoir-fair and send you near breaking point, only to have you rise with flying colours and admiration to boot. There were tough times, and this is my acknowledgement of them. Moreover, there are also times (like the end of an old year and the beginning of a new one) where one needs to look back and give oneself an unapologetic "bravo, kid, you did alright".

On the 31st of December, I admittedly got out of the wrong side of the bed because as I said, it is this time of the year where people get all emo about everything - which I blame on the December-thirty-first-ness of the air around us. Not to mention the early-bird New Year's Eve-Eve celebration which a group of very social friends and I had celebrated; this involved little wooden boxes of Sake, late arrivals of miso soup and sushi rolls, and high-ball glasses filled with colorful cocktails and mint leaves. In short, I was hung-over AND it was the last day of the year. In my distaste, I thought about how I may have indulged too much in a hedonistic lifestyle; I thought about the fact that I could be the poster-child for Treat Em Mean, Keep Em Keen and He'sJustNotThatIntoYou.com for my masochistic habit of developing infatuations with boys who like to play games, while snubbing the nicer, and potentially, more credible ones (i.e. I like to chase, not to be chased. Penile much?); I thought about my method of balance: overdo one thing, then undo it by overdoing the total opposite (e.g. work really hard for 2 months, then go balls out on the social scene for the next month) - and recognized that balance involves no such over-doing of anything. I thought about my family, and about waking up in the family home to the sound of Mornings with Kerry Anne in the background and my Mum chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and thought about how I was waking to a silent apartment which is literally, on the other side of the world, on the last day of the year. Patheticism. For a good hour, it was self-pity fest - until I decided that it was time to isolate that motherfucker of a mind-state and to restart my day.

That's right. I undid my getting-out-of-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed by physically getting back into it so I could do it the right way this time. I decided to get out of the RIGHT (i.e. correct) side of the bed, washed my face, pulled my hair back, slipped into a cute pair of A&F olive, micro-mini sweat shorts, donned my ugg boots, cranked my speakers to Eliza Doolittle, grabbed the broom and started sweeping the floor while I thought thoughts of the many things I should be thankful about.

The first thing came my family - the people in one's life whom one does not decide upon but is born into. I was, and am thankful for them, because if I did have a choice, I would choose each of them without a whince of doubt. The second thing came my friends - the people in one's life whom one DOES decide upon themselves. And I was, and am thankful for each and every one of them, even the ones who don't know it or the ones that I lapse in keeping in touch with. I reflected on my friendships and the kind of relationships I have going on in that department, and I do not lie when I say that one of my other recurrent thoughts throughout my days, and the ends of my nights is "Thank you for my friends; they are freaking awesome". It is one thing to have an abundance of friends who will see you through your days, but it is a Michael Jordan slam dunk, In-Yo-FACE, level type blessing to have friends who you can admire and are inspired by; friends who you admire for their accomplishments, for their drive, for their skills and talents, their fun-loving-ness, silliness, and for their bonafide kind hearts; friends whom you are proud of reflecting you.

Then, I thought about the things which I didn't know how to do at the beginning of 2010, which through the year, I benevolently gave myself into to learn. I looked back and saw that my ventures were not in vain. I learned, and maybe, in a small way, I evolved. But once again, I tribute this to my peers who taught by example.

Ardy Sudradjat and Jacques Boshoff do not know that - what I know about hosting house-guests and dinner parties was all-inspired by them...the impeccable mood-lighting, the buddha bar-slash-bossa beats, and the food good enough to seduce a lover to one's side; all of the charm and suaveness which I have been learning to bring into my abode came directly from Team Jacques and Ardy. I never, in my whole life, with my post-modern feminist ideologies and all, had an indication that I wanted Hostess-With-The-Mostes' under my title until I sat down to have dinner at theirs one time and was like, "DANG".

Sander Oliveira doesn't know that his zen always gets me; no matter what he says, he speaks with the tranquility of the Dead Sea; he also doesn't know that I channel him whenever I need to communicate in the most bull-headed of situations, because his way of calm works wonders in cooling everyone/thing down.

Debora Beluca and Kat Palmer do not know that I wish to one day have that streak that they have for romance, the one that precariously yearns, but receives and gives in a duly manner; women who are fearless in the realms of love and infatuation, who behave like ladies amidst both highs and lows of the boy-infested playing field.

Hugh Thomson and Rafael Suleiman, two unrelated gentlemen, may not notice that running into them still brings me the same highs which started at the beginnings of our friendships, and that I still actually jump to their presence because their individual "them-ness" just makes me happy.

Rhea McDonald, Taye Kim and Jonelyn Black may not know that our little group that so uncannily resembles the kinds of friendships that I had during university which is special to me because some of the best, longest standing friendships that I have now started in Uni.

Margaux Cortez may not know how much she makes my heart smile with her sporadic text messages and overseas phone calls, and makes me realize that no matter how comfortable a friendship, no effort goes unnoticed, and that I should make better efforts to show my peeps that I too am randomly thinking about them.

Erica Paredes probably doesn't know that when I bake or make pancakes, that I think of her, because channelling Erica makes me make my pancakes pretty enough to photograph.

Again, Erica Paredes, along with Sarah Meier-Albano, Jena Daza, Thea Arvisu and Cynthia Kurleto don't know that they have so perplexingly remolded my ideas of motherhood, by having been (or still being) lead conductors in the fashion and music world, having shared with me the most insightful of written pieces (thank you American Quilt) about life, love, friendship and the most enjoyable Filipino food around town. They rock motherhood-cool like you never even knew that you wanted this in your life, until you've peeked through even the smallest of windows, to see how they embrace and personify it. You just hope to goodness that you can be as charmingly multi-faceted and successful as they are when the M-moment comes.

Thao Tran's expressions of love and affirmation with uses of words like "vagina wall" and "fanny breath" always reminds me that love is organic even when it seems to resemble your private body parts. It is only the lucky ones, the closest ones, who get to experience being called some form of colourful genitalia or human waste just to say, "hey faeces face, I miss you".

Nicole Abela and Eva Cameron. These folks have heard me rave over and over about their awesomeness for I am their biggest fans. Nicole is the youngest, most successful international hair stylist that I have ever (and maybe you have ever) known in my life. My (solid form - [inside joke]) friend, Nic, has traveled continents to teach and preach, and to make fabulous the locks of celebrities and musicians whose hair we also wish we could touch. And yet her head is still the same size as it was when we first met at the club when she was still someone's employee. As for Eva Cameron, I will have to direct you to that entry because there are too many words for this Nutritionist-DJ who has been by my side since that fateful second day of University...and she is so awesome that I've already written an entry about The Eva.

Amy Wells and Veronica Richards, the sweetest, most colourful sprinklings on my existence in Dubai. I cannot express enough how much I appreciate their allowing me to third-wheel along to their dates, or how their attendance at my little cook-ups make my apartment feel like a home. I say I love to cook for loved ones, which is why I love to cook for them. A pair with just under 150 mutual friends; common friendships indicate how much you have in-common in your ways, likes and dislikes as people - well I think, anyway. I can only aspire to have the same with a partner the day I actually decide to have one.

Banjo Albano - husband to Sarah - one of my few friends who are hitched - is a cool balance of upstanding and straight-up fly. Seeing their dynamic nudges me to wait for the best and nothing less. Two different folks from two different countries - James McRae and Angela Jiandani's value for those who value him/her is almost unfairly out-of-proportion, because knowing that you have them as friends means that you can also know that you will never be without one. The Yoeun sisters, make an art of being consistently hot - day, night, and even the waking moment when us commoners tend to wake up looking like the Troll dolls of the 1990's. DJ Boogie and Ricky Yap whose artistry supersedes the artistry of many in their fields, producing flawless music and sushi which in turn, produce groupies in numbers that go way over my head. The Bautista cousins, Vern and Pierre combine two of my most favourite things in the world: a penchant for food and wits sharp enough to straight-shoot you in the face if it were tangible.

Benita Francis. If my home phone is ringing, chances are, it's her. My partner and my one of my two favourite make-up artists. Like I'd said before, she has a defiant enthusiasm about successes in this creative industry. Seeing her being able to juggle work and work and a social life alongside a personal life makes me wanna smash it too.

Phally Horn, Gloria Cruz and Carly Greig, the fun-loving Adelaide ladies who I see ever so rarely, but always remind me of what it looks like when you live life over a beautiful bed of cumulonimbus. These unrelated ladies walk on sunshine on a daily basis.

To all of my other friends who I have not mentioned, maybe we haven't crossed paths as of late or maybe even over the last few years, and firstly, I beg your pardon, but for every one of you, I share my thoughts and plenty thanks.

To the people whom I have not met but read / have read / are reading my blog, an enormous THANK YOU. Writing down my little (or sometimes overly rave-ful) tidbits of life and experience has never been so satisfying knowing that it entertains you too.

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Things that have changed that I am glad have changed in 2010:

- The length of my hair.

- My adobo.

- The way that I (only) now recognize that spatter from cookware on the stove is unpredictable and that wearing an apron no longer makes me feel like a pansy.

- Where I used to only be able to run for three minutes at a time, I can now run seventy.

- The picture on my work ID card.

- The Dubai metro system which is now open.

- My level of assertiveness.

- My unattractive-ass pyjamas.

- My disposition of (my) life in Dubai.

- My conservatism with spending.

- That many of my friendships are now past the "beginning" stage, are now flourishing and continuing to bloom.

- The fact that I am no longer killing plants and that plant that I bought this year is alive and green.

- The computer which I work on.

- The texture of my pancakes.

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Some things that have not changed (which I may or may not be cool with NOT changing):

- I still won't grow my nails long enough for a centimeter long french tip.

- My hair is still above boob level.

- I still think that my friends' blogs are some of the most plausible pieces of writing on the WWW.

- I still say "hella", even though it's been 3 years since I've consistently kicked it with my friends from San Francisco.

- I still click my fingers when dancing.

- The romance of pen-to-paper and the fact that it is still quite the pain in the arse to have to transfer from paper to hard drive. Having said that, I refute in confessing that I still carry around a notebook and a pen in my bag, and have another notebook that lives on my bedside table and another note pad that is hidden away in the drawer of the same bedside table.

- Kimora: Life in the Fab lane is still an inspirational tool for me.

- My pout-and-wink combo when the camera has been whipped out on the occasion that I am intoxicated (not cool with).

- I still secretly love that my male friends forget that I am a girl sometimes but am secretly annoyed that the objects of my infatuation also forget that I am a girl sometimes.

- I am still jetlagged.

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Jetlag highlights of 2010:

- I once doused my body in body lotion and reveled in its airy-mousse like texture. Then I ran my fingernail over my leg because for some reason, it just didn't feel like the lotion was sinking into my skin - and noticed a clear white line.

The next day, I hopped out of the shower to moisturize myself again, I realized that I had previously slathered myself in hair conditioner, not body lotion.

- When someone told me to change the date on my customs form from 2010 (which, at the time, it was) to 2011, I cursed myself for being such a numbskull for "totally forgetting what year it was" and "for missing out on a whole year".

- I booked and paid $150 for a ticket to a music festival due on February 20th. I was leaving that country on the 19th.

- I poured a lady a cup of tea - on a saucer.

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The first language barrier-induced miscommunication of 2011 - January 1st.

Amy, Veronica and I sit at the dining table of a restaurant in Dubai. With intention to get right into the dessert....

Kristine: Do you have a fork?

Waiter: No ma'am.

Kristine: (in slight disbelief because, after all, this is a restaurant - so I reiterate) Like, a fork?

Waiter: No ma'am we don't have fork.

Kristine: *Looks confused*

Waiter: We have only bip

Kristine: Sorry?

Waiter: We don't have fork, we have only bip.

Translation: WE DON'T HAVE PORK, WE ONLY HAVE BEEF.

Bangkok-Sydney: Friendships and Colonics

2010-12-15T17:26:00.006+04:00

Dec 15, 2010
3.36pm Dubai

It was once said that 'what happens in Bangkok, stays in Bangkok'.

Unfortunately, I have a big mouth and find too much amusement in the goings-on in the land of Pad Thai and the frequent lady-boy, that not only must I break this vow, but also feel the need to share it with you.

I did a 7-day Bangkok-Sydney trip early on this year with a bunch of nutters who I have since called my friends. Our dynamic was tight from the get-go - which is not a commonality in the world of air hostessing for a major company. Every work day involves flying (i.e. working) with people you have never met before, and ergo, getting to know new colleagues and hoping to goodness that you may just get along well enough to spend a trip together. For the most part, getting along is not a problem, but bearing friendships from the work environment is not as common as you'd think it would be, especially when the city is big, and when folks tend have their our own already-formed cliques prior to coming into work that day.

Obviously, these people hadn't gone to Bangkok and had colonic irrigations performed on them whilst sharing a room with said colleague/s.

For those of you who aren't too aware of what colonic irrigation is, it is the flushing out of toxins stored in the colon via hydrotherapy. It's supposedly a popular method used during periods of detox. To explain this whole charade more blatantly, colonic irrigation is when the nurse puts a tube up your bum and flushes water through it using a connected tap source so that your stubborn poo (i.e. poo that has been in your system for a very long time and won't come out with the rest of your other poo because it is so - let's say, "sturdy") is induced to come out. It sounds horridly disgusting and revolting, especially when I describe it like that, but that's pretty much what it is; and some people, probably including your favourite celebrities do it because it's meant to be good for you. Suffice to say, Ms. Rhea and I had given into the fad because that's what us girls do with celebrity-advocated "natural therapies".

We'd already gotten along so schmickably over the 6 days that when we were presented with the option to have this performed on us while we shared the same room, we both just looked at each other, shrugged and concurrently decided that it was a great idea in an "as if you wouldn't" type demeanour. I mean, who wouldn't want a pipe put up their rectum while your friend is sitting on the toilet-bed jut 5-meters next to you anticipating her turn? Pssshhhh….

Here's the thing - and my favourite: LANGUAGE. BARRIERS.

The doctor who had given us our consultation spoke perfect English. The nurse performing the said colonic, did not. Don't get me wrong though, she knew exactly what she was doing - except when I posed a question (in a clown-in-hysterics-type manner), I'm not too sure that she knew exactly what I was talking about.

The lady had donned her latex gloves, lubricated the tubing and motioned towards my you-know-what, and let's just say, I am a very ticklish person who has a laughing complex when my nerves take over. I did not make her job easy with my side-to-side, avoiding-the-tube manoeuvres. I found this hysterical.

She finally got that bloody thing in me and turned the tap on. I don't particularly like the feeling because it is, for the lack of a better term, alien, but it is now Rhea's turn to get the pipe and I am thoroughly distracted and utterly amused. The nurse is about 4-foot-9 and has a kind face; Rhea seems nervous and starts laughing harder as the woman approaches her. The nurse applies the jelly to the tube and motions for Rhea's you-know-what. I am absolutely pissing my pants (pardon the analogy). I am laughing so hard that it feels like the tube is going to pop out of my ass, and this worries me but does not stop me from laughing - in fact, I laugh even harder and I feel the force urging the piping out.

Kristine: If I….If I laugh a lot, will the tube come out? *continues in hysterics*
Nurse: *calmly closes eyes in an I-know-all-esque type manner* *nods gently* Yesssss....
Kristine: Um, no, I mean, um…If I…laugh a lot, like "ha ha ha" will the tube come out?
Nurse: *calmly closes eyes in an I-know-all-esque type manner* *nods gently* Yesssss....
Kristine: I mean, will the pipe *pretends left index finger is pipe makes gestures to show coming-out action* come. out. of. my. bum?
Nurse: *calmly closes eyes in an I-know-all-esque type manner* *nods gently* Yesssss....
Kristine: You know my bum? My bum. Will the tube come out of my bum?
Nurse: *calmly closes eyes in an I-know-all-esque type manner* *nods gently* Yesssss….yaw bum.
Kristine: *gives up and gives into unabated cachinnation*

Furthermore, at no point in this saga did the pipe fall out.

I will never forget this experience despite the fact that I will probably never repeat it again. I didn't particularly feel cleansed afterward and was a little disappointed that corn kernels and bubble gum did not come out of my nether-region (I was told by another girl who had had this done before that she had all sorts of junk - including corn kernels - come out of her), but also, I guess, pleased that such things did not present themselves.

Rhea and I soon realised that if we were any more normal than this, we probably would have opted for our own rooms - but I'm glad we didn't because otherwise, the term colonic-buddy would never have been coined, and we wouldn't have bore many a colonic-related joke.

10 months and maybe 4 or 5 dates Bangkok-Sydney crew dates later, I am preparing the menu for our 2010 Christmas dinner. These are the kinds of friendships I value making out of work - the ones that make it to Christmas dinner. Upon planning who-brings-what, and who-is-coming-when, these were the things that were concluded:

(This dialogue revolves around Jo's penchant for ordering copious amounts of tequila without approval or notice to the victims who are to consume this damned drink i.e. the rest of us, and a second trip Bangkok-Sydney trip which the girls [excluding I] are going on. Unfortunately, I am not coming thanks to our annual safety exams.)

Taye: What's cookin'?

Kristine: Roast turkey is on the menu but gotta work on the rest. Rhea is doing cocktails.

Jo: Oh my god! Lucky u guys were talking about the dates. I thought the dinner is on Christmas night! Bloody hell. By the way thank god, no one can see my tagged photos because I look like shit n both of them!

Rhea: 24th is going to be fun guys, I can't wait. Wish you were coming on the Bangkok-Sydney too Philli-stralian :( See you punks soon!

Taye: I can't wait either. Rhea's doin' cocktails? Thank god [it's] not Jo. She'd spike 'em. HAHA
I'll bring some nice Thai dessert or Thai food from Bangkok. What do you think?

Jo: Heeeey! I make great cocktails thank you... like margaritas!! If you're bringing desserts, what the hell can I bring? I don't wanna feel left out!

Rhea: TEQUILA!!

Kristine: "Rhea's doin' cocktails? Thank god [it's] not Jo" - which I second motion, by the way. her "cocktails" would be called "tequila shots for eyeball inhalation". I am delirious, it's 9.35am and I just got in from Riyadh, why did I only read this properly now? Hilarity. You guys better take awesome photos dedicated to me on your Bangkok-Sydney. Otherwise no one eats.

Rhea: Haha you will be with us in spirit Kristine! We will raise a toast to you and your Safety exams!

Jo: OI! I can make other cocktails apart from tequila. Don't make fun of my tequila otherwise I'll buy a bottle for [each of you]!

Kristine: Bella, tequila is NOT a cocktail. HAHA. It is a spirit on its own. This worries me!!

Merry Christmas all! For now, it's study time for me. Til next time!

I have a What?

2010-12-05T22:43:00.011+04:00

Jacques: Oh my god, you are such a typical male!

Kristine: Huh?
Jacques: You are such a typical male.
Kristine: Who?
Jacques: You! When did you grow a penis, Kristine?!

Before I get side-tracked again and start yet another entry which seems to have nothing to do with being an air hostess or traveling the world, I just set myself a reminder in saying that this blog was started to make sense of, and to record the happenings of the wonderful world of a twenty-something flight attendant living in Dubai - who just happens to have dropped into the world of singledom in the passing months - ergo, this entry has everything to do with this blog. Plus it is mine so I guess I can write whatever I want.

Being single in Dubai is a funny thing, because a whole bunch of the residents here are essentially in transit and are on temporary working visas, which means that at some point, we all have to go home, so when you meet someone, whose home countries are something like, Jamaica and France, and you are from - let's say - Australia, then there is already a hiccup straight from the get-go. Not that I'm talking about myself right now, but I'm just sayin'. There are the people who are ready and can't wait to leave the city, the ones who never want to leave, the ones who just arrived and have yet to grasp their new environment, let alone think about leaving, and the ones who have no idea about staying or going. I am all but the third one. And of course, there's the other part about being a 'hostie' - which sometimes, creates a fat line between a smooth flow of getting to know someone and not getting to know them at all.

Upon updating Jacques on the recent events of my favourite past time, he concluded that I have a penis. ...Wait, did I just call "dating" a past-time? Interesting....

And wait, did I actually just call it "dating"? Back at 21 or 22, I would've been in denial and called it "hanging out" more than anything, which was probably my way of pacifying myself when faced with - well - a male of interest. "Hanging out" has no such expectations that "dating" does and has a very blurry line between lunching-as-newfound-friends, and dining-with-further-intention. But hey, this is what I've learned over the last few years: "tomato-tomuhto".

To be blatantly honest, I don't know which part it was that Jacques was referring to when calling me out on my male-ness, but I think it may have been about the part where it was decided that I am unable to immediately commit regardless of how much I may like someone (because I am too cautious and indecisive - or in layman's terms, "chicken shit"), or perhaps the part about "another one bites the dust oh well there's always the next one" - in that order and in that lack of punctuation. (I'm pretty sure it wasn't about promiscuity because my loins would be happier if it were, but to digress into that may be skimming way too close on overt disclosure of my private life...my dry private life). Moreover, this is both awesome and not-so-awesome because 1. I've always believed that men (or the ones that I like) have an innate ability to approach dating in a more suave way than girls do. I don't know if that's true, or if all the men I have dated have always pulled the too-cool-for-school act so well that I can't tell the difference between nerves covered up, or no nerves at all. And as much as I'd like to think that I make men clamor to their knees, I accept that this is pretty much slim pickings because I am not Eva Mendez. So. When my homie tells me that I am like a male and is implying that I have the cool blazaeness of a guy, then I wish to applaud myself. However, it is also not-so-awesome because, let's face it, by the general gist of things, women are more emotionally mature and capable of coddling a healthy courtship especially when it feels like it may be worth it. I, on the other hand, at the moment, feel like I don't have such powers; in fact, I think I may have what I like to call, the anti-capability (not inability, rendering myself unable to engage in the act of, but rather, a capability which is counter-productive to the coddling of said healthy courtship; a.k.a the unconscious ability to sabotage).

But what is a girl meant to do? Isn't it a bit too 21st-century to be thinking that the current date (i.e. male/guy) may be The One when you're not even together yet, much less behaving like that is the case (e.g. changing your plans to accommodate future dates; waiting by the phone anticipating upcoming plans)? Then again, I guess that all comes with the package of me not really knowing what I want (thank you, Libran stars and moons for making my life that little bit more hectic) in this particular realm of life so until then, I guess my male-ness (or everyone-ness) will prevail.

I think I need to botox my life

2010-11-24T09:22:00.005+04:00

"I think I need to botox my life", I told my good friend, Jacques as we stood in his kitchen while he prepared his regular gourmet-nutritionist-standard breakfast for me, with an exotic coffee blend from Brazil and the rawest form of brown sugar from the Amazon (or somewhere to that effect), and a cereal party of wholegrains, muesli, fruit, healthy grounded seeds and stuff and honey. At a similar level of spiritual confusion and sporadic enlightenment, I never have to state my "this might sound crazy, but..." disclaimer to him before I speak about anything that other folks would consider - well, crazy. I'd gotten up only after 3.5 hours of a night sleep, to engage in an overkill of errands. At some point, I had to eat - breakfast. That's right. Errands before breakfast - which is just levels of wrong in my books. This is how life had become over the last 2 or 3 months.

He likes my analogy because it amuses him as much as my recent accidental kissing agenda, which includes our very close gay friend, Sander, and a very nice Argentinian-Brazilian man, 11 years my senior, but that is a whole 'nother saga for a whole 'nother entry.

Socially, I feel fabulous; spiritually, maybe not so much - unless our souls are designed to thrive in high volumes of red wine and lewd frequencies of noise (i.e. people, music and material riffraff). Late September, I had found out that one of my works created for Mona Fares was to be produced as a commercial 3-by-1.5 meter lightbox advertisement for Dubai Fashion Week (which duly resulted in the slight peeing of my pants thanks to high excitement and disbelief). This marked the beginning of the Celebration Extravaganza.

As the ad went up, so did my enthusiasm. As my enthusiasm went up, so did the photoshoot bookings - and enthusiasm breeds enthusiasm and passion breeds interest. As the bookings went up, the sleep went down, and as the shootings increased, my interest in a healthy diet ceased to exist. But being that I am one who is still trying to grasp the idea of balance, it has become of utter importance to me that the harder I work, the harder I play. Simple (read: Twisted) as that. Suffice to say, the social calendar seems to have hit a high which the 14-year old me would curtsy at.

…Until I realised that my pantry is now filled with canned food, and that my fridge consists of beer, 3-week old sunflower seed bread (the sunflower part being my attempt at "healthy"), 3 Granny Smiths, champagne and soy milk - which goes with nothing in my pantry because my cereal is also way too old for human consumption. Ew.

Last month was a busy month, but I do feel like I kind of thrived. I met a make-up artist who is also cabin crew. She works commercially - a hundred times more than I do and is defiantly enthusiastic about our teaming up. And now, she is my partner. The works that were produced this November, I think were a break-through in both creativity and the professional finish. I can't say that I can compare my work to the likes of commercial pro's, but I hold a personal feeling of accomplishment from within, looking at my early works and comparing them to today's.

I don't know if I mentioned already that I have taken a couple of volunteer jobs to assist this amazing photographer, Toufic Araman (aramanstudios.com), where I was first allowed to come onset for model-dressing and general shit-kicking. As tiring as it was, I LOVED it. It had been years from my University days, working at a photographic studio since I had enveloped myself in an environment and atmosphere which gracefully bled creativity. Toufic doesn't talk much, other than to direct and discuss the flow of work, (and every now and then, short-shouts at his lights, his assistants or maybe the models because he is an artist under pressure) but I think that he is a nice person - especially that he's allowed a stranger like me, to come onset to one of his big-budget, grand projects, just so that I can watch and learn. As little as I talk to him though, I do get to chat with everyone else around the area and see what's going on with them, to see how this works as an industry, and how this works as a business. I got to speak with his assistants who are also on their way to becoming pro's like him, and the other onset folk (models, hair stylists, stylists) about being a full-time freelance artists - which I learned takes two ginormous cojones to do.

They say that this industry and in this line of work, you give everything up - especially when you are a full-time freelancer whose livelihood depends on the quality and quantity of work available. They say that in this line of work, you have to be willing to put your personal life in the second shelf and work in the first - which, I thought was gonna be fine to start off with because I'd always been romanced by the idea of the Independent Empowered Woman.

….Until recently where I'd finally absorbed the fact that this entire month of November, I did give everything up - where my personal life went on the back-burner and the shoots were off the charts (which, there weren't that many shoots - only four in total and one 16-hour assisting job, but relative to my 2 shoots a month, that was double-and-a-half and I still have a regular jetlagging "day job" to hold down). Not that my personal life went on a standstill - if by "personal", we are talking about hanging out with friends. But there is the other "personal" life which has to do with time spent for myself, by myself, to do nothing and anything that one wants to do in this time. This is the one that kind of dissipated into thin air, that by the time I got it back, I didn't know what to do with it, or even if it felt good (which of course, is totally different to when something feels right). Feeling right is what it did and so I have coerced myself into some serious do-nothingness in order to reflect on what the fuck is going on - or at least to get a grasp of the events that I have rejoiced in over the last 90 days.

Life now - let's just say that I'd like to just freeze it and temporarily disable all muscular activity for my belief that this may be the only way to finally zen out my chakra, so to speak. Actually, if I could do that to my mind (which has also been described by the folks of my latest encounters as "traveling at a thousand kilometres an minute and just needs to Chill. Out.") as well, I wouldn't mind. If I had any plausible excuse for this, it may be that I am frazzled because there is another part of me that is surfacing - a Kristine who I had never met before. There had always been the hippie-Kristine who I had grown to love and embrace, who found joys in the organic bibelots of life, who knew not too much of worldly possessions and the moments and things that money was needed to afford. There is the other me who is arising - the one who revels in manufactured fabulosity, whilst in 5-inch heels and a fresh set of eyelash extensions. I don't know how to embrace this chick because she seems a little off-center and doesn't cook as well or as much as the other one because she's too busy doing a million other things. Nor does she write as much, sleep as much, keep a tidy room for longer than a day; nor does she read the books that have haphazardly piled up on her bedside table. But I cannot bash this girl too much because whilst she's not doing all this other stuff, she is engaging herself in activities that she adores and has started a new love affair with a different kind of life unbeknownst to the girl her junior. These alter-egos live life on 2 separate pages - which is the part where I need to step back and create a way to meld the two. Who ever thought that mid-twenties would be like this - or at least for me? Who knows. I was hoping that writing it out may offer as some sort of therapy, but I am still stumped as to how to manage these two crazy bitches.

So I told my Mum the other day that I need to learn a better balance and am considering going to a Buddhist Camp right when I leave Dubai after my resignation. She was flabbergasted being that she had raised me as a Catholic girl, and now I am entertaining thoughts of immersing myself in a camp for a non-theist religion? Blasphemy. Soon after, I'd met a guy from Perth who had just traveled around Asia and told me about a place on the border of Laos and Thailand that hosted this type of thing, which sparked a higher level of interest from my end. Now this idea is becoming serious. I soon told my Mum that too. All hell broke loose for about 5 minutes until we diverted our attention to the fact that we could stalk our family members on Facebook. Oh, by the way, I reactivated my account after feeling that I had healed myself of my addiction and could now manage my account in a more orderly manner.

In the meantime, it is December - the holiday season where it is almost one's duty to take a break and reflect on the year just gone. I have my cabin crew safety exams to review for and a Christmas dinner to plan. And of the same level of importance, I shall finally have time to write entries about my recent trips to Tokyo, Houston and the upcoming LA. Thank goodness.

A 2-Day Diary Entry from Cyprus

2010-10-08T01:46:00.003+04:00

October 3, 2010
9.24am Cyprus

It's Sunday morning and I am in Ayia Napa, where it is something like a pleasant 25 degrees Celsius, and I am over-looking a stretch of chlorinated turquoise lined with sun-worshippers, retirees and young holiday-makers alike. Dang, hombre, life is good.

October 4, 2010
11.35am Cyprus

Let me preface this entry with a funny little dialogue that took place at a local Cyprian restaurant last night. Out to dinner with Marc - my other younger brother, we'd decided that we were up for a bit of seafood. Apparently seafood here is the bomb, so we sought to experience what friends had raved on about. Open the menu to page three, and there's an array of fish dishes - sea bream, sea bass, cod, salmon, swordfish and this one with a mixture of "fish file and prawns". I like prawns, so the dish already scores a point for being interlaced with that, and to top it off, I'm a fan of garlic and butter sauces ... But what on earth is "fish file"? I ask Marc. He has no idea. He suggests that we ask the waiter. I speculate that maybe it's something funky like fish shavings - as if there were such a thing - deep fried to crunchy goodness. It made total sense to me that "file" or "filings" would suggest that. We go back up the menu, back down and decide that this was the most interesting one.

The waiter comes over.

Waiter: Hi
Kristine: Hi! Sorry, Uh can I just ask What's "fish file?"
Waiter: It is fish. It is the type of fish.
Kristine: Oh okay. So it's a type of fish.
Waiter: Yes IT IS THE FISH. It is the FIL-EH. You know, FILEH. FIL-EH FISH.
Kristine: Mmm...Okaaay...
Marc: Kristine, you retard, it's fish fillet.
Kristine: Ahhhh FILLET!!

We make our order.

Marc: Fish file!!! "Excuse me, Sir, what's a fish FILE?"

Brothers.

Today, I tried writing my friend an email and realized, it's been about 2 months since I'd seen or spoken to her, and as I wrote it all out, I'd realized how quick things had moved over a span of 60 days. I gave up on paragraphs because I found myself unable to weave the sentences together while aiming to make sense at the same time, so I dot-pointed. Point number 2 stated that I am now single again. Point number 5 stated that I am choosing against the Melbourne photography college "because I don't want to leave my job so that I can study photography 1 day per week and work in a totally unrelated field just to support studies and general living." Point number 7 describes my alternative medium to "honing my genius", and how some in-depth work had come my way, that I had put down in my books as "kind of a big deal", followed by point number 8 which explained my decision to renew my air hostess contract and remain in Dubai as a means to networking, traveling and funding this whole photography shenanigan. "It's a big mission, and now that I'm gaining a bigger perspective on what an intrinsic process this might be, I am becoming simultaneously anxious about how to make it happen, but comforted by the fact that for once in my life, I feel like I have some direction." It has been crazy to the point of figurative aneurysms; leading to a blown up proportion of working hard and playing hard.

But that is about as much as I shall harp on about that, because now I am on leave, in Cyprus, am building up quite the tan and am proceeding through my days like the aimless bludger which I love to be.

Upon the first day of arrival, we were told by 5 people that we arrived a bit late for party season. Actually, I didn't even know that this was the Cancun of Cyprus and that people came here to get shit-faced and sun-burnt. I only found out about 10 hours before my departure from Dubai, that Ayia Napa, was one of those places that held wet T-shirt competitions and where people paid for alcohol with coins. Admittedly, I got a little hyped up after reading about all of that, because God knows how much I love a city where you can rock those inappropriately short denim cut-offs that skim the butt-cheeks and not get frowned upon for looking like a sex worker who couldn't find her way back to her corner. Europe and its liberations. I fist-pump.

Our first night - actually, our first day was spent in utter delirium - the kind where it feels like you just smoked a bong, are slightly hazy and just feel like everything is so funny. Marc just just come off a 14-hour flight from Melbourne before hopping onto this 3-hour flight to Larnaca, while I'd had just 2 hours of sleep before the Dubai-Larnaca flight thanks to a late fashion shoot-assisting do, and only 2 hours of sleep the night prior to that thanks to a late wrap of my own shoot-schedule. I'd had my pepperoni, ham and cheese baguette, and because my appetite had not yet synced with Marc's, we found ourselves hopping over to a Burger King just 30 minutes after I had eaten. We popped in for the tight-ass meal deal on the massive banner outside the shop - 2 euros for a burger deal. Marc's logic was that it was small, he wasn't hungry, and found novelty in paying for things with coins, so cool and reminiscent of the 90's and our primary school days.The guy behind the counter had hiccups and no customers to serve, and explained that this was a Monday to Thursday offer - today is Saturday; Marc perused the menu again while I made small-talk. He asked where we had flown from, and I asked whether it was true what all of the locals had just said - that we'd missed the awesome peak season that was the "real Agia Napa". He concurred, then asked us if we wanted the deal from the banner. I say yes with pride (or shamelessness...tomay-to, tom-uh-toe). He says, okay and starts prepping the tray. At the end, as we are about to pay, I notice that there are 2 set-ups on the tray and I - with hesitation - express how we'd only wanted 1 because I'd just eaten. He quickly continues - it's ok, one is on the house because you flew all the way from Australia. I notice that his hiccups were gone - which he'd earlier expressed, he'd had since the day before. I suggested that he hold his breath or get someone to scare him. He said that he'd tried it all. So I told him to go to a corner and stand upside-down for a little while. He said that he didn't try that one (meaning, no thank you). But after our exchange of casual chit-chat and his good deed (i.e. the free meal), his hiccups were gone. Word to good deeds, I say.

Around 8pm, I walked over to the supermarket across the road while Marc pacified his jet lag with a power nap. First of all, these days, I find a sublime joy in seeing alcoholic beverages available at groceries; I've been living in Dubai for almost 3 years now and have become accustomed to stocking my humble bar with wines and spirits from the airport duty free. Without that, I am only left with the option of buying it from the one store that I know of in Dubai which sells these goodies at a hiked up price and sans variety. This shop is just pain in the arse and I don't know anyone who buys alcohol from there for that reason. Plus, one can't just always go out to a licensed hotel just for a glass of vino either. Y'know what I mean? Again, I'm not an alcoholic, I do appreciate the option. So of course when I come to places like these where they have gamuts of bottles that I've never even seen in my life before, like pre-mixed milky strawberry pina coladas, or standard-sized bottles of Absolut priced at something ludicrously cheap like 11 euros, I am just stupidly dumbfounded.

I guess this whole package goes with the whole party-people-persuasion; and again, I feel a slight remorse that we did not arrive 2 months earlier.

People here are nice. Super nice. They're happy to help and answer questions even when they've probably dealt with many doe-eyed, uninformed tourists like us a thousand times through every Summer. We made friends with the lady at the deli, 2 shops over from the apartment-hotel. We've ordered the same pepperoni, ham and cheese toasted baguette from her shop over the last 3 days, and every time we visit, have a little one-on-one with her where I've learned that she has wanted to visit Dubai for a long time now, that she lives at a village just nearby and visits her parents on the weekend. Our exchanges are pleasant and are now becoming familiar, which makes me feel a little local even after just 3 days.

Marc wants to "get inked" - his words, not mine. The thing that stops that from happening is that I have not yet been willing to sit at the tattoo parlor for 2 hours when either 1. the sun is shining and I am not black yet, 2. the sun is setting and it's time to eat, 3. the sun has set and it's time to go out, 4. we are too drunk to function or 5. it is too early in the morning. It is however, going to happen; so I need to just give in, make the time, sit by his side and take photos of this moment in his life that he may or may not regret.

----------
still October 4, 2010
10.24pm Cyprus

So my Mum texts me today, "Happy birthday my neneng". She knows I love it when she talks all folk-like because it just sounds so weird. "Neneng" means something like "little girl" and to me, just sounds funny with its repeated consonant-vowel composition. She said that she'd tried to call the room but assumed we must have been out, and yes - we were. I received the text over a continental breakfast with Marc. I comment on my now-being 26, briefly fill her in on the goings-on in my life, and end it with "Marc says Hi and farts a lot". I don't know what it is about families - or our family in particular, but those kinds of jokes still amuse us. She replies and assures me that I am still "juicy and pretty", whatever that means, and am living life to the fullest. She continues, "I was raising 2 kids at that age. No regrets. You and Marc make me proud, except when you fart in public. Your present is here. Buy me nice leather bag when you go to Italy again. Will pay you."

If that is not an efficient text message, I don't know what is - emotional, informative, slightly retarded, polished off with a random request which has nothing to do with anything. She's good quality, my Mum.

After a relaxed al fresco breakfast, Marc and I split ways for a bit. He still hasn't arranged any flights from Larnaca to anywhere. He is somehow to end up in Zurich before flying back to Dubai, so he decides to hop on the net and sort that out. I hit poolside and decide to engage in a privy of sun-tanning. I know - it's bad for your skin, but I had my SPF 30 carrot oil in-tow and decided that the only thing worse than a holiday tan is not getting a holiday tan.

Today was meant to be Cavo Greco day - the day where we went to visit the famous Cave - which, to be honest with you - I have no idea what it is about. All I know is that it is a cave with historical significance and that you can jump off one of the cliffs, into the clean, bright blue sea. Actually, according to a man today, there was a cave in the Greco area, where, during the Turkish occupancy, women and children hid beneath to be unseen by the invaders.

Enroute to the taxi which was meant to take us to Greco were a few stalls near a dock. A couple of men call out, "Paragliding?" After spending hours at Nissi Beach yesterday, admiring these parachutes and the people attached to them, and wondering how we could grab us a stint of that, we approach the men. There was no need for any sales talk. We pretty much handed them the dosh at the site of the picture on the banner. I'd been convincing Marc to do this with me since yesterday. The lead up all happened so fast that I almost had no time to remember the fact that I am scared of heights and ominous waters, and here I was, getting clicked onto a harness which was going to lead me 200 feet above the sea. He reeled us out and next thing you know, we were up there. Honestly, I was scared, but the view was like nothing else I'd seen before and provided at least a 50 per cent distraction to how shit scared I was at the possibility that we could fall into the water. Oh - by the way, prior to take-off, I asked the man if people had ever fallen into the water before - he nonchalantly says "yes" as if he didn't just hear about my complex on heights and deep seas. He continued and told us that he was just telling the truth and that if it ever happened, it was the machine's fault (which supposedly makes it okay?). Consequently, my fear manifested through the inability of my ass muscles to relax throughout the entire paragliding session, but I guess that's okay because that's probably the most exercise I was going to get from this whole holiday. You can only imagine the kind of demented dialogues that could happen when your emotions are a mix of pure awe of beauty and experience and downright fear, like pleasure and torture against the backdrop of a holiday brochure. I wish I could have recorded them.

We finished up at a restaurant by the dock where Marc enjoyed a line-up of garlic mussels, while I skipped the savoury and went straight to the apple pie and ice cream. Somehow, the conversation turned to business and self-employment, impresarios of the business world juxtaposed against the self-employed population who didn't quite make it. Marc works at a bank and has the business savvy that I could sure use. I make decisions based on whim and gut-feeling; he makes decisions based on calculations and figures. Both ways have seemed to work okay for both of us thus far, but if we could each grasp a finer balance, then maybe we could finally start on ruling world. I enjoy these kinds of talks with Marc, especially the part where I can see that my little brother is actually a professional adult who now has skill to steer his dreamer older sister in a guided direction. His knowledge seems vast, his inquisitions are honest but his demeanor as a brother rarely lets off all of these things.

I'm glad I am enjoying this holiday with this fool. Times like this don't come often, and if there was anyone I could think about suspending myself in the air with, making genius fart jokes, it is him. And the only thing that I think about that would make it better, is if the harness was a 3-seater with a spot for our youngest, Bryan.

Spain Revisited (part 2)

2010-09-22T03:19:00.012+04:00

September 21, 2010
Dubai 2.13pm

Okay, I don't know if this happens to you much, but it seems to be the one and only constant thing in my life, and that is - when I think I've got it all planned out, some unforeseen something comes out of left field and messes with my plans like the playground I'm starting to believe it is. Seriously, I don't even know why I make plans; it's like they're made solely so that the energies of this world can use them for pure counteraction...but I guess that's okay, 'cause hey, at the end of the day, everything's fine.

The other day, I was in Melbourne, in my standard gay buoyance, enjoying the prospect of me finally visiting the photography college that I am meant to be enrolling at in the next two months. Over the last month, I had decided that this was my path, talking about it with so much pride and gusto that I may have even had my audience sold onto the idea that I was moving towards a great direction in my life. Having done some research on the college, I'd discovered that it had produced some notable graduates who are doing the things I would like to be doing in my future. And by "future", I mean January 2011, not January 2014. I'm Libran, idealistic and basically live in a Libran bubble, which consists of an 8-legged pendulum of options as to how to live my life in glory for the next 2 months, and a pair of rose-coloured goggles which somehow makes me see the ways in which I will still grasp my long-term goals despite the fact that these said ways are out of a fairytale book. Normally, I'd take to these whimsical ways and say, "fuck it. Quit your job, work your networking magic and believe that the gods will put you in place as they always have", but dude, this is a career-path, man. The first I've ever had in my entire quarter-century. Don't get me wrong, I like the bubble, but something tells me that I need to nurture this like a little bubba and take more calculated steps towards this great new thing, as opposed to my early tween ways, which were lived precariously with unabated nonchalance which only comes from the good ol' days of my youth. Not that I'm saying that I'm old - but I am older.

Let me lay it out for you (read: me). The dilemma is this: The course spans over 4 years (because I want to study part-time and work). I have some photography knowledge and experience, but my knowledge has holes in it that need to be filled, and I feel that with a mentor-type system, these holes will be filled. Secondly, it'll be nice to immerse myself into a network of people who I can draw inspiration from. However. I am a traveler. People go through lengths and troughs to travel. Right now, my medium of choice is air hostessing, and even when that's meant having to stand strong with a wide smile on my face at 3 in the morning, and learning how to embrace cultural and humanitarian differences on a whole new level, asserting rules and regulations to adults twice my age, and dealing with the irkiest and quirkiest of human activity that you never would have thought would happen on a plane, I've done it to see parts of the Americas, Asia, Australasia, Europe, Africa, their nooks and crannies, both touristy and raw. Not only that, but now, I have created a way in which I am pursuing my skill as a photographer. Basically, right now, I am a traveler (hostess) who photographs, not a photographer who travels, and my main goal is to do a switch, otherwise, how can I hone this skill whole-heartedly, especially when there is not even enough time in the day?

This is my trepidation and it is quite the son of a bitch.

But for now, let me digress onto more exciting things.

Madrid trip, numero dos. One of the girls from the first Madrid flight was scheduled to fly with me for the second trip. We didn't spend much time together on the first trip, having different agendas and whatnot, but this time around, we made it our mission to experience the nightlife. We would land on a Sunday, which made our plan a little iffy, but one can assume that in Spain, Sunday night would still be alive and exuberant.

So on the flight, we sought out for advice from the locals...where to dine, where to shop and most importantly, where to party. I had engaged in a casual vis-a-vis with a very nice lady who was waiting to use the toilet. After hearing that the shops might be shut on a Sunday afternoon, I swiftly asked if she knew where we could find the Zara outlet store. I don't really know why we were so crazy about this whole Zara thing, especially that it is a chain-store found in so many cities around the world, but that's pretty much what the extra X chromosome codes for: outlet shopping OCD.

Kristine: Do you know where the Zara outlet store is?
Lady: Uhh...which one?
Kristine: Zara?
Lady: *squints eyes and leans in closer* Ehh?
Kristine: You know? Zara, the shop for clothes?
Lady: Ehh? What is the name of the shop?
Kristine: Zara? It's a chainstore? With clothes for men and women and kids?
Lady: *thinks*
Kristine: There's also Zara Home?
Lady: Nohh, nohhh...sorry, I don't know.
Kristine: Hmmm. Maybe you say THARA?
Lady: *eyes brighten and become big with excitement* AHHH!! THARA!

Duh. I forgot that to sound "z" out as "th" was not only normal but necessary in Spain if you didn't want to sound like a phonetical retard. And after that 3-minute mission, we'd found out that it was quite far from where we were staying and that we'd probably not make it because it would have shut by the time we arrived.

I'd only had a total of 30 minutes sleep over 40 hours and was slightly deranged (the feeling is so common these days that I'm starting to consider that this delirious state is actually the real me - which, thou shalt not complain about, given that I am at least 20 per cent funnier, about 25 per cent generally more entertaining and find 70 per cent more of ordinary events a hundred times more humorous).

My colleague-come-friend and I started off at Mercato de San Miguel, where this time, I'd tried some of the best stuffed olives I'd had in my life. They'd seemed to be bathed in a sort of seafood marinade which complimented the parts of octopus that alternated on that kebab. I don't remember the last time I'd enjoyed olives so much, and hadn't I been so full with the beer and croquettas from just before, I'm pretty sure I could have devoured a plate of those babies. Stuffed olive kebabs for dinner? Por que no?

After the market, we'd crossed the road to a little cafe for a double-shot of caffeine and then soldiered onto Chueca in hopes of finding a more vigorous environment. We wanted loud music, flashing lights and semi-drunk people. The city was bustling for a Sunday night compared to many other cities in the world, but was relatively quiet for a night in Madrid; and after being told that Chueca was the go-to area for bar-hopping, we persisted. Along the way, we asked a group of tweens where to go, who directed us to a promoter who looked about 17 and a half (years old)- maximum, who then sent us to a club which seemed to cater to highschool seniors. After a quick, promotional (free) mojito, we continued onto Chueca, only to find dead streets and alleyways and closed restaurants. At this point, we decided to call it a night, and hopped into a cab. We were going to write the night off as an experience - not one that we had planned for, but as a lesson about choosing your nights out more wisely in Madrid. But of course, our vain hope nags us and leads our faith onto our new hostage - the taxi driver. We ask him to take us to a busier area, so he drives to an place called Plaza de Santa Ana.

We found a bar which looked chicer than the others that we'd previously passed, and gauging by the folks walking in and out, this place was more towards what we were looking for - over-25's, dressed to mingle. It was already 1am - and the club was to shut in an hour, but the sleek white facade and the bass from the music called us out in come-hither-esque form. We tried to fight it and drove about half a kilometer up the road to head back to the hotel until we decided to give in to our curiosity and fulfill the night's pursuit. The Penthouse - was our calling.

Our mission was accomplished, despite the maze-like lead-up to the final hot-spot - which is how these layovers always tend to pan out, especially when it seems to be a case of the blind-leading-the-blind, not knowing where to go and generally going by hear-say. I'm glad that we stuck it out even though we were bung-eyed and going through 30-minute, alternating bouts of high-energy and overwhelming exhaustion, 'cause that's the thing about layovers. You either do it then or you may never get the chance to do it again. Carpe diem, I say....

I think I want that tattooed on my hip.

...or maybe not.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Spain Revisited (part 1)

2010-09-09T00:34:00.005+04:00

Sept 9-2010
Dubai 12:00am

"We're in Madrid atmosphere!" I blithefully declare as the airbus subtly shuddered upon touch down. "We're in aircraft atmosphere" my senior denounces. I couldn't really care less, because in my head, this was all Spain, inside the aircraft, outside the aircraft, through the windows of the aircraft. This was Spain from hereon end - for the next 24 hours anyway.

I turn on my phone, soon after, a double-beep - "Welcome to Spain" - the trusty ol' automated welcome message from the international phone company comes through. I smile as if I were the only one who received this message and as if Spain was welcoming me back to its joyous land where people happily eat standing up. Last I was here was August 2009, and I really didn't think I'd see it again so soon, and a different city too. Ahh the air of Madrid, parts of it, funky, yes, like the some other airport tunnels around the world, where the cleaners swiftly pass in and out with the aeroplane's rubbish and whatnot...but who cares...I'm in Spain. And the sounds of the airport PA... all in Spanish, my favorite language. No other language sounds more attractive to me, with it's drawn-out rolled R's. How I'd missed it so much. The airport brought back those feelings from yesteryear, and somehow, this time around, I kinda felt...let's say "at home". It's the only other country in the world where I don't feel foreign - despite my minimal knowledge, really, or the fact that when any time someone starts talking muy rapido en Espanol with me, I break out in a light sweat because I only understand simple words spoken at the careful rate of a 5-year old; but no, I don't feel too foreign here. I feel like I can pop out of my hotel room and function like a semi-permanent resident. I dunno, maybe I was Spanish in my past life, or a nomad who lived in Spain, at least.

Uncannily enough, Karen was on the flight with me! Karen, my colleague, and last year's Barcelona-housemate, and Spanish School schoolmate. This, my friends, is almost a miracle because there's only really a tight 5% chance of one to ever fly with someone that one has flown with before, let alone be it the girl who I went to Spain with, on our own accord, non-work-related, to study with. This was nice.

Two trips to Madrid in one month is great, true. However, if 3 or 4 weeks wasn't enough back then, there was no way that 48-hours would ever be enough, and so I made it my existential imperative to do most things that one can do in that span of time, be it humanely possible or a total transgression against one's need for rest. I like to call it, "soldiering on" with a high-pitched, "mothafuccckkaaaaaaaaaaa!" We live once, and when told to me on a couple of occasions that "I seem to love living", I decided to take this onboard and yeah - continue on loving living - which means, sometimes, you don't sleep. Ah, well, such is the life of.

Karen and I decided to do our own thing rather than stick with the group, even though it was everyone's first time. Our agenda was to do what the Spanish do and eat late, drink late and socialize with a plethora of people, both friends and strangers. And, as any self-respecting, Spanish loving individual would do, we followed through. The quickest, most efficient way to see a city is the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus. I've only done this one other time in my life, and is great when sometimes, convenience reigns over the adventures of figuring out a city's public transport system, and yes, it was suave. We saw the famous landmarks of Madrid, stopped at a park where we could overlook the city and the Royal Palace whilst noticing the myriad of canoodling couples, who, upon closer inspection via peripheral vision or 1-second stolen glimpses (yes, I shamelessly admit), we guesstimated, were engaging in more R-rated type activity. For the record, kissing in public here in Dubai is illegal, so after 3 years, more or less, of not only abiding to that law, but also not seeing anyone else try to break the law, this kind of PDA becomes quite intriguing.

We'd learned that Madrid is home to the world's oldest restaurant, Botin, and despite learning that this was now more of a tourist spot, we sought to hunt it down and order paella from there. I mean, at the end of the day, I would like to know what it feels like to sit in the world's proclaimed oldest restaurant - even if it might feel like sitting in any other restaurant - just because today, we can. Apparently it was down one of the alleyways extending from Plaza Mayor, and recalling the map, I believe there were at least 5 alleyways which tentacled from that plaza - and that particular plaza is not joking by its size. To walk from corner to corner, alleyway, down alleyway, would have taken at least 30 minutes - if we power-walked.

We had nothing better to do, so yeah - we walked. After one alleyway, there was nothing, but we continued to walk down anyway, with a more genius plan of walking around the plaza. Along the way, we see a glassed off market-looking thing, displaying the most picture-perfect fruits and veg I'd seen since Nice (France) - which was 7 months ago. We cross the road and see people popping in and out. Mercado de San Miguel: From the entrance, it looks just like a market; and we contemplated whether to have dinner at Botin first and then come over, or take a squiz first and then head to dinner. We choose the squiz. And within the first 5 steps, we are awed. Slightly reminiscent of Adelaide's Central Market which bustles with people on a Tuesday afternoon, this place is a few notches more exciting for it is not bustling with people haggling over produce, but rather, with a chicly-attired demographic aged from mid-twenties to early fifties. Everyone is either walking around with a plate of food in one hand, or a glass of wine, or both, while others stand by stool tables, amongst their cliques, with plates heaped with olives, tostadas and mediterranean kebabs. The vibe is just how I remembered it from Barcelona. How the Spanish love to live too.

We don't know where to start, but I eye a plate of fresh oysters held up by a passer-by, and go searching for that. Along the way, there are stalls which sell the most charming of tostadas I'd ever seen, and presented so beautifully as if placing seafood on bite-sized pieces of toasted bread were an art. Their kebabs too, with stuffed olives, alternated with even more seafood. The empanadas were abundant, in the traditional half-moon empanada-shape or as larger sized squares most with jamon con queso (ham and cheese), and so were the croquettas - which I am happy to pronounce, from my experience, were the best bread-crumb-coated, deep-fried balls I'd ever tasted in the world. Pardon the sound of that sentence.

We turn around, scan the selection of oysters, and before we made our decision, were asked by a friendly-looking pair if we'd like to try some oysters with them. Apparently, one of them had never had oysters before, because, he thinks it would be a slimey version of the ocean in his mouth. I try my efforts with jest and reassure him that "this could be the beginning of something great" - the discovery of the wonder of fresh oysters, that is, and continue to agree that it is an acquired taste - a taste that he acquired after his first oyster. I guess with a good, fresh oyster and some fresh lemon pepper, you can't blame 'em. It was also Karen's first oyster in her life, so that gave us another reason to toast and celebrate. When you're in your mid-20's and mid-30's, it's pretty cool when you're finding yourself affront "a first".

Our new-found friends also seemed to know how to enjoy oysters in the best possible way, and that was with champagne, so inviting us to a glass each, we toasted to firsts, Madrid and our bump-in. One of them was part-Dutch, part-Indonesian, but had lived there since he was 10; the other one was part-Italian, part-Spanish, so we poked parodies at his Ialian side for no other reason than the fact that we were on Spanish soil and not Italian. We spoke of our poor practice of their language, but were comforted by the Dutch-Indo guy's first experience of the language where he knew but 5 words - "playa" (beach), "piscina" (pool) and "noo-theh-yah" (nutella)...after revealing nootheyah, we totally forgot about the last 2 words because this was funny enough - the "eclectic" way that the Spanish pronounce words that we have in English - in their phonetics.

We forewent Botin after realizing it was midnight. Our night ended earlier than we would have liked, thanks to the early-ish wake-up call and our general feelings of annihilation, but Madrid trip #2 came along and that was a whole other adventure.

For now, it is past 1am here in Dubai and I am to wake by 4.50am for a 14-hour flight to JFK, so I shall summon the shenanigans of Madrid-Take 2 another time. For now, I bid you farewell.

Over and out.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Flight Attendant Shoots

2010-08-26T02:03:00.009+04:00

August 17, 2010

1.24am Dubai

I am still buzzing from the entirety of today - and possibly the two cups of coffee I'd inhaled within an hour. Despite the buzz, my body is tired, but I have to write this all down because these days, it's become a race against my memory lapse.

After 2 years and 8 months do I finally meet and mingle with a world entirely different to what's been my world for this whole time.Most of my time spent socializing here in Dubai has revolved around co-cabin crew members or expats. I guess recalling the fact that this city is said to consist of 70 or 80 per cent expat, that's not a hard experience to live. Not many people get the true local experience. Expats kick it with expats, and locals kick it with locals. It's just the way I've known it to be.

Today, I spent the entire day with a posse of young local girls: styling, modeling, shooting and all the other gaieties and detailed nitty-gritties involved in putting together a fashion catalogue.

Let me backtrack for a quick couple of minutes...
Thanks to a serendipitous run-in at the printers about 3 weeks ago, I'd met one sassy little Persian-Puerto Rican girl who happened to work in Fashion. I was having some images printed from a few photoshoots which I'd completed over the last couple of months, when in walks a young, pretty lady, whose face later became distinct to me for her bee-stung lips and big almond-shaped eyes. As I studied my prints, she comes over and excuses herself for "being nosey and checking out my work". She asked if I was the photographer. I kind of laughed at the idea of the title, "photographer" - but I claimed it anyway - after all, I was the one who took those prints. "Yeah...uh...kind of - I'm just starting out, building a portfolio". She too studied my prints and expressed how she thought that my work was good - she "liked the angles and the colours". I criticized the shots, pointed out sections where the images were blurry or blotchy, while she commended them for general composition and style. I was happy and flattered that she took to my work - both embarrassed and proud - if there were such a mish-mash of feelings. I hesitated to say "Thank you" to her remarks, feeling that if I did actually thank her, that that would mean that I actually agree that my work was as good as she made it to be. But I thanked her anyway for being kind. She asked me if I had a card. "A what?" I thought to myself, "like - a business card? For like - work and shit?" There went my brain again. "Girl, I'm a flight attendant. I got a name badge and a hat that I wear in airports...that's how people find me and know me" ...is what I think to myself. Of course, in person, I try to be more suave than my brain performs. "Noooo, I don't have one 'cause you know, I'm just starting so I don't really distribute my details for this purpose as such. Do you have one maybe?" I ask. She explains how we should keep in touch because in her line of work, she has to arrange photoshoots every so often - so she rummages through her bag and her wallet in search for her business card. Also unavailable. We switch numbers regardless.

Of course this whole hap got me all giddy. I message Ardy - my bestie who's been with me from the buying of my camera to my latest shoot. He's done everything, above and beyond the calls of duty of a BFF, from styling, to holding up the reflector, to cooking/catering, to directing, all the way to standing there for the model's look-to for support and another notable time, contorting his flexible figure in aid of my aim to take a good photograph of him. My one-man support system. Basically, he knows the hard work involved in my obsessive hobby, and has backed it from the get-go, even when it's left him just as tired as I but with less reward for him. He would know the titillation that comes from a random stranger asking for my details for the possibility of a real fashion shoot. I was up in Rookie Shooter heaven and I wanted to take him with me. He replies to my text, gobsmacked - as in "Oh my Gob, REALLY?"-smacked. We rejoice together despite being in 2 separate countries at the time.

A couple weeks had passed and I knew that nothing would come up any time soon. I was still busy working on last month's images, resulting from a workshop with a real photographer, so it was just fine. I was good enough, basking in the glory of being noted down as a future contact for any shoot. Until 4 nights ago, past 10pm, I was sleeping for a red-eye to London. I'd received a phone call from a landline, an unknown number which I chose not to answer. 20 minutes later, tossing to the other side of the bed, I check my phone to see the time. It was pas 10.40pm, with another missed call - this time, from an unknown mobile number. Something gives me the inkling to call back, so I finally do. It's a designer on the other line - forwarded to me via the pretty girl at the printers. She was in need of a photographer - since last week - and had a whole collection desperately needing to be shot, pronto. This is what her boutique owners told her if she wanted to catch the Eid shopping rush ("Eid" is the celebration that comes after the Muslim holy month of Ramadan). I, myself went through a rush and couldn't wait to engage myself in the opportunity. It's past 11pm, and a brief over-the-phone tete-a-tete, she books me, just as I rise out of bed to get ready for my London flight.

I went to London and returned on the evening of the 11th. The shoot was due the following morning. I'd been gone for just 2 days, in which time, she'd arranged 4 models, and a make-up artist. I was nervous, I'd never shot so many people in one go - for a publicity spread at that. But my nerves were nothing compared to my bulk excitement and my underlying self-trust that I would do a fair job.

Now, imagine what your place would look like if you stocked it with clothing racks, flood-lights, 3 wardrobes-worth of clothing, baskets of accessories and shoes, and prop furniture. That's what my apartment had looked like just 4 days ago. We were shooting in my apartment building. It turns out, this building is was the perfect backdrop to compliment the edge that her clothing line exuded. The music pumped from the sound system and the atmosphere was electric. With about 10 to 12 people in my apartment, everyone was busy, immersed in the goings-on - there was the hair-and-make-up corner, the set, the other corner where Sander - my other BFF - who went through magazines and my photography books, every now and then, taking a quick minute to give me the next hot-tip for my camera use; there was the styling and dressing corner - and people e-ve-ry-where. - I loved every bit of it. We moved from Level 1, to the Level 3 bridge-walk way, into my apartment, out onto the balcony. I directed, shot and called out all those things you hear photographers calling out when on-set, "hot! Hot! Hold that. Stick this out...stick that out...Yes...beautiful, hold that face, turn a little to the left, now come towards me a bit - oops, not too much, go back half a step. Beautiful! Perfect!" My knees ached after propping myself up on them a few times. After running around from 9am til our wrap time at 7pm, my feet were sore despite me wearing my foot-friendly gladiator flats. But none of that mattered because I loved the shit out of every moment and every click. I was filled with exuberance and was even happier to see the people around me utterly engrossed in the environment.

By 9.30pm, everyone had left and the apartment was back to normal. We hadn't finished the entire collection because there were just so many pieces. As we packed the last rack into the car, the designer was already on the phone with the next potential photographer, organizing the next shoot due in 4 days. I'd already agreed to be part of the next shoot as soon as she asked me, but this time, not as the photographer, but as a model. I'd always enjoyed that side of the camera too, with the allure of creative make-up and the posing, giving one the opportunity to go into an alter-ego which never really partook in one's real life. Part of me wondered if she would actually be able to arrange another set-up so quickly - models, location, photographer, make-up artist, and all the other jazz - because realistically, the end of a long, chaotic, work-filled day isn't exactly the time one feels most motivated to set-up another long, chaotic, work-filled day. But Voila! A mere 3 days later, and we are back on-set: 6 models, a new photographer, a new make-up artist and a new set of on-lookers (i.e. friends).

Now before I continue, let me tell you about the designer. Mona Fares, or "Superwoman" as I see her. She is a new Dubai-based designer, half-German, half-Egyptian and a full bundle of creativity. The energizer-bunny personified.

When she first showed me her last fashion show which was featured in a local, Arabic fashion magazine, I was already blown-away - how someone so young as 25 could achieve such a thing. But she did it - more than once too. But it's no wonder - I don't remember the last time I'd seen someone who worked so hard, so fast and so efficiently over a span of 4 days - and fasting all that while (It's Ramadan and Mona is Muslim). Her collection is both bright and bold - just like her. But above all things, what draws people to working with her is her rare innate sense of confidence backed by a sincere humility - qualities that you don't often find going-hand-in-hand within one person.

Today, 4 out of the 6 models were Middle-Eastern locals and the set-up was different. The set was at Mona's house - a 2-story family house with a spare, sizable room used as her work space. I had never - in all of my Dubai experience, set foot in a family home. As a matter of fact, I'd never mingled in-depth with people who were from here-from here. The closest I'd probably come to that, were those 2-minute encounters with local passengers onboard who resided here in Dubai, but that was it. Then again, Mona had also revealed to me that she's never known a flight attendant - ever. Kat and I had found this astonishing, because neither her, nor I, nor a whole bunch of other folks that we know, have ever met someone who'd never met crew before. If this weren't a display of the real separation of 2 worlds within one city, then I don't know what is.

I want to find a word to describe my experience, and the only one which comes to mind is, "enriching". A first-hand experience which I would like to take-part in again and again. When you don't know much about the other world, all that exists are presumptions and assumptions about how things are really like and what they are really like. Same goes for them, I guess. They asked me about the notorious "Mile High Club", while I asked them about what it was like to go to school with other locals. They were awed by the idea of my lifestyle, one day being in one country, and the next day, being in another. I too was awed by their lifestyles, studying abroad, taking-in the foreign cultures, but coming back home, emanating the the traditions which exist within their roots.

We'd been shooting for about 5 hours, and the sun was setting. A door was opened and we all got a waft of the food that had been cooking in the other room. The table was set and Iftar was less than 10 minutes away. So we wound down and prepped for a dinner break: turned the music down and the ceiling lights up.

After a straight day of hustle-bustle, I finally got a minute to reflect on my surroundings, when I really soaked in what an amazing time this was. Not everyone in Dubai gets a chance to sit at a homely dinner-table, in a real family house that bears a family history. Everyone that I know here is a first-generation expat, and I'm certain that I wouldn't be the only one to say that. All this time, I'd known this city as a place of transit - a place where people come to work for a little while, and then go home to their countries and settle down. But tonight, I felt lucky to be in a place that reminded me of my life from almost 4 years ago. I don't get that feeling very often; sometimes I get it when I go back to Adelaide on leave...but even then, it's a different feeling because it's so rare that consequently, these simple moments are often turned into special events. The last time I came home from a regular full day's work, to walk into a house which smelled of dinner food was - I forget.

Not only that, but I really savored the fact that I was surrounded by creativity. It was like a culmination of people whose collective goal was to produce something beautiful. I do love a diverse set of minds, but I also embrace situations that bring together like-minded people, because though we come from acutely different backgrounds, we speak the same language, which is a blessing in itself for me.

"Okay guys, so...should I just like - I'm just gonna put a bit of everything on your plates - or do you want to just take it yourselves? I dunno, don't be shy, you know, just take what you want. There's some salad there, we have pasta..." Mona tries to discover what kind of host that she is. Turns out, we're quite similar - I'm very "Mi-casa-su-casa" - take-what-you-want-'cause-I'll-probably-forget-to-give-you-something-that-you-need - type host, and it seems like so is she. She gets the house-keeper to help help her plate us all up some potato and carrot soup, and then continues to encourage us to help ourselves. There's something of a warm born-leader quality in her that makes everyone feel comfortable.

We all settle at the dinner table and I ask them how they all know each other. No one actually knew each other until today! Except for the photographer and his bestie who go from way back to primary school - grade 3 to be exact. They'd all met Mona at separate times - like me, and were all brought together by this shoot. I sat next to a beautiful tween - whose physique replicated those seen in Vogue: her bones were slender and quaint; dark olive skin. She embodied an Arabic Pochahontas, with slightly sharper features than the native American one, and looked stunning in that magenta-toned lipstick and gold costume-eyelashes. She was half-Palestinian and half-Iraqi. She had a kind demeanor, and was almost a little shy, which I believe was brought more by the innocence of youth rather than anything else. To my left were the folks from Abu Dhabi, a pair who grew up together until, Mayed, the photographer, moved to London to study. They spoke of spin-off videos that they'd made in the past and the blunders which came from pure media amateurism and PMS. Across the table from me was a girl who spoke in a Californian accent, who, after modeling, dressed back up to her regular threads - the Abaya, which surprised me a little as I'd never seen anyone pre-Abaya get-up, and then don the Abaya before leaving the set. She was from here but had spent a great time in Northern California. Over there, she dressed more commonly, in jeans and tops, while polishing off with a headscarf, but here in Dubai, she preferred to wear the Abaya. Her face was delicate, with plump lips and a cute button nose; she actually resembled the make-up drawing-templates that make-up artists use to draft their work on - perfectly symmetrical and idealistically narrower than us mere mortals. And then next to her, sat a girl who was a very nice Bahraini girl who'd experienced modeling for Mona before. She had chic, mid-forehead bangs and eyes to-die-for. She wore her electric-blue eyeshadow like no one else could, with matching costume blue-eyelashes. During my little breaks through the day, I would spend a couple of minutes editing this one photo from the previous shoot, and she would come over and ask me questions about photoshop. She too was a keen Photoshop-er. And to her left was Mona, our dear Mona, the designer who brought all of this together.

We finished up dinner and re-relocated back to the set. The lights were still bright and we just warmed back up to get back to work. Noor, the house-keeper brought out a tray of coffee-filled mugs. Mayed had a pipe for Arabic tobacco - something which someone had told me about in the past but had never tried. They said that there were different strengths, but generally speaking, this tobacco was stronger than regular tobaccos - and if you coughed, it hurt the throat a little. Ms California egged me on and insisted that I try it, while the girl from Bahrain thought that I shouldn't because when she'd tried it before and hated the sting of the cough that came with it. They told me that it makes you a bit dizzy and gives you a bit of a buzz; they also said that sometimes, men took it before breakfast with an appetizer-effect. Intrigued by this local tobacco, I jokingly asked if it was legal, knowing that these folks wouldn't engage in illegal racketeering, but curious as to how something so "effective" could be legally approved. Anyway, I decided to go for it. I inhaled once, as Mayed lit the tobacco nesting in the head of the pipe. I still have the smoke in my lungs when California girl tells me to inhale again. I'd exhaled it all out before I could even try. "You're hardcore, man" - I say in jest, "I haven't even blown out and you're like, 'quick, take another one, take another one!'" Apparently, that's how people do it though: inhale a little one, keep the breath down, and take another little one, hold it in, then exhale it slowly. After the first breath, I felt a slight buzz already - and was totally amused. I decide to take up her recommendation and do the double-breath. I did it this time and really - it was like the sensation of your very first try at cigarette-smoking, but times 5 the buzz. Way to wrap up the local experience. A couple of them took 1 puff each, and then we resumed our duties - back to the changing room, the set and the click-click-clicking.

Next thing we knew, it was nearing midnight, and we were finally, officially coming to a wrap. We'd modeled and shot all of the pieces, from the everyday, casual-wear, to the dressy Abayas. A sense of accomplishment enveloped the atmosphere. We were all so happy to meet and work with each other, and promised to try to stay in touch. Mayed's shots were beautiful. I'd asked him to get in touch with me to workshop while he was in Dubai. Apparently he was going back to London after Ramadan, but his art is too admirable for me to miss an opportunity to learn from him.

At the end of the day, Mona and I looked back to that 1-week-ago and were thankful for the way that this world works, with all this crazy serendipity and all that beautiful jazz. Talk about "being at the right place, at the right time". I am excited to see the shots, but even more so, to see Mona Fares reach even greater highs. I totally loved this day and imagine the coming months to have more like it.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

A Sick Girl

2010-08-09T14:25:00.007+04:00

August 9, 2010
11.43am Dubai

I called in sick for a red-eye turnaround to Islamabad last night. And as much as I enjoy the joys of not going to work at 10 in the evening, I don't particularly enjoy making the call. No matter how sick I am, there is a part of me that feels like I'm being a bit of a fraud or just plain lazy, despite a blocked nose, a chastising throat and a chest congesting even further from every hour of lost sleep. My brothers and I weren't those kids who were allowed not to go to school if we didn't feel like it when we were little, and lucky for us, we rarely got sick, so we never had the need to skip school. I remember that when I didn't go to school one time, I felt both guilty and worried about how much school work I'd miss and be behind for. I guess that's segued into adulthood.

While I like to take the natural path to remedying myself with ginger and honey, rest and soup, I cannot help but resolve to narcotics when this condition has gone on for a silly 2+ weeks. So now, I sit vis-a-vis my laptop and what appears to be a micro-pharmacy.

Now, I can't completely blame lack of rest for this. I distinctly remember a flight from a couple of weeks ago, where there just happened to be a few folks who seemed under-the-weather. I particularly remember one gentleman who'd turned his head to the left - avoiding the people in front of him - consequently having his face directly facing mine and let out a big phlegmy cough that came with the sound of the crisp crack of lightning as I walked pass him, and no, he did not cover his mouth. And so I am led to believe that this direct germ-to-face discourse is what has brought me to my state today. Yummy.

And so here I sit, sporadically passing this Vicks inhaler beneath my nozzles, a little high from this nasal spray and hopefully preventing a full-blown cough from happening with these cough "chesty" tablets.

Must get better for tomorrow night's flight for I have missed London.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

a twenty-something dead-head

2010-07-26T12:57:00.008+04:00

July 25, 2010
11.14pm Dubai

So the other day, I finally decided to get off the crack.

Hooray!

And by crack, I mean Facecrack. And by Facecrack, I mean Facebook.

Worry not, my friends, twenty-something flight attendant is not a twenty-something crack addict. I am as clean as our random drug tests need me to be.

I do also feel cleaner without my Facebook account though. I guess I wasn't really designed to revere in unsolicited personal happenings, information and opinions that I could not personally relate to. It's no secret that I love all of my friends, both distant and close, but there was a big part of me that felt more distant than close upon seeing how many people that I love are really that far away from me. So I decided to about-face and go back to the "old school" way of contact: email, where everything is intended for you and communication is much more intimate. Ahh for the love of quality over quantity (and other cliches as such...what would I do without them).

I have not missed Facebook thus far. Admittedly, it does feel like a bit of a break-up, changing habits, thinking about it every now and then, and then making a conscious decision to get busy with something else because it no longer exists [enter sad violin melody]. Actually, I have quietly been frolicking with joy in every personal email that I have sent and received since then, knowing that every email that comes my way is a conscious effort made by the sender - and is generally longer and more enjoyable than the standard one-liners appearing on my once-Newsfeed. On my part, I guess people can live without knowing random things about the state of my coffee percolator, my run at the gym or the fact that I had a glass of vino in my left hand all while whipping up my dinner...although they will sure miss those entertaining little factoids in one-woman banter. ...Or maybe not

On another tangent, I just did my first rostered deadheading duty. The last time I ended up deadheading was halfway through an 8-hour flight thanks to bad milk and an angry stomache. This would have been awesome if it weren't for the fact that I felt like I was going to die.

Deadheading is a duty where you are flying on-duty but are not operating as such. A deadheader does not participate in the performance of service or door operation or even the greeting and bidding farewell of passengers. Basically, you travel as a passenger. "Why do they do this?" You ask. In our case, the company had added an extra flight, and to be honest, I don't know how it works that we flew a full aircraft to another country without having to take it back ourselves. But hey, I'm not going to question it for it is fabulous for me nonetheless. Sometimes, there are aircraft changes; sometimes a crew member falls sick while in another country. These are just some reasons that I know of. I'm unsure how they work it out, but all I have to say is: The more deadheading duties they send my way, the merrier.

And as if this duty wasn't good enough, the final destination was The Philippines and I love going to the Philippines, not only because my roots lay there, but because I have a posse of amazing people who always leave me feeling inspired, and fill me with an omni-can-do attitude. Having said that, I am addicted to their company which means, I do not leave a moment for me to rest or sleep before another 8.5 to 9 hour red-eye and 12-hour duty, which segues me into a grotesque level of fatigue that I can never truly describe.

A 21-hour layover in Manila is impossibly short, considering it takes 40 minutes to get to the hotel, about 20 minutes to check in, an hour to wind down, 8 hours to sleep, an hour to get ready before going out, 30 minutes to travel to the city-center, an hour to get ready for work, and repeat steps 4-to-1, which leaves about 5 hours to do anything else. This led the posse and I to a stretched out brunch at a place called the Salcedo Markets. If a foody is lucky enough gets the chance to stop over in Manila on a Saturday morning, I highly recommend this place. I loved it so much that I am putting it on my top 3 priorities for whenever I am in Manila on a weekend.

The array of local and organic foods sent me into a frenzy fit for any food-lover out there. There was Filipino, Thai, Indian, Vietnamese, Spanish, Japanese, Moroccan, and general Vegan - from what I remembered, and I'm certain there was more. You could buy ready-cooked food and have it there in the seated area where tables were draped with red-and-white checkered picnic tablecloths, or take it to go. You could do your food shopping there; you could even pick the fresh seafood that you wanted and have them cook it for you right there and then And then, you could buy locally hand-made homewares and deco for your abode.

Image Source: http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://photos.the-protagonist.net/albums/salcedo-weekend-market/pinoy_food_051.jpg&imgrefurl=http://pinoyfood.nimrodel.net/2008/11/18/noche-buena-ideas-from-salcedo-weekend-market-in-makati/&usg=__jorVauynAsgQEK4aBTopPJGilo0=&h=332&w=500&sz=149&hl=en&start=33&tbnid=cdh7MvuASjC6WM:&tbnh=145&tbnw=207&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dsalcedo%2Bmarkets%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26rlz%3D1G1GGLQ_ENAU330%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D648%26tbs%3Disch:10%2C1282&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=141&vpy=252&dur=2822&hovh=145&hovw=218&tx=62&ty=74&ei=905NTNe9BpeJ4gbk4LiaDA&page=3&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:33&biw=1280&bih=648

Image source: http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://photos.the-protagonist.net/albums/salcedo-weekend-market/pinoy_food_051.jpg&imgrefurl=http://pinoyfood.nimrodel.net/2008/11/18/noche-buena-ideas-from-salcedo-weekend-market-in-makati/&usg=__jorVauynAsgQEK4aBTopPJGilo0=&h=332&w=500&sz=149&hl=en&start=33&tbnid=cdh7MvuASjC6WM:&tbnh=145&tbnw=207&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dsalcedo%2Bmarkets%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN%26rlz%3D1G1GGLQ_ENAU330%26biw%3D1280%26bih%3D648%26tbs%3Disch:10%2C1282&um=1&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=141&vpy=252&dur=2822&hovh=145&hovw=218&tx=62&ty=74&ei=905NTNe9BpeJ4gbk4LiaDA&page=3&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:11,s:33&biw=1280&bih=648

Margaux and I were given a taste of a seafood Paella Negra which was the least to say ,divine. I'm going to get a backhand by the Spanish for this one, but the paella negra at this Salcedo Market was a notch up from the paella negras that I'd had anywhere in the world, including Spain itself - with the integrity of the aromatic seafood flavor being kept in tact which exuded throughout every mouthful. Sorry Spain, and thank you for the recipes leftover from the colonization years.

Sarah had chosen an interesting crunchy little dish of green and light caramel colored shreddings. I'd been walking around with a stick of pork barbeque, marinated in my favourite sweet-ish Filipino style barbeque marinade, looking for its perfect partner and it seemed like Sarah's choice would have gone well. Catfish and green mango salad with a light sweet-vinigarette dressing. Ahhh... I crave it as I write it.

And we sat there, our overdue girl-date over Margs' takoyaki, our catfish salads and Sarah's endless grapefruit and an easy jive about our lives, our goals and the guy who walked to his table with a plate of oblong-shaped burger about the size of my 13-inch screen - no exaggeration.

We ended the our brunch at a cafe-boutique called Trilogy ...another one of those rare places which I imagined my dream boutique to be like - a coming together of three things which I love too much - food, fashion and art. I finished up with a coppa of choc-nut ice cream. And for anyone who doesn't know what Choc-Nut is, it's locally made chocolate infused with trademark filipino sweet peanut butter - which just crumbles in your mouth. Sweet perfection, if you ask me. So this is what they do with one of my favourite flavours - they turn it into an ice cream and send me into taste bud bliss. Being in a rush to reach my call time, I take the coppa and devour it in the taxi on the way back to the hotel. I swing a text message to both Margs and Sarah, "this ice cream. o m g"; Margaux replies "I told you!", a couple minutes later, Sarah replies, "RIGHT???" to which I send back, "I'm dying". Assuming that they had a little bit of a hypochondriac in them (like my warm Aunt in Adelaide who always used to call the house phone as soon as she stepped outside of the house - just to ask me if I'd locked the door already, because not having done so would give phantom intruders the chance to come in and rob us...even though she was still just outside of the driveway), I follow up with a text saying, "in a good way" - even though I'm sure that they knew what I meant to begin with.

The trip ended and I had to get ready again for work, and as short as it really was, I didn't mind because I knew that I would have another trip there in a week's time. Later that week, I did end up going back to Manila. The layover was almost just as short, with an agenda packed to the rafters; I decided that it was time to get pro-active in selling my apartment which I once resided in, almost 3 years ago. This meant that my trip, which was normally dedicated to harmless debauchery, was, on that day, dedicated to meetings, meetings and more meetings. Luckily or unluckily for me, most of these fell through for their own legit reasons which allowed me more time for...well, harmless debauchery.

After a night of cocktails and dancing and an early shared crepe and burger brunch (YUP), I went for a Thai massage just before my allocated Rest Time. I've never been one to regularly indulge in massages unless I really felt like my body had needed it - I guess, it's almost the same way I'd always felt about sleep (which of course, over the years, I discovered I needed more and more of). The massage had gone on for almost 45 minutes and it was soon going to end. The masseuse had finally reached my toes and wriggled every toe, individually between her thumb and forefinger. A perky ode to gratitude freely went through my head, "thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you" - as if the lady could actually hear me. The only reason I'd looked forward to this ending was the thought of the orgy of local flavors circulated by grilled seafood, brown rice and these unique filipino sauces which I still do not know how to concoct on my own.

The massage ended and I retreated to dinner in bed...another sinful way to end the day - eating before sleep, but hey, when in Manila!

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Bryan's 6-hour project

2010-07-20T22:49:00.004+04:00

Having just come back from two weeks of back-to-back Euro-touring, Bryan, my 13-year old brother spent an early evening collating holiday videos and creating this little beauty....

To my little brother, Bravo, kid! You got skills :-)

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Venice, Paris, My Mum & Bryan

2010-07-13T08:01:00.010+04:00

July 6, 2010

I've always wondered what it would feel like to wake-up in a sinking city with omnipresent water, and today, it occurred to me - this is it. I am in Venice with my Mum and 13-year old brother, Bryan. I am on annual leave and we are on holidays in Europe.

I got out of bed, and pulled back the white curtains so that I could reach the wooden Venetian windows and push them outwards to let the sun in. This is Venice. The first time I came here, I looked up to the Palladian facades and noticed the vintage windows, distressed over the years and beautiful with bonafide old European-ness.

I hop out of the shower and grab the towel, which looks more like bread basket linen rather than absorbent towels to dry off your soaked body. I wondered whether this was how they really did it in Venice, or whether it's because our hotel is dodgy. The towel is surprisingly efficient and absorbent ...Italians and their beautiful, savvy designs. I decide I should stop paying out our cozy nook which makes me feel I'm up in the mountains in a log cabin holiday country home, with the timber beams alternately lining the ceiling.

Bath Towel

Mum

============

July 6, 2010

I am on my way to a nice bronzy tan that I almost want to applaud the Mediterranean sun for being so friendly - not too strong, not too shy - just nice enough to kiss your shoulders and cheeks a good ol' "Hello lady, nice to see you!"

It's only 8.30am and I am up - the same time I got up yesterday. This is what I'd probably be like had I had a more normal sleep pattern and more regular job. It feels nice. I push open the windows again, and this time, there is a pleasant breeze from the outside, so I leave the glass windows open too. I shower, and have already grown an affinity for our eccentric towels and wonder where I can get one to take back to Dubai with me. Maybe that's what it is! A travel towel! I hop out and open the Mac and decide to wake Mum and Bry up with The Weepies' (All This Beauty), and it is perfect.

Yesterday, we went up the Bell Tower and took a visit inside San Marco Basilica. None of us had done any research before this, so we finally picked up a Venice Guide book for the 4-1-1 on this historical city. The stall holder complimented me and told my Mum that he "love [me] from the first time he see [me]" and assured me that "if [I] live here, [I] would be his girlfriend for sure". Unfortunately beauty does not buy guidebooks, so I had to pay with money.

We spent the afternoon traipsing the alleyways, passing gondola after gondola, tourist after tourist, popping in and out of Murano Glass shops and Leather Goods shops. I bought myself a Venetian mask, which I regretted not getting the first time I came here on the basis that I would have no use for such an embellished papier mache. I often prefer to buy things for the home or things I can wear from places that I visit, and rarely buy things that have no relation to my life whatsoever, but I had to make an exception.

By the time we decided to go home, it was 6pm, the air had gotten a little cooler and it started spitting. By the time we ACTUALLY got home, it was 8pm thanks to getting a little lost and all the shops in between that my Mum had to peruse. With so many pizza and gelati joints around, we pretty much went through the city eating that we had no need to sit down and properly eat anymore. The one time we did take a moment to sit, was between the Bell Tower and the Basilica - mainly to hydrate and prep ourselves for another queue. Furthermore, if I do have any more pizza today, I'll be certain that it will be coming out of my ears and nose.

============

July 7, 2010

I love Day 3's of holidays. It's the day where you feel confident enough about your surroundings and where you're comfortable walking around, map-less with actual direction. Not that we ever actually used a map....but I guess that's what you get when you get 2 females and a 13-year old teenager on holidays in an effervescently charming city like this one. I kid. I've always felt like Venice is one of those cities, where if you get lost, people are friendly enough to give you directions and set you back on your way, and unless you've taken a water bus anywhere, you're really only a few bridges and alleyways to where you want to get. If all else fails, look for San Marco square, and you've got your point of reference back.

After breakfast and a bit of people-watching at a cafe by the port, we decide that it's time to figure out where we were going to go today and what we were going to do. Everything was played by ear - apart from the fact that Venice is a unique city, we didn't have a plan of monuments to see, or landmarks to visit. Of course, this frustrated my Mum because she wanted to sign up for a tour right from the get-go, but after sitting and seeing groups of people in something that resembled an Easter procession, walking around in huddles and trails, we were kind of glad that our time was our own, and any pleasantries that came along it were a result of our spontanouity. The cultural parade was also nice to watch, with the Asian groups having all their limbs shied away from the sun, in long sleeved-tops, long socks and long shorts, hats and umbrellas, to European groups having all their limbs nude and free for the sun to slow-bake, from short-shorts to make-shift crop tops. I know that all sounds stereotypical, but stereotypes come from a truth and the truth seems to from tour groups.

We soon toss up between a trip to glass-making Murano, or lace-stitching Burano. In-between, we hop over to an artists' stall and check-out his work. His work is beautiful and is a variety of paintings and photographs printed onto canvas. One particular photograph catches my eye, with its colourful houses and its less-touristy boats. It turns out, it is a photograph taken in Burano - the artist's home town, and so the decision was made, Burano it was. Burano was amazing. Something that you only see in books, something that you might not even think to exist anymore. Homes in every colour of gelato, which I soon learned were so, because back in the day, the fishermen would go out to see for months at a time, and come back to the island, but not be able to recognize which place was their home due to the mist and fog; and henceforth, they'd agreed that all the homes would be painted in a bright colour to distinguish it from the ones beside it. Genius if not to say an A-1 totally frikkin awesome idea. They have canals leading outwards to the sea, a square, home to an 18th century Bell Tower likened to the Leaning Tower of Pisa and San Martino church, backed with a courtyard where we caught a glimpse of boys playing basketball.

Needless to say, the 14-by-20 Burano print is coming home with me to take me back to this fantastical place. On hour-long water-bus ride back to Venezia, I actually thought to myself how wonderful it would be to live the simple life on this unpretentious nirvana.

We extended our day a little longer than the last 2 that have passed, knowing that this was our last night here, polishing up with pasta, pizza and bread for a late dinner. I officially love Venice.

============

July 8, 2010
10.22pm Paris

OH MY GOODNESS. We are finally at the apartment. Let me preface this entry by saying, This is my third or fourth time in Paris and the train system is not for the faint -hearted, the impatient, the hungry, the hypo-glycemic in need of insulin, the tired or the folks who lack sense of direction. I score at least a two or three out of six, and put it this way: I would rather run over my arms with a trolley full of horse dung than go through that ordeal again.

We happened to arrive around peak-hour. First and foremost, we were meant to catch a shuttle (i.e. a bus) from Charles de Gaulle Airport to Port Maillo, only to find that on this fateful day, the folks who ran this shuttle service were on strike. Consequently, everyone who would normally be divided through various channels of transport were all of a sudden, concentrated on catching this one train. Like most trains around the world, when the doors open, they open, when they close, they close. There is no waiting for anyone, or grace period for anyone who is even half a step away from making it INTO the carriage. The station was jam-packed, and when the train arrived, the doors opened, and people spilled out and in of the carriage SIMULTANEOUSLY. I was taken aback at the assertiveness of the passengers at first, and quickly realized, I had to be assertive too if I wanted to get on - and we were running an hour late, so we needed to get on. Imagine this: 3 medium-size luggages, 3 carry-ons + a painting + 3 of us needing to get onto the same train against the bajillion other people at the station needing to get on. This was not fun.

Why didn't we catch a cab, you ask? Because we'd heard so many people saying how expensive it would cost to cab it around Paris, giving us the idea that it would cost something ludicrous like 500 euros to cab it into the city. But of course, we were wrong.

To cut this whole train saga short, that was one train ride out of three. The second one was a little less busy but double as hard to find, and the third one was a little less busy than the second but was five times harder to find, confirm and catch. ...or maybe that was just us in the kuffufled state that we were. I was slightly comforted by catching site of another foreign family, with the Mum yelling at her son with stress because he got trapped between the exit slots for putting his ticket in the register, getting through one exit slot, but not walking fast enough to be able to get through the second exit slot. At least we weren't the only indifferent around there.

Anyway, after all of that and one swift (and by "swift", I mean, 30 second, 8 euro cab ride), we got to our apartment, and a surge of relief and comfort concurrently went through us. We're staying on the third floor of an elevator-free apartment building. But as dismaying as that may sound, I don't actually mind because the actual apartment itself is very pleasant, with it's higher ceilings, big, tall windows, it's golden floorboards and minimalistic yet comfy black and white interiors. If you ever decide to stay here in Paris, I highly recommend snapping one of these bad boys up. During my research for accommodation, this was the only style of accommodation which combined price efficiency, good location and ample space. Other reviews which I read about some accommodations read, "quite pricey, but nice room", or "small room but fair for Paris", or "such a great place to stay, fairly-priced with good space and nice breakfast, only 1.5 hour drive from the city center". One certain review even read something like, "don't stay here, you'd think that if you pay these kinds of prices, you'd get good service or at least a clean room. The room was clean on the surface, but we had bugs in our bed, and when we went to the reception, they just handed us bug spray and told us they couldn't do anything about it until the morning". So to be sitting on a comfy lounge, in front of a balcony which overlooks a street that hosts a few cafes and whatnot, I'm feeling pretty schmick right now. ...especially that I've found that someone in this vicinity has unsecured internet access and has finally allowed me some good ol' facebook time....

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Gimme a Thumbs Up!

2010-07-03T00:48:00.009+04:00

A few flights ago, I was doing the Bar Service. This one particular service comes before we serve the hot meals. In our bar carts, we have:

Juices

Pepsi/Coke; 7Up/Sprite

Tonic Water

Soda Water

Gingerale

Beer

Wine

Spirits

Liqueurs

Mineral Water

============================

I'd served a few rows of passengers, establishing what I thought of as a pro-level rhythm, consisting of an ace combination between service, small-talk while whipping up a mean drink and making it look pretty too. I was on the top of my bar tending game, being the way I'd always imagined flight attendants to be: chirpy and friendly, but simultaneously aware and assertive. Until I reached 30G.

Kristine: Hi there! How are you, Sir? Would you like something to drink?

I am quick, suave and confident.

30G: Give me a Sprite or a thumbs up.

Kristine: Sorry Sir?

30G: Give me a Sprite or a thumbs up.

Quick, suave and confident no more.

Kristine: I'm sorry, Sir. Umm...What's a...you mean like....

30G: Sprite sprite or thumbs up.

Kristine: (thinking: what the f&@$ is a thumbs up drink?)

All of a sudden, I am utterly bewildered and confused, and immensely eager to figure out what this "thumbs up" drink was - if it was a drink at all! I have no clue what on earth this man is talking about.

Not knowing, and not having him explain any further, I decide that it would be good idea to offer him what I could. A thumbs up.

I simultaneously raise my right hand in a loose fist, bringing my hand closer to my shoulder level and let my thumb point upwards, flipping a thumbs up hand sign and I throw a bogus TV-commercial type smile.

Image Source: http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pvZedbK6p2Q/TC5bZ_Jb4gI/AAAAAAAAAQI/W-kVhc_-WsY/s400/11471041056v13mj.jpg

Kristine: Sir?

As if to say, "this one?"

The man did not flinch nor change his facial expression.

30G: Ok, give me Sprite. Give me Sprite.

Did I do the right thing? Did I give him what he was after? He never confirmed nor denied whether I was wrong. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he got 50% of what he wanted. Hey, maybe he even got 100% of what he wanted, a Sprite and a Thumbs Up!

=====================

What Would Eva Do?

2010-06-30T06:33:00.014+04:00

In the interest of making my life a little bit easier as a perplexed Libran, and adding a wider, and dare I say, wiser perspective to the daily dilemmas of decision-making and 2-cent-imposing, I have decided to add a segment to my blog (and my life) called, "What Would Eva Do?"

Co-blogger and founder of thisis4mybitches.blogspot.com, Eva C, aka DJ Miss E is one of my favourite people in the world for her philosophy in life which probably resembles famous Nike™ slogan, "Just do it" or the movie, "Yes Man", although hers would probably resonate more like "F$%^ yeah, do it, man", and would look way hotter than Jim Carey.

While writing this entry, I quickly popped over to her blog for some quick inspiration and/or quote to give a more succinct description of her with her own words. Coincidentally, but not surprisingly, this excerpt is what I found from her latest entry,

"Man, sometimes I read back over my posts and I'm like, 'damn Eva, you are SUCH a geek' HAHA. Like seriously, who can be bothered writing all this shit for no apparent reason. It's hilarious. And then some posts I'm writing all like I am now, like the way I would actually speak, and then others I'm writing like its my next thesis or some shit. What the fuck."

But of course, to get the full overview (e.g. the other parts where she talks like she's submitting a final paper to a doctorate of life and music), you'll have to hop over to her blog yourself. The witty basketball playing, track-spinning, modern-day enlightened-hotgirl-monk-in-sneakers-and-chic-as-racer-back tops, nutritionist is a holistic people for the people, humanist by nature, influenced by supreme underlying spirituality. For this reason, there is not one person in the world who I know who doesn't like this girl on the higher level - not even the ones jealous of her.

Her Live-Now attitude means that she is always happy for she follows her heart. And isn't that what we all want? Ergo, when needing to make a decision about anything, ask yourself, what would Eva do?

I shall conclude this entry with the facebook status commentary which sparked this idea in the first place. (*Some names have been changed ["some" being one])

Kristine: I would very much like to add a shot of Bailey's into this coffee, but okay. Not now, not at 11 in the morning, not before gym. But it would be very nice if I did.

Jamie: and def not before a flight.

Eva: I would do it

Kristine: and that is why I thought of you when I posed myself this question.

Eva: hahaha "what would Eva do..."

Eva: that is not a good question to ask yourself if you want to get anywhere in life lol.

Of course, by the time I read the second part of her comment, it was too late because I'd already been struck by a mirage-like daze of possibilities of how life will soon become and therefore only added it for entertainment purposes of this entry.

=============================

For those of you who have just logged onto this blog for the first time (I realized, my mother is not my only reader [unless it is you, Mum who have been clicking and clicking onto my page and have single-handedly manipulated my newly installed counter]), please note sarcasm in words, phrases or paragraphs where it sounds douchey. I am only half-douche in real life.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

"I am here to save your ass, not kiss it"

2010-06-29T00:11:00.012+04:00

...Says the funny Italian girl on my flight from a year ago. And that quote stuck, by the way - as you can tell.

Or maybe, sometimes we have to. The price we pay to travel to a hundred cities. Sigh.

The other day, I walked the quarter-kilometer from Economy all the way up to Business. "Ding", the call bell goes off. The funny little senior flight steward that we had that day asked me to go and check it.

Kristine: Hello, can I help you?

8J: Hello. Get my cover for me, above.

The man points upwards.

Kristine: Sorry? Did you just say that you want your cover which is in the hat rack just above your head? Because I thought I heard that, but that is just some crazy mythological lazy type shit which I thought only existed in fairy-tales and whatnot. So um, yeah, did you want a water?

...Is what I wanted to say.

"Here you go" is what actually came out of my mouth. With a faux smile too.

I went back into the galley a bit dumbfounded and irritated, to find the senior flight steward chuckling. He'd sent me to see 8J who was notorious for being their most cringe-worthy vexatious passenger that day, and he thought it would be funny if I got a dose of it too. And it was funny. The man was a douche and I got douchelorded on my way to business class thanks to a couple of complimentary glasses of champagnes which I thought would be nice to give to the birthday celebrant in 24E. I was successfully punked by the crew. Sons of bitches.

Jack of All Trades

2010-06-24T19:55:00.004+04:00

4.54pm Dubai

"Find a job you love and you'll never work a day in your life". Confucius is the man and he knew his business.

I've never really known what I've wanted to do in my life. I spent so much of my Year 10 evenings distracting my Mum in the kitchen having little monologues with myself - and occasionally, having dialogues with her as to what I aspired to be in the real world (Apparently, the lifelong goals set at age 7 to be a 5'10" catwalk model-slash-McDonald's counter chick needed a back-up plan). With a medley of "what I want to be's", I ended up getting a degree in Communications - which was great because it encapsulated everything: PR, marketing, corporate communications strategies, media productions...heck it even included performing arts, where I spent a great deal of our semesters on the theater stage learning breathing techniques and whatnot. I mean, clearly, one could not go through life nor graduate from university without knowing how to breathe properly. Subsequently, I went to Uni with groups of artistically -inclined hippies, folks who also had no idea what to do with their lives, and a bunch of other folks who were only doing Communications because their grades were too low to warrant them a pass into the other courses they really desired.

For the record, Communications was my Primary choice.

Since then, I've spent 9 months in what I like to call a sabbatical era, and another 2 and a half years paying my way through travel by air hostessing until I figure out what I really want (next, or for the rest of my life).

I am productively procrastinating - if there were such an oxymoron. Making a living while I decide what I want to do with living. With the luxury of time, albeit little and blurry (thank you, yet again, jetlag), I've been able to dabble in things which I've really enjoyed. Oh, and by the way, if I haven't mentioned recently, I've decided to complete my contract - which finishes in November (baring in mind that the movie 2012 is only hypothetical, that the world isn't going to end a short 1 year after I move back home living the life I so consciously decide, and that staying an extra 6 months will only not kill me, but will finally mark the moment in my life where I have actually finished something which I started). And now that I've figured out some things which I want to learn and skills which I want to hone, my remaining 6-months will no longer be called "fart-arsing around time". I am utterly appreciative and grateful for the time-and-direction combo because a time-stretched Kristine would not have the opportunity to learn; and a direction-less Kristine would only dawdle in free time.

In the interests of my venture into fashion and online retail see (see my eBoutique), I went out and bought a DSLR camera, so that I could marry my interests between creativity and my occupation-to-be.

(Off-cut note: I recently just completed a new vision board. If for anything, it has served as a reminder of why I do what I do, and of things which I want to have and achieve. Polishing up my vision board, I thought to insert a principle which has seemed to work for me in all my twenty-something years. "I do what I want" which probably translates less chauvinistically to "I follow my heart". The simple sentence may have been the precursor to this sudden clarity of mind. Life is short, hombres. And I've always been one who - not only strongly wants to do what I want, but needs to do what I want, otherwise, the world is not balanced and I am not happy, and when I am not happy, I am not me and it is not good.)

"I am an artist at living - my work of art is my life." - Suzuki

And if I am indeed, an artist at living, then my belief is that my life should be beautiful, and there's nothing that screams so-not-beautiful than Kristine Erika doing something that makes me inherently bored and/or feeling mundane.

Turns out, I love photography more than Disegno induced. Turns out, I love it more than lounging around at the pool and shopping (...or maybe not. Let's just say, "those are 2 different things"). Matter of fact, it turns out, I love it more than sleep itself - the one other thing I love about human existence. Hey, I might even love it more than food.

...or Maybe not. I just say that because I've known myself to forgo proper meals when when the Nikon in in-hand. Not that I enjoyed being hungry, but more the fact that I was so engrossed in my business that I forgot to eat. Why don't we (i.e. I) settle and say, "Photography: I love it as much as dot-dot-dot". Now I just have to learn how to use my camera with accordance to the books, and I shall have myself official credentials. On this note, I am in the progress of enrolling myself in an online correspondence photography course.

Everyone has something that they're good at other than their profession, right? Like policemen who can dance, or lawyers who can cook, or sales managers who can paint. Unfortunately for me, I'm the one Filipino on this earth who did not inherit the gene for singing, so I've had to turn to other potential talents.

To become a DJ. This is almost a constitutional progression for me considering the irregular amount of friends that I have who spin for a living - which I gather is an indication of my musical inclination. With a habit of matching soundtracks to my every move, I can only imagine the level of my thrill to be able to match soundtracks to other peoples' sways and grooves. Having said this, I am scouting a patient DJ who is willing to tutor (shout-outs to aforementioned friends: Hello there!)

I know this might sound like the idealistic person's view of living: to become a DJing photographer who owns and runs a real-life boutique (which would be, as the Germans would say, "Super!"), but in this day and age, where the world is smaller and resources are available, isn't that possible? I have spent my lifetime deciding what to do, and am taking a retrospective and introspective review at my years. "Jack of All Trades, Master of None (for the meantime)" sounds a little better to me than "Jack of Nothing, Master of also Nothing" i.e. Me Now. Like the girl in Barcelona would say, "Por que no?"

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

A String of Unrelated Notes

2010-06-16T02:34:00.005+04:00

June 16, 2010

12.58am

Let me tell you a little something about blogger's block. I do not like it, considering the hundred million thoughts that run wild about this scanty little brain of mine. I remember a couple of years back when I decided it was a good idea to share these intrepid thoughts with the www, it was like every sentence that came into mind was the perfect headline for the next entry. I even had the matching visuals. I kid you not.

"Burgers. They Make Me Happy."

"7/11 and My Walk"

"The Difference Between Say and Tell: Teaching Adults"

The list does not stop. (By the way, the last title actually had to do with my brief stint of teaching Business English to Professionals, not me trying to be a condacending 25-year old) For as long as I was thinking something, there was a title to it. I actually think that I would think in succinct paragraphs that needed to be recorded onto paper so that I could let the thoughts out. As of late, I believe I have been thinking in short sentences with frequent halts and sporadic punctuation...come to think of it, a lot of the time, I think I just think in fragments.

Now how is one to write when I can't even complete a whole sentence in my head?

Of course, this entry in itself negates everything I've just said, but this has required the effort it takes to run at least 10kms. And I've never run 10kms straight in my life.

Anyways. This is my attempt at fighting the block.

I have been wondering as to why I have been plagued by such a thing.

Is it because there is too much going on in the wonderful life-of? Or is it because there's not enough going on? Is it because I fly too much and the cabin pressure is causing my monologue-inclined nerves to retract to a level where I can't even have a conversation with myself? Or is it because I have all of a sudden, developed a sense of shyness to the concept that someone other than my Mother is reading my posts?

On a semi-related note, here's a title for my current situation: "There Is A Mosquito In The Room That Keeps Biting My Legs, And I Want To Kill It".

So seeing as I am having a rather challenging moment stringing related sentences together, here is a list of things that have crossed my mind lately, in no specific order:

1. I just read that one of my bestfriends is writing a list of 100 Things To Do Before She Turns 30, which is great for more than just the obvious reasons. I have found myself, at times, rather neurotic when it comes to living the shit out of this life and functioning as a relatively okay citizen. And so reading this has comforted me knowing that "subconscious anxiety" can go hand-in-hand with living the most awesome life of all time.

(Disclaimer: I understand that the characteristic of being neurotic doesn't exactly fit the bill of living life to the max, but I guess this aspect only really surfaces when I feel like I'm wasting my time doing something or other which is counter-productive to my overall goal. [I'm pointing my finger at you, Facebook]).

2. We serve a particular type of snack onboard that smells like fart. And I love it. The taste, that is, not the smell. Spicy sweetness generously dusted over colourful seeds, pulses, and something that looks like a half-strand of micro-mini noodle...I call that Grade-A-Far-East-Asia-In-A-Packet.

3. I do not know where this is rooted from, but I have all-of-a-sudden, developed an almost obsessive affinity for Soccer and the World Cup. I have never in my life been so immensely interested in what is going on with these things, so i really do not know what is going on with me. As much as I'd like to think that it has to do with the fact that this year's World Cup has had the most advertising in the entire history of the World Cup, I actually believe that it is more rooted from my relatively newfound acquired taste in lager. Beer and sports go together like a killer mini and sky-high pumps. It's like an automatic inheritance. Once you start liking beer, you start liking televised sports, and actually get affected and may start yelling profanities when the team that you are rooting for misses a goal. I love growing up.

4. It's my Mum's birthday today. If I could be half the woman that she is at (her age) I would be happy and my purpose would be fulfilled. To a Tremendous Woman, Happy Milestone, Mum. No words can express my pride and love towards my Mother. Believe me, I've tried, and am still not sure that I've hit the nail on the head (or found the right presents) to say it so. I am truly blessed for being your daughter. To many, many more years! We rock this planet like the Mum-and-Daughter Dream Team that we are.

...Now, as much as I love today, hurry up and bring on July so that I can see your face and give you the birthday hug and kiss that I owe you for this moment!

5. If you can think of a better game than Jenga, feel free to let me know.

Washing Machine: 1, Kristine: 0

2010-06-14T05:17:00.004+04:00

A Pain in the Arse

2010-06-06T15:39:00.004+04:00

Months ago, I flew with a Purser who told me that the only major medical experience he'd ever had to deal with, in his 8 years of flying, was fainting. I went ahead and thought back to the variety of medical kuffuffel that I'd had over my 2.5 years of working (including but not limited to): seizure, temporary pacemaker malfunction plus seizure, fainting, nosebleeding, superficial burns, child with fever, gastro-intestinal hoo-ha, and even death. I thought that I had seen and dealt with it all. I mean, how much more could happen on an aircraft?

Lo and behold, 19B, the man with the bleeding hemorrhoid. I am at a blank as to how to describe this in the least gross and most compassionate way.

....Let's just compare it to honey out of the squeeze tube, being spread onto...let's say, "toast". Squeeze tube being his bum, and toast being the diaper from the Baby Amenities Container, which is pretty much the size of bread anyway (okay, I exaggerate a little...unless we are referring to American Jumbo bread which is around the size of a diaper).

19B ended up in 11B (from Coach to Business), with our efforts to put him into as much comfort as aeronautically possible. To punctuate my experience, the girl in First Class "enlightened" me on the effects (and visuals) of this whole hemorrhoid situation where (don't read this if you're easily grossed out) veins hang out of the bum region, tangled and intertwined, with ball-like things attached to them - which she nonchalantly compared to grapes on grapevines. "Yeah, hemorrhoids can be like that". Whether true or false, I think that that's enough knowledge for me at this moment.

Another day, another dollar, another day in my office.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

My Favourite Kind of Blunder: The Spoken Word

2010-05-08T14:02:00.003+04:00

As frustrating as language barriers can be, they will always hold an enjoyable streak to them. Hate 'em or love 'em, they are as entertaining as a white boy speaking fluent Cantonese.

Something quite golden to our airline is that we provide Special Meals. They are pre-ordered meals to cater to specific dietary/religious requirements that our passengers might have. We have Asian Vegetarian meals, Vegan meals, No beef meals, Low calorie meals, Bland meals (for people who have supersonic taste buds maybe?) We have Hindu meals, Kids' meals, Diabetic meals, Seafood meals, Lacto-Ovo meals, No Peanut meals...and the list goes on. You can pretty much request your travel agent to put in any specific needs you have, and our company does its best to suite that.

Now, about these Diabetic meals. Every meal is represented by a code. The Diabetic meal is represented by DBML...or something to that effect. With the popularity of such meals like AVML, VGML, LCML and DBML, you can be certain that, we as cabin crew, will know what these codes stand for, unless of course, if the crew member is new, or if memory lapses and the crew member decides to use "logic" to work out what the code means.

Upon serving a Kids' meal to 42J, I hear my colleague who is within earshot:

Colleague: Hi Sir, did you order a Special meal? Yes? I have your (DBML) Diabolical Meal here for you. Enjoy!

The man had just been served his special meal. Made by Satan. Nice.

==========

Again, if you don't know what the person is saying and you are on the plane, there is always the option to play "Guess The Right Answer", where all you need to do, is memorize a few words, and try to apply them to any given question. Just don't forget the adjectives.

Kristine: Hi Sir! What would you like to drink?
24D: Wine.
Kristine: Would you like Red wine or White wine?
24D: Veg.
Kristine: Sir (includes hand action, holds invisible cup in left hand, tilting invisible cup upwards towards mouth), to drink, Sir. To drink (repeats hand action).
24D: Fish.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Jigger-licious

2010-04-20T15:45:00.014+04:00

Yes, there have been moments in my life, where I have suggested people to try combinations of food which I find delicious (read: genius) only to be astounded with responses such as:

1. facial expressions of disgust and confusion

and/or

2. "NO FRIKKIN WAY"

And you know what, hey, you might just react the same when I say that I like:

1. Chocolate Tim-Tams dipped in peanut-butter
2. Milo with water
3.Shrimp paste (aka bagoong) as the condiment to Sinigang (shout-outs to my Filipino countrymen)
4. Fruit preserve and cheese on crackers (which by the way, wasn't my idea. I picked this baby up from South Africa)

And okay, I accept that. But let me tell you, I have some fellow "eccentrics" out there who, I think may just supersede the quirkiness that is my taste, having requested for:

1. Whiskey with beer
2. Red wine with coke and ice
3. Pineapple juice with tomato juice
4. Pineapple juice with pepper
5. Coffee with tea

Yup, you read right, coffee WITH tea. Maybe the formers are cultural things that I had yet to be enlightened about, but coffee and tea - I thought those were universally separate things. Then again, this one was not exactly a "Give me coffee with tea" type of request; it was more like, one girl walks down the aisle, calling out "Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee", meaning, she's serving coffee (duh), and another girl, walking down the same aisle, a few rows behind the girl with Coffee, calling out "Tea. Tea. Tea. Tea. Tea. Tea."

I happened to be the Tea-girl one eventful day at work, and following the Coffee-girl, this man holds out his cup, which is half-filled with coffee, implying "yes, I want tea". I look at him, unsure that he is aware that I do not have coffee, and this is not the refill that I'd assumed he'd wanted. "Sir, this is tea". I exaggerate the of stretch my lips and my cheeks are full and plump (just like when you say "cheese" for a photo) to make sure that he not only hears what I say, but he can see it too. Surely, the man does not want tea with his coffee. But no, he proceeds to nod his head. My eyebrows come together in confusion and my head lowers along, an exaggerated "TEA?" again. He nods with a smile. I pour it, he drinks it and smiles.

I guess it's not that gross.

I'm just sayin'.

====================

I always thought that those milk jiggers placed on the tray were pretty self-explanatory. They're small (they hold about 2 table-spoons worth of milk), as in - you can hold about 4-5 cups in your hand, and have absolutely no relation to anything on the tray except for the Coffee/Tea cup, and the Beverage pack containing a teaspoon, sugar and a napkin. It's sort of like word-association, "dog, cat, mouse, celery". You take out what doesn't belong, and take the others as a group. Here's an example of what's on our tray:

Entree: Salmon Salad - comes with lettuce and a wedge of lemon
Dessert: Chocolate cheesecake
Plate for Hot Main Dish
Water cuplet
Set of cutlery
Bread roll
Small pack of butter
Small square of chocolate
Milk Jigger
Beverage pack
Coffee/Tea cup

The jigger is that small that it never occurred to me that this milk might look like a drink on its own, until one day, I was clearing trays, I saw some folks peeling off that tiny plastic lid and drinking straight out of that micro-mini cup. As if to say, "Yup, I'm done with my food, my desert, my coffee. And now for my taste of milk!"

Image source: http://www.djdrinks.co.uk/hot/images/support/douwe/milk_jigger.jpg

Sometimes it gets more creative than that, where it has been thought that our caterers have placed those little jiggers on the trays so that you can DIY your own dish. How clever of them to create airplane food trays that are so interactive! I myself, have never tried Salmon Salad with lettuce and lemon and a couple of tablespoons of milk. Nor have I tried Barbequed Beef Brisket with a side of potato wedges and mixed vegetables and a jigger of long-life milk. These kinds of mixtures besiege my culinary experience and my balls. Not our passengers though, no siree. Talk about "thinking outside of the square".

Another day in the workplace, another new thing learned from mankind. I am grateful for the eye-opening experiences, even if they do make my face go, "Really???"

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

A New York Day

2010-04-17T08:22:00.026+04:00

April 17, 2010
5.49am Dubai

I have to excuse myself. Just before bed the other day, at 2pm-ish, it occurred to me that I've been brooding too much over: sleep, lack thereof, experimentation with, and yearning for. I've totally obliterated all of the other wondrous opportunities and moments that I've come into thanks to this life choice of mine as a globe-trotting air hostess. Then again, I guess this is part of the phase-by-phase floundering peaks and troughs that people tend to have during their moments of employment. Some days you love your job, some days, you don't, and some days, you just want to sleep-in like the sloth that flying-for-a-living warrants you to be (even though it takes the might of your humanity to not feel guilty about it).

Furthermore, I'd like to preface this entry with my 2 cents towards my "Experimentation" stint, and how it's going.

Clearly, it's still all the hap in the world of my body clock, as I am writing this entry, over-looking a dark, construction-worker-free horizon view behind my windows. I got up at 3.30am this morning, after an early "night" in at 4pm yesterday. I was groggy all day prior to that, having difficulty articulating myself and letting information sink into my brain. A girl told me that her boyfriend was half-American, half-Filipino, and all throughout the rest of our boyfriend-related conversation, my mind had decided that her boyfriend was half-German for no apparent reason, where I proceeded to ask her, "Which part of Germany does he live in again, coz I've got cousins who live about an hour away from Munich!". Seriously. Then, I'm normally pretty good at remembering drink orders, but this time, I was hopeless. After asking someone -2 times- whether he wanted milk in his coffee, and being told, "no thanks, no milk", I went ahead and poured milk into his coffee anyway. Another instance, I even forgot to put a cup onto the saucer, and almost poured tea onto an empty saucer. I'm normally not this daft, so I'm going to tribute this as a result of my experiment. No sleep-routine and general lack of sleep equals temporary derangement. By the way, I say 'temporary' with mere hope and no proof.

I just got in from New York, which was astonishing as always despite the flight being a mish-mash of Survival of the Fittest alongside dealing with aliens from another planet. This sector really does cater to some folks who I am certain are merely lacking green antennas that will shout, "Hey! Actually, I'm really from Mars! How did I make it here? You tell me because I have no effin' clue!" because the demeanor and conversations whisper loud enough to convince me so.

Kristine: Hi Madam! What would you like to have for lunch? We have the Mutton Rogan with rice or the Grilled Chicken with vegetable spaetzle. What would you prefer?
31H: I want fish.
Kristine: Sorry Madam, we don't have fish on the menu. Did you pre-order a seafood meal?
31H: You no have fish?
Kristine: No, sorry madam, we only have lamb with rice or chicken with vegetables.
31H: Chicken and rice
Kristine: Sorry madam, the rice comes with lamb, and the chicken is with vegetables. Do you want lamb with rice?
31H: Beef
Kristine: Madam, we don't have beef. If you want rice, it comes with lamb.
31H: Okay give me rice.
Kristine: [gives the lady the meal] Here you are. Enjoy. [moves onto the next row of passengers]
31H: [pokes Kristine in the back] Hey, hey! I'm hungry.
Kristine: Sorry Madam?
31H: I want other. I don't want this.
Kristine: You want the chicken madam?
31H: I want rice.
Kristine: [looks at dish] This is rice, madam. This is the rice.
31H: No I want other.
Kristine: But madam, the other one comes with vegetables, no rice.
31H: You say chicken with rice. I want chicken with rice.
Kristine: Madam, I'll show you. It doesn't come with rice [shows lady other dish containing chicken and vegetable mix]
31H: I want fried-rice with chicken.
Kristine: Madam, we don't have fried rice. This is the only rice we have.
31H: You have fish?

Yes, that is a real-life conversation. One of many of this caliber which took place over 13 hours and a spread of 300 people. I'm not bald yet, so I guess it's okay.

The stage I dislike the most is the fatigue that comes before delirium because it feels like I am not me. Luckily, this is followed by my most favourite state of tiredness - delirium! I read somewhere once, that doctors are not allowed to operate on patients when they have not slept in 24 hours because it's like operating under the influence of 4 alcoholic drinks....which probably explains why I love this state quite a lot.

Honestly, it's hard to want to serve people when all you can think about is being in your pink-striped, boyfriend-shirt pyjama-piece and your bed. But like I said, it's a matter of survival, and I survived, so that's the main thing.

"In New York...these streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you" Alicia Keys is right, the opulence that is New York did make me feel brand new, even if it took 3 layers of concealer to cover up those raccoon-esque eye bags.

We got to the hotel at almost 10am where my nose ran with fervor and my bones chilled from cold air, my exasperation and tiredness. But a 30-minute salted, hot bath worked its magic, and all of a sudden, all aches were gone and I was ready to rock-and-roll. Like Erica says, it's the New York water.

I spent the day with my good and fabulous friend, Ronnie, and a very sweet crew-mate, Gea. I met Ronnie when I was living in the Philippines during my sabbatical era (read: the time when I was unemployed, soul-searching, partying a lot and feeling enlightened). Those were good times. I remember feeling sad to find out that she was leaving the Philippines to move back to the States to New York, because that would mean running into one less person that I really loved, and one less person to kick it with at my place to watch bootleg DVDs of Entourage and Ugly Betty. Little did I know, 2-and-a-half years down the track, we would be kickin' it in it the East Village eating cupcakes from a cupcake shop I saw on the Food Channel.

Here's one thing: you know like, famous people? I've never found myself to be star-struck by them. I might be able to find their skills (or looks) admirable, but I generally think that they're also just people like the rest of us, who have hopes, dreams, accomplishments, failures, personal lives, emotions, e-t-c. e-t-c. I do however, get immensely site-struck by places I've seen only in books and and TV.

There is something about famous places that get me giddy and high-pitched. I think it's because I can create my own experiences in a place that's weathered decades or even centuries, longer than mortality can endure; or maybe because it's something that many people have created their own memorable experiences upon that might have molded their lives into what they are now, or because it's made their lives that slight bit richer for that brief moment that they stood there (cue sentimental violin music).

A day before getting to New York, I'd mentioned something about being on the hunt for the best pizza dough recipe ever. Coincidentally, Ronnie knew where to get the best pizza ever in New York. A place called "Artichoke", famous for their artichoke-and-spinach pizzas. She sent me to her blog where she actually wrote about it when she first experienced it. When I read her article and saw her picture, I thought, "Bingo. That is where we're going to eat" because heaven knows how much I love my food, and how I will literally, travel to ends of the world to experience experience what people will recognize as "the best thing they've ever eaten".

Gea and I made our way into SoHo with a 2pm date with Ronnie. Running early, we popped into Steve Madden for a quick shoe fix. The brand might be the same all over the world, but the selection always varies from country to country. And guess what I snapped up. A pair of thigh-high studded suede boots, coming out of the Winter season in America, coming into the Winter season of Australia, for ...wait for it...$19.99 USD. Originally retailing at $179.99 in America when it was Winter, now on sale because they're coming into the warmer months, it's now probably retailing at the same price in Australia as Fall turns into Winter. "So last season" bore fruitful new meaning as I pulled out that $20-note from my wallet.

Sometimes, with all of the destinations and cities we visit in a month, I forget about how much I love a place, and I can't believe how I'd forgotten how much I loved New York. After trolling the streets of SoHo (and 2 Victoria's Secret shops to satisfy my Mum's penchant for VS moisturizers, body mists and lipglosses), we make our way to East Village to grab some of that artichoke pizza. And let me tell you, there was definitely a party in my mouth.

It's approaching 5pm (already?). Ronnie is quick on the fact that 5pm really means "Happy Hour PM", and suggests we head over to a bar to indulge our thirst. For some reason, I think it's also a great idea to have cupcakes to accompany our cocktails. Not only does Ronnie know of great pizza joints, but she also knows of a great cupcake joint.

Next story preface: So recently, I've been watching a lot of the Food Channel. In-between TV-shows, there is a little segment called "Best Thing I Ever Ate", where a renowned chef and/or foodie will talk about one of the best things they've ever eaten. It always shows what the food is, why it's so good and where to find it. The spots are always in America, so I'd started hoping that I could try at least ONE of the foods featured in this segment, and be able to try someone's best-thing-I-ever-ate.

We approach a little place called Butter Lane Cupcakes, and right outside of their shop, is a little chalkboard sign which says, "Best thing I ever ate. Just ask the Food Network". You cannot imagine my joy and ecstasy when I found out that I was about to devour what was in my mind, a legendary cupcake. My face froze into a demented daze of amazement until I realized what a weirdo I must have looked to the man behind the register. I snapped myself back to normality and managed to place an order. I got the banana and peanut butter one, and totally forgot that this was to side my happy hour drink as I started licking off the icing and picking at the cupcake. The party (in my mouth) continued.

BUA. We ended up at a bar called BUA, and savouring the decadence of my cupcake, I managed to save two-thirds of it down the few-block walk to the next place. Like Ronnie describes it, it's got a "Cool vibe, open atmosphere and rustic interiors" - and a very nice Irish barman, a definite place for seconds.

We wrap the night up at Bloomingdales with a quick stop into MAC and a revelatory dialogue about concealers. Apparently, I'm an NW35, not an NW30 - which I've been using all of these months. No wonder why my cheeks blushed 20 shades too far ahead of my under-eyes. I'd pretty much been using the concealer of a white girl. PS. Ronnie is an epic, commercial make-up artist. She'll know every make-up secret you need to know about your skin and face within 5 seconds of seeing you.

It was about 9pm and we were still full from the pizza, the cupcake and the drinks. But this was no reason to stop eating. When in New York. [Shrug.]

We ate at Serendipity (225 E 60th St). Yes sir, the one from the movie. We ate what they ate - that infamous Frozen Hot Chocolate, with floating chunks of dunked dream...I meant, "cream" (honest to God, that was a true typo). Now we know what was probably going on in John Cusack's head as he sipped away: "Party time".

Image source: http://cache.virtualtourist.com/1/1946222-Serendipity-New_York_City.jpg

Ronnie, my love, this is to you. One of my favourite people in one of my favourite cities in the world. Thank you for such a lovely day :) Let's do it again soon.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Experimentation

2010-04-13T03:57:00.006+04:00

April 12, 2010
Dubai 5.39pm

(For the sake of the children, I have replaced my "special" terminology with "avocado".)
So 2 years and 4 months into flying.

"Anyway, my train of thought is totally broken right now because I need to get up at 3.50am and the last time I rose from bed was 11.15pm when it was still the 10th of April. Haha. Avocado. That's Avocado."

Those are the words that ended my email to Eva.

I am embarking on an experiment seeing as I am at the lowest point of the body-clock-syncing game. I no longer consider myself as normal folk who gets thrown into jet-lag and bounces back from it, slowly, but surely. I am more like, "I bounce back from it, slowly but never". I have failed to bounce back from jet-lag for the entirety of March, and we are now into the second week of April, so all bets are off.

From now until further notice, I shall only sleep when my body needs to sleep, and wake when my body is able to be awake. I realize I probably sound like a numbskull in setting out what seems to be the simplest, most logical human activity in the world out as an "experiment", but then again, you, reader, probably tend to want to sleep at night, and tend to want to rise in the morning (noon if you can afford it), unless you are a shift worker, a parent with a newborn baby, or a vampire.

Somewhere in the world, it's morning, and somewhere in the world, it's night, and my body has traveled too fast and too far within the breaches of what's humane and is just doing its own thing against my mental, emotional and spiritual will. Consequently, I have noticed some slight social retardation and just general lack of mental agility. But I wonder, if I fuel my body with sleep (regardless of time and length), I wonder if I will be able to function more normally than when I try to fight the lag?

I have an inkling that scientists would argue that I am off my head, but hey, I pretty much am. They probably already have proven facts and whatnot, but like the guy who ate way too much McDonald's, I kinda want to test it out for myself.

For this to work, I obviously need to take note of my timings in one time zone, so I will do that on Dubai time.
Here are some notes that have contributed to this:
March 27: I start my day at 2am. 16-hour flight to San Francisco. Stay in SFO for 48 hours and come back to Dubai.
March 31: Land back into Dubai at around 8pm. Due to Disegno dues and responsibilities, and packing and unpacking, I get into bed at a late 2.30am.
April 1: Get up at 6.30am and get back onto a 14-hour flight to Sydney.
April 2: Reach Sydney around 6am Sydney time (approximately 10pm Dubai time), and hop back onto another 2-hour plane ride to Adelaide. Reach Adelaide at around brunch time (past midnight, Dubai time). Stay up all day.
April 3: Get up in the morning; evening, party until 4am. Get minimal, broken, sleep.
April 4: Day light savings. Just 3 days into acclimatizing, Australia takes an hour back, so the day is extended by an hour.

I do not acclimatize for the remainder of my leave.

April 10: Get back to Dubai and sleep from 8:20am to 6pm; Go back to sleep at 8pm to 11:15pm.April 11: Do a red-eye to Dammam and get back into Dubai at around 7am. Stay up all day.

April 12: Now, it is 5.53pm. I bid you goodnight. Til I rise again.

=====

April 13
It was still bright out, and my heavy curtains weren't heavy enough to make my room pitch black, so I donned my eyeshades before I fell asleep around 6pm. I must have crashed out pronto because I don't remember any thoughts crossing my mind between being awake and being unconscious.

Started to wake around what I assumed was 9am, hearing the housemate shuffling around the house, also assuming that she'd called-in sick for her Moscow flight. Thinking to myself, "sweet, I should wear these eye shades more often, that way, I can sleep from sundown, to sunrise to 9-A-M". I even started trying to figure out how I was going to catch a snooze before my 10.30pm wake-up call.

I finally rolled over, pulled off my eyeshades, discovered it was still dark and thought, "oh okay, so it's probably around 5 or 6, and Kat's getting ready for work".

Pulled up the Blackberry. Click. Unlock phone. It's only 12.42am.

I roll back over and try to get some more sleep, but really, I'm an 8-hour girl, so I give up after 20 minutes.
Rise and shine morning glory. It's time to start the day at past 1am.

=====

Yoga at past 2am. I struggle and am sloppy for the first half. This is my own fault for simultaneously not practicing and eating like a pig. Still, yoga at 2am, in my lounge-room, feels effortlessly serene. I retire after 45 minutes of ashtangas, warriors, triangles and downward-facing-dogs. There is another 45 minute segment to the session dedicated to Balance, but right now, I can barely balance with my 2 feet firm on the floor, let alone sitting like a frog with my knees outside of my elbows and my head between my legs.

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Past 3am. Writing-in this diary entry in my dimly lit room. It starts to feel cozy and my brain power starts to slow down. I am tempted to just lay the avocado down and "rest". But alas, there is some serious cleaning to be done in this dusty apartment, so avocado that. I might save my siesta for like, 9am.

© Kristine Fernandez 2010

Languages spoken onboard

2010-04-11T08:24:00.002+04:00

PA: Welcome onboard this flight to Dubai. The languages spoken by the multi-national cabin crew include: English, Arabic, French, Indonesian, Slovakian, Hindi, Thai and Japanese. If there is anything I or a member of my team can do to assist you, please let us know. Thank you.

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Passenger comes to galley for drinks and smalltalk and asks my housemate (who is working on the flight),

"So how long did it take you to learn all of those languages?"

© Kristine Fernandez 2010