Lonely Island in Montreal

In the background is music, a voice, singing about a loved one. The voice, though different at different times, is almost always there when I am home. Because it is supposed to remind me that I am not alone in my apartment.

Now that the 'dust' has settled, and as I look around my new apartment, I begin to feel it. The loneliness that grows realising that you are all alone in a foreign country, with no body to talk to, and no body to share your feelings with when you are alone. At night before bed, I lie in bed and imagine someone is there next to me. In the background, the radio will play on until I am asleep.

Perhaps it is this loneliness and not being able to speak to anyone about my feelings here that makes me reflect and think back... think back at my dad... perhaps sad thoughts, perhaps thoughts of longing and missing. I wonder often, in those waking moments just before I drown in sleep, what he is doing, how he is doing, and wonder whether he is watching over me...

I wonder how dad is now, and whether he would be proud of me coming all the way to Canada to study.

A shame that he cannot enjoy this and cannot watch me grow and grow...

home again

Caught in the confusion of time and space, I arrived in the Netherlands at noon. Or was it six in the morning? I felt sleepy, like I could faint any moment. Throughout the 10 hour flight across the Atlantic, I barely had a wink.
The plane descended into the clouds, and into a world of gray and raindrops on my plane window. Vapour splashed on the wings and blew off of the runway as the strong jets of engine exhaust shaved through. Outside, it was gray and raining, and wet and cold. Much colder than in Canada, surprisingly, but the weather was typically Dutch. Home again.
I rode on the train, watching the fields and low-lying landscape go by. A torn newspaper on the floor reported on the latest victim of the global financial crisis, and a graph showed stocks taking record plunges worldwide. Depressing. Raindrops slashed across the window screen as the train sped home. Dense twirling clouds loomed overhead.
I entered my door, slowly, and stepped into the hallway. The same one I had left an early morning a month or so ago. Letters and advertising strewn over the doormat… the patch of cat urine still visible to the eyes and nostrils. And on top of the stairwell, a little bell tinkled. My cat sat there, and miauwed, again and again, and butted her head against the stairs. Was she as happy to see me as I was to see her?
For some reason, it feels so strange to be home again. I feel so foreign being here, as if I had been gone a long time, and am just visiting. Perhaps because a long time ago I had detached myself from this place, but though everything looks and seems so familiar, it is as if I do not really feel any attachment to this place at all. And this is the same house I have lived in for almost over 5 years of my life…which given all the moving and travelling around that marks my life, is quite something.
One day and a half later, barely able to feel homely and settle down, I am off to another city, another country.

Mum's arrival

Three little girls each holding a bouquet of colourful flowers swarmed around the lady as she exited the baggage claim area. Her face was dazzling with smiles, her eyes narrowed in joy. The girls gathered around her, and hugged her, again, and again. And again.

The oldest of the girls rested her head on the lady's shoulder. Unexpectedly, her hand swept across her eyes, her cheeks were reddened and damp. The mother stroked the girl's hair softly, and whispered ever so slightly. How very touching, how pure those feelings of joy mixed with longing and missing, finally overwhelmed with speechless emotions that express themselves through tears. Mother and daughters reunited at last, after how long only they will know.

I stood by and waited for my own mum to walk through those glass doors. The anticipation was exciting, and the expectation has in the past few days so unexpectedly brought smiles to my face. It has been almost two months since I last saw mum, soon I will see her again.

"David!" I heard, and turned to see her as she came out the doors. In front of her, two large suitcases. I quickly walked up and greeted her with a big hug, and laughter. "Why so much stuff?" I asked.

"All yours!"

Later in my apartment, as I slowly unpacked the suitcases did I know what she meant. A rice cooker, teapots, porcelain, cookies, towels, woolly jumpers, chopsticks, dried shrimps and mushrooms... all for me. It must have weighed some 30kg altogether. I imagined how mum hauled the two suitcases down those five flights of stairs in Taipei , flew some 20 hours changing three times to bring me all this. And I had expressly told her many times that she should travel light, and not carry too much, because it's too heavy for her alone!

It's not the things that she brought that made they especially valuable... but what they represent. All the effort and thought behind preparing and carrying all these things across the ocean. Just for me, just so that I can live a little better, eat a little healthier, just so that I can take care of myself when there is noone else to take care of me.

Mother and son reunited again, after how long only I will know.

First sightseeing

A lazy, hazy, and wet Sunday morning. I left my apartment and grabbed my bike. The roads here are pretty pock-holed, so cycling takes extra care. On the map a cyclepath was marked, but it was nothing more than cycling alongside huge humvees and 18 wheelers. Past a vacant lot I rode, past warehouses and an industrial zone, where the stench of factory smoke hung in the air. I turned, and before me was the water, flowing towards downtown Montréal.

Finally, after almost two weeks in the city, I could take the time and freedom to go out and see a bit of it... the bits other than my university or the streets and alleys when I was desparately looking for a place to live. I rode along the Canal Lachine, which apparently used to be the industrial vein of the city, connecting it with the Old Harbour and inland. Today, derilict looking factories and warehouses have been revamped into modern apartments, while the rusty skeleton of towering silos reminded the present of a bustling time in the past. The banks of the canal have been converted into the so-called Green Belt, a stretch of cyclepaths and greenlands that go on for kilometres. And on this I rode, enjoying once more that feeling of freedom and joy I get from hutling at high speeds.

Cyclepaths here are very different from the Netherlands. They are not terribly well marked, and you could tell that often they have just been demarcated wherever there was space. So often the path winds and snakes, sometimes on the main road along with gas-guzzlers, and sometimes onto the pavement, where you have to be careful not to run over the mum with the toddler and the dog on a leash.

Down the canal I pedaled, until eventually I arrived at the Old Port. At first glance, it was only a host of abandoned warehouses and defunct quays, and it is perhaps difficult to imagine the prospertiy and activity that the port once enjoyed. But like some many old ports that have outlived their usefulness, the area has been converted into a recreational and artists' zone, with boutiques, museums, an IMAX theatre, fountains next to abstract Ju-Ming's Tai-Chi sculptures.

Close by, lay the sprawling streets and hunger-evoking scents of Peking Duck in Chinatown. I parked my bike, and for the first time ever in my life, I paid for the parking fees at a slot machine, like you would when you park your car. The ticket I place on the handle, and I wondered whether a traffic warden would actually come by and check. I guess paying a $2 for 30 minutes (bike) parking is better than risking having your bike 'towed' away.