Suits me

The little slip inside the fortune cookie wasn’t exactly correct. At least not about this trip. At least not so far.

It was only when I got to the hotel that it hit me, crept up my spine, and froze my thoughts. Temporarily I was short of breath, my heart skipped, and my eyes felt like watering. The realisation, then the despair, followed by a sense of guilt, to be replaced soon thereafter with the insight that it was pointless to worry, pointless to get upset. However upsetting it may be to lose a brand new suit that I had worn only once two days earlier.

I tried to retrace my steps, tried to picture the places I have been since this morning. Taxi to the airport, check-in desk, security check, the restaurant where I had pancakes (explicitly without the sausages or bacon), the lounge where we sat and waited for the gates to open. Up till then I had it with me. After that it all became a blur. My co-counsel assured me that she had seen it on-board the flight. But the excitement of turbulence in those final moments of descent, and of looking out the window to watch the Pentagon fly by overwhelmed my normally careful self.

I tried to imagine the times, locations, moments wherever it may be possible that my suit may have lost itself (or that it has lost me). Air Canada promised to look for it, and if found deliver it to my hotel if I’m still in Washington. If not, the lady on the phone assured me, they will keep on searching for the next two months. A black suit with matching pants, a white long-sleeve shirt, two ties (purple and shiny blue), and an orange astronaut pin that is only available at the souvenir shop of ESA’s ESTEC (which is only open a few hours on Wednesday afternoons). My mind wandered to the curious image of baggage handlers with sniffer dogs, scouring every inch of the two airports and of that little fragile Embraer I was on to live up to their promise.

I felt bad needing to buy a brand new suit, and the shirt and tie to go with it. Even worse as I walked down M Street carrying my bright, big colourful bags. A Vietnam veteran, with unkempt hair, wielding a sign scribbled with “God help me!”, together with half a dozen with empty, sunken (or drunken?) eyes ogled at me as I walked on by.

The “envoy of McGillkind”…

The hours before

After much struggles, we finally made it. Here, right in the heart of Washington DC, preparing and mooting still into the earlier hours of the morning, compromising our sanity and sleep. At this time tomorrow, we will know if it was all worth it.

Two, almost three months of work, the last couple of weeks of which have been going constantly at the facts, law, trying to nit-pick and to refine arguments and rebutals to the most convincing, assertive and coherent way possible. It will be test and tried tomorrow.

I have faith in my team mates, and to be honest, much more than once I felt or had at a time when things were sometimes getting too much. Now I look at them as they plead, confidence in their voices, assertiveness in their posture, and regurgitating facts and legal positions like the highly esteemed legal experts they have suddenly become in the past few weeks. Winning is not necessary everything.

I think I did and tried all I could. Speaking of 'sacrifices' will be thinking too much of myself. But I did try to be there, to respond to comments, to reflect back arguments, to fill in the gaps whenever possible. Perhaps at times I can be difficult to work with, and maybe too picky and wordy when things can be explained in a line or two. But I think they really have a grasp of the law, and I can (hopefully) just sit back and feel somewhat proud.

A few hours more, and we will see.

Better

I feel somewhat better after a few days of intense hard work. And having these mascots with me while I work away in the library sort of boosts my energies.

Less than 5 more days till the big moot day, and I feel somewhat more confident. We finally managed to hash out a coherent argument and counterarguments for both of the States we're going to be arguing on behalf of. Everything needs to flow, every contention needs to be logically, substantiated, and justified. Every word needs to be carefully chosen, used and explained if necessary. There is no room for slipping up on the arguments, no place for flawed rationalisation, no opportunity to contract what you just said. Which is why I'm better of sitting back and watching my team members plead, while I do the preparatory work now.

I came home after almost 14 hours of lectures and work after the lectures. I feel exhausted, yet much better than I did before. I spoke to mum for a while. Two months ago I bought her tickets to go see Swan Lake, in the hope she'd step out of the house and do something that will bring joy and music into her life. She went with a good friend (who happens to be her cousin), and almost immediately the first word mum said was that she thoroughly enjoyed the performance. She said the dancing was wonderful, the music beautiful, as were the decor and the live experience of it all. It was late when she got home, but she felt good. And I could hear the enthousiasm in her voice.

But she told me about her knees, and I become worried. For some time she has been having pains in her joints. Signs of decalcification, normal aging process the doctors said. But she said it hurts when she walks, and she feels weak, as if she may easily fall over. I listened and felt concerned... imagined her walking up and down those 5 flights of stairs every single day. How incovenient it must be, how painful it must be to take each step...

Mum said she's thinking about moving, to somewhere with a lift. She rememebered how dad used to complain about taking the flights of stairs.... and I remembered that he would always rest once in a while to catch his breath, while holding onto the handrail as he slowly ascended the stairs. And now mum realises how inconvenient it really is...
I wish I could help her find a place, help her move, help her pack and that she wouldnt have to worry so much abut all going up and down the stairs everyday...

She also told me about this herbal medicine that a friend of her took her to buy in the mountains. Some kind of fungus that's indigenous to Taiwan. Very expensive, but is supposed to detox the body, and supposedly very effective against cancer. You make a kind of tea with it. It makes you kind of dizzy at first, and tastes bitter, but it's supposed to be very effective. Had dad been able to have this, then it wouldn't have been too late, mum said...

Moot

There are moments that dawn on you. Such as one as I stood there waiting for the metro home tonight.

I suddenly felt so small... awed and dazed by the amount of work and lack of time in which to deal wit it all. I felt small, almost shrinking as the thought ran through me, right there on the platform. Perhaps after 14 hours or so of lectures, work, reading and writing, I was feeling dizzy and my world spin.

Less than two weeks till the big moot competition in Washington DC. Practice runs in the coming weeks, and my role is to act as the source of law and references to support my two other team mates who will do the actual pleading. I already made it clear at the start that I'd not be good in speaking, definitely not in front of judges and an intimidating forum of claims, counter-claims, rebutals and surrebutals. I just don't think I'm quick enough for all of that, at least not quick enough to formulate my thoughts and translate them into a coherent and eloquent enough argument that will silence the opponent team. I leave that to the other two girls who are much more confident, much more fluent in their English speaking abilities.

And so I'm here, close to midnight... phrases, semblances of words and legal principles still lightly echoing in my head. I feel daunted, challenged, small because I feel there is still so much I do not know. Can one ever be prepared? Can one ever be sufficiently briefed and prepared for all possible arguments and counter-arguments? I feel somewhat pressured, especially being the one in the Institute with a fellowship position. I feel I must perform, must excel, must suceed, or otherwise it'd be like a 'waste' of their faith and all the resources they've invested in me, in us.

Perhaps I'm just thinking too much, frowning and fretting as I write this... It's a competition. There are winners, there are losers. And we can only be one, or the other. But try we did, no matter what.

Heydays

It's been a while since I last blogged. I mean really write something and reflect on what has been going on in my life. Between travels, and being part of a moot team, I rarely have time to myself nowadays.

In a way, it's good. I seem to be so much happier to be busy, to wake up everyday and work towards something... even if this something requires me to spend almost every moment of my waking moments in the last two weeks to be almost constantly thinking about space, law and militarisation. I enjoy the experience, but have really been going to bed late and eating not so healthily, despite my promise to myself to really take care of myself after coming back from Taiwan at the beginning of February.

Other than that, I've been getting to know msyself a little more. At least, through friends. One particular person stands out, someone I met and really connected with back in December, and we've been spending a lot of time together of late. Perhaps too much time? Especially as he is already with someone.... I'm not sure how I feel about this all... Knowing that at times I'm in the library till late, he even brings me dinner. It's so touching, so very romantic. But what does it all mean? I just don't know, and it's in a way intimi--dating... But it does feel so wonderful every time I see him, and I smile when I see him.

Really, really smile...

King Mariano

He was either insane, or unbelievably wise. There is but a thin line separating the two.

I see him almost daily, just as I come up of the escalator at Peel. Often I have the urge to approach him, offer him something I have in abundance, yet most days I just walk on by on my way to school, ushered forward by time and obligations.

This morning I did the same thing. The sun was bright, the streets empty. But the image of the man lingered, and lingered even longer, making me turn back again. I approached him, and he greeted me. I offered him a banana, and that was how the philosophical (or perhaps completely nutty) conversation began.

We must have talked for over a quarter of an hour. More a monologue, with me asking questions to clarify what he was saying at brief intervals, what he was really saying, and trying to make connections with what he was saying and what I knew about the state of the world. Who is the real monarch of England? King Arthur. And of France? King Louis the Sixteenth. I didn’t quiet catch the connection. Canadians… all descendants of superior royals who left Europe and established themselves throughout the Americas.

I eyed his clothes and belongings as he rambled on… it looked like he put on everything he had to shelter himself from the bitter cold, and probably had two, three scarves around his neck. His dark hair was covered with two woolly hats, his pants torn and frizzled at the ends. He had a suitcase, a pretty nice and solid one at that, but one of the wheels is missing. To improvise, he ingeniously tied the suitcase on a skateboard with strings. Two big bags bulged with stuff, and another little plastic one contained a bag of chips, sweet cookies, and, yes, the yellow banana he just acquired from a complete stranger.

King Mariano, he called himself. A descendant of King Arthur of England, just like some of the Founding Fathers of America. Though, he added, he was originally born in Venezuela, the flag of which bears the colours of the royal families of the ancienne regime of Europe in the Middle Ages. I nodded, and let him continue, occasionally noticing the rusher-bys who sped past us without looking up. Those who did not see…

“Most people don’t really see, don’t really understand,” he went on, “Most people are educated to think this way, but are blind to understand what is really happening in the world. We’re all descendants of royalty”. For a moment, I thought about my own name, which roughly translated means “Great Crown”. Perhaps…

His teeth were crooked, and few, perhaps rotten from the cheap foodstuff he bought and ate regularly to get by. “How many elements are there in the periodic table?” I admitted it’s been a long time since high school Chemistry… “120 in total. At least, that’s what most people believe because it’s what they can see. But in reality there are over 700,000! We don’t acknowledge them, because human beings can’t ‘see’ them. Ignorant…”

I nodded quietly. Indeed, there is so much about the universe we don’t know, and yet we think human beings are so much more superior.

“Law, you study?” And for the next few moments came another episode of wisdom (or utter non-sense) that, to be honest, was somewhat, and sometimes, difficult to follow. When you injure someone, in whatever way, you create a little injury in the universe, was what he seemed to be saying. Say I refuse to let you sit on this public bench because you’re Asian. You may not feel ‘injury’, but at the molecular level there is injury. “Over time that accumulates, and generations from now the effects can be seen and felt”. Most people don’t see it, can’t see it. But the effects are there. I could perhaps understand what he was saying. The laws of Karma are irresistible and invisible, but they creates consequences and effects that bind us all to(gether in) our mutual circumstances, existences and interconnectedness.

At best he may be labelled a conspiracy artist, at worst a mad man who’s spent too much time brooding over the world’s wrongs and faults. All this in exchange for a banana on a Saturday morning. It was fair enough to me.

“Listen to Bach”, he said as his final words, “He’s a medical genius.”

The heavy doors of the metro station swung open. And I exited into the world.

"Journeys of Inspiration"

Perhaps KLM realised at some time it could not live up to its own company motto as “The Reliable Airline”, and so now there is a different one. My recent journey with KLM certainly inspired me… inspired me to complain!

Never really been a fan of the Dutch national carrier. Bad food (‘stroopwafel’ on a two hour flight, one piece only), cramped seating (I believe one of the worst in Europe, ironically for the tallest people in the world), old planes (and from my experience, likelihood to have mechanical failures), and on one occasion cabin crew who were sitting in the back reading their magazines while the passengers disembarked. Frankly, I’ve flown low cost carriers that provide better service, and KLM is supposed to be the biggest airline in Europe (together with Air France and Northwest).

So as with most people and cases, I looked into my rights after they have been violated. Fascinating, even more so because this is what I’ve been studying in recent months. My flight was an obvious case of a delay which turned into a cancellation, as the airline admitted once we were back at Schiphol. Part of my letter (the legal bit) reads:

"The delay and/or cancellation, and subsequent economic loss on my part in missing my connecting flight, was solely due to the KLM’s poor maintenance. According to Article 19 of the Montreal Convention 1999, which is applicable to all “international carriage of persons”, the carrier is “liable for damage occasioned by delay in the carriage by air of passengers”. In addition, the obligation on air carriers to pay compensation for damage in the event of a delay and/or cancellation is enforced under Regulation (EC) No. 889/2002. Article 5(3) of Regulation (EC) No. 261/2004 further obliges the air carrier to pay compensation if the cancellation was due to circumstances which could have been avoided if all reasonable measures had been taken. Faulty maintenance does not qualify as taking all possible measures to avoid the damage occasioned by the delay and/or cancellation, nor was it impossible for KLM to take measures to ensure that damage as a result of the flight’s delay and cancellation did not occur. The unfortunate events that took place surrounding flight KL1767 could have been avoided had mechanical crew performed their tasks to industry standards”.

Obviously, the first place to look is the Montreal Convention 1999, which deals with compensation and liability of air carriers in the event of death, injury or passenger delays on all international flights. The limit on liability is 4150 Special Drawing Rights (approximately US$6200). Further, as my (unfortunate) flight was (fortunately) within the European Union, regional regulations on air transport also apply. (Indeed, when the Montreal Convention was ratified, the Netherlands declared that it would comply with any action under taken by the Community in any matters governed by the Convention).

Say what one would like about the bureaucracy in Brussels, but the European Union does have its merits, and has perhaps the highest standards in consumer protection anywhere. So, according to
Regulation 261/2004 , in the case of a flight cancellation (Art. 5), I have a right to re-routing or reimbursement (Art. 8), and also a “right to care” (Art. 9). The latter includes meals and refreshments, hotel occasion if a stay of one or more nights is necessary, and also the offer of “two telephone calls, telex or fax messages, or e-mails” free of charge. There are similar provisions, but to a lesser extent, for care and rerouting in the case of a delay.

I was poorly informed of my rights by the KLM ground staff, and just shoved a coupon booklet. In fact, there is a pamphlet by KLM which contains all the rights of passengers in the case of delays and cancellations (and to be fair does comply with EU regulations), but this was never given or mentioned.

Yes, there was a coupon for refreshments, but because I missed my connecting flight I needed accommodation, but this was not offered at all. When I asked to used the phone or email, I was told to go to the public cell phone (even though the coupon booklet contained a voucher for calling… which I don’t think the ground staff knew about). It was pointless for me to be rebooked on the next available flight to Frankfurt, since arriving late in the evening meant there were no more flights onto Canada. So I requested to be rebooked to the following day, which the “gate supervisor” did, but only grudgingly and as if I owed him a big favour.

It’s not that (if I can) I can claim a lot of money. It's probably not about the money, but pricinples. My pure economic loss was only the €95 (CAD$150) I had to pay to rebook my Canada-bound flight. KLM should be responsible for this, because it is their fault that I could not catch my connecting flight, despite the ample time I estimated to transfer in Frankfurt had KLM flown me there on time.

But then there are other losses too… lost time, unexpected expenses of staying another day in Europe, wasted efforts and energies travelling back and forth between the airport, and trauma of having to wear the same clothes for much longer than expected.

I should get a response back from KLM in reaction to my complaint soon enough. No more than 17 days. That’s a guarantee.

Or is it?


---

*Another horrible "Journey of Inspiration" here.

Free flight

Another dawn spent in the air, the who knows how manyeth one in recent months. There’s something magical about watching the sky dim. Not completely, for there seems always to be a sliver of orange on the furthest horizon, against the defined silhouette of the wing and flashing light at the tip of it.

A thought dawned on me as I’m following the plane across the Atlantic. This must have been my fifth time crossing the ocean. With such ease, with such speed. For me it seems to be the easiest thing to be boarding a plane and to just take off. Even the passport check person at the person was surprised when she saw the number of luggage stubs I had attached to the last pages of my passport.

Perhaps that is a blessing in itself, for I enjoy the privilege that most around the world can dream of: having homes around the world, and being able to come and go, but most of all, being able to stay in a place and not be like I’m a complete stranger. Feeling foreign and estranged is another matter altogether compared to being able to arrive at a city, a place and quickly get accustomed to the life and means of moving around at a place.

It never ceases to amaze me, how far I have come, and how far I can go. Onward to Canada. Another flight, another journey. The world feels so small. Or perhaps I’m just too active?

Flight scare

The land disappeared beneath the clouds. A last glimpse of the Netherlands for a long time to come. At least so I thought.

Ten minutes into the flight, the captain’s voice sounded over the intercom. “Technical problems with the landing gears… cannot be retracted…”. Then came the low grumbling and rumbling in the bowl of the Fokker 100. The plane shook, the clouds were dense, but beautiful, spread like a fluffy sheet across the sky, across the horizon as far as the eye could see, up to where the sky met the sea.

The rumbling continued for a while, then stopped. I felt the plane bank, turning, turning, turning, and turning. I suspected as much, and the pilot came on again to report that we had to go back to Schiphol. The gears just wouldn’t retract, and they had no way to guarantee our safety if we pressed on towards Frankfurt. Passengers around me murmured, and the atmosphere was somewhat tense, despite attempts by the cabin crew to explain that things would be alright. I watched the hands on my watch tick, tick, tick and draw closer to the time my connecting flight was supposed to depart from Frankfurt.

Soon the land appeared again beneath the clouds… fields, canals, polders, lakes, and even the big, shiny building in Leiden I used to study in rolled by below like a reel of film. Slowly, we neared the ground. It was damp from the drizzle before. I leaned back, and braced in anticipation. Wheels that had been out in the freezing air so long… would they still be ok to withstand the forces of touching down? It seemed like forever, and the runway slid past beneath like a black snake.


"the big, shiny building in Leiden I used to study in" (top left corner)


A thump, and a screech. But at least we were still alive, hurtling down the runway until we eventually came to a halt. The plane rolled back to the tarmac to join its Fokker friends, perhaps a little wounded in pride, for it was the little plane that could not really fly. As the passengers disembarked, the pilot stood at the door seemed to looked apologetic. There were lots of complaining and grumbling, even louder than the noise coming from the belly of the plane before. But I smiled at the crew, and thanked them for bringing us back down to earth again.

I got a coupon, and repeated apologies. Ten Euros to spend on food and whatever I want to buy at Schiphol. But it doesn’t compensate for the fact that I was sure to miss my connecting flight to Canada. I asked whether there was anything KLM could do; rebook me, contact my continuing airline, find me an alternative routing. More apologies. As my onward flight was a separate ticket, KLM’s responsibilities end when they bring the passengers to Frankfurt. “That is our contract with the passenger, and we can’t be liable for anything beyond that”. Yeah, but because of their ‘technical problems’ I’m missing my flight, even though I had made sure I would have almost three hours to transfer. “There’s no legal loophole. We are doing what we can to get you there, and the delay is within the time frame, so there is no right to compensation. You better speak to Air Canada, we can’t help you here”. I smiled, and at the same time in my mind a strongly worded complaint letter was already being written. Mental note: avoid KLM whenever possible.

I searched for a phone, and when I found it, it seemed to swallow money like a slot machine. I managed to rebook my flight and postpone my flight back to Canada by a day. But it will cost me. Not just time, energy, but also $150. Together with the fee I had to pay for my two previous changes I could almost bought a return ticket from Canada to the Netherlands. My good luck in the new year, I guess.

I consoled myself. At least I have done my bit (again) to save Air Canada from impending bankruptcy.

Debut

I always thought I was more of a writer than a speaker. I have a way with words written, but less so when they are spoken. Until yesterday that is.

To be honest I’ve always dreaded public appearances. A crowd of people, watching, staring, wondering and waiting for what wisdom you have to dispense. I always thought many others have a flair for public speaking, but I just don’t, and never will possess that ease, that confidence. They can just go up there on stage, and talk persuasively and eloquently and go off stage in a round of applause. But not I. Until yesterday.

As part of the symposium I have been invited to attend in Strasbourg, I was asked to present a paper that I wrote together with a friend of mine. The thesis is simple really, but nonetheless a fascinating account (or at least attempt at that) of the legal and political implications of a new intergovernmental space organisation that China has been so eager to establish. We have been working on the paper for months, and finally yesterday was the opportunity to present it.

Of the three days and six panels in total, it was my luck to be assigned to the last session on the last day as the very last speaker. I debated whether it was because my topic was too uninteresting… but then some others told me it was a ‘golden seat’. That didn’t dispel the anxieties.

The first day of the symposium went by smoothly. Now and then, when listening to a topic that was less interesting, I would go over my notes and power point, and go through the presentation inside my head. But as the day, hours and minutes before being called up to perform, I got more and more nervous. Worse was I had to do it all alone.

I kept on drinking water, clearing my throat, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths to calm myself. The presentations before me seemed like a haze, and in my mind I just imagined the end of it all, when it is all over, when I can either smile at myself or feel like a failure. I didn’t do any practice dry-runs, and I even refused to do a mock presentation to a friend, because as I said “I get nervous in front of people I know”. Strange, but that’s true.

Then I was called on stage. I thanked the chair of the panel for the introduction, and I began with a joke… or at least an attempt at one, saying what a great honour it was to be the very last speaker, and to be standing between the audience and their long-awaited weekend. And I began.

Somehow, gone were the fears of me stuttering, stumbling, tripping and falling over words and phrases. Instead, there was a surprising sense of calm, clarity of thought and mind, and somehow the words and ideas, sentences and opinions flowed out of my mouth, almost as fluently as they would out of the tips of my fingers. My voice was clear through the mike, and the audience listened attentively, some even nodding in agreement at times. Slide after slide, the presentation went according to what had been planned inside my head. The keywords and short trigger sentences I had in front of me kept the momentum going. I looked around the room, at times ‘seeing through’ the people sitting there (a technique I learnt in high school drama class), and I felt no anxiety. I was on a roll!

And when it was all over, the audience applauded. A great encouragement, an exhalation of relief. I smiled, and looked around the room. The crowd seemed satisfied enough. What came almost soon after were the questions. Half a dozen hands went up around the room, much more than was the case with other presentations. Perhaps a good sign, that people were interested… or perhaps a bad sign, that I didn’t get the message across clear enough.

And it was the former. People were genuinely intrigued at my points and speculations, and wanted to know more about the organization’s aims, its potentials and pitfalls. I answered each question gracefully, smiling as I replied them, full of confidence, full of pride, feeling in those fleeting moments like I was the one with the expert knowledge and understanding, and that people were really interested in what I had to say. As a lawyer in training I attach great importance to the idea, to the ideal of the law, I said. Yet politics and power often may, and often does, prevail over the niceties of the law. What looks beautiful on paper may be far and different from what is realized in practice, as with anything in the world. The people with questions nodded as I gently carried my message and answers across. They were satisfied and convinced.

Enthused, I left the stage, delighted and relieved, in yet another round of applause. I had done it. Faced my worst fears of embarrassment, faced my (often unjustified) lack of confidence in my own abilities and intellect, and showed to people, and most of all to myself, what I can do.

And all this just before 25.

When he's not around...

The house is a little quiet without baby Aslan. It’s not hard to spot his toys, the little fish he used to play in the bathtub, the Wall.E robot that sings and speaks, and the Mr Men and Little Miss books that I bought for him one. His tiny clothes lie unused in the cupboards, his bed and blanket unslept, with his baby scent still smell lingering behind. His mum, sometimes saddened and close to tears whenever she looks at the many, many pictures that she has of baby Aslan.

At last count, I’ve been to Strasbourg no less than 8 times since he came to this world. And this is the first time that he is not there when I visit. A little sad, but imagine how his mum must feel.

Because of her studies, my friend decided to take Aslan home and leave him behind with her relatives. Only for a little while, so she can finish off her studies. She just couldn’t cope with her work, and having to spend (quality) time with this very active (sometimes read: naughty) and demanding little boy. And spending everyday at daycare has made him really depressed and difficult to handle. At least in Taiwan, there are many relatives and other little friends he can be with. There Aslan can receive much love, and has much room to run around in in nature. Even when he was asked where he would like to be, he replied, in his sweet little voice, that he’d like to be in Taiwan rather than here in cold, gray France.
This morning, I woke up to Aslan’s voice on the phone. His sweet little inaudible words, answered the phone, and then disappearing again as he went off on his way to play, only to come back to say something that would leave most people guessing what he wanted to say. I think he said “Play, play… go out… play, play!” and “Foot… pain, pain…” Later I found out he injured himself recently in one of his rounds of running around. The way he plays, jumps and sprints from one place to another, it’s not difficult to get hurt. But then he always has a way of getting back up again, and with tears that have barely dried, run on to explore, poke, and probe whatever he could see and touch.

The sea

A friend of mine wrote to me about the North Sea. How its wildness and raw nature can really pull you in, wash away all sorts of anxieties and worries, but also stir up thoughts of the past. And I had this to write in reply:

What I like about the beach is walking on the sand. When it's soft, you sink and have difficult moving on. When it's hard, you can walk comfortably and firmly, and even look behind you to see how long and far you have come. Most of all, you can look back and see where you come from, and perhaps have a little inkling of where you're headed. That, in a life that is often uncertain and sometimes directionless, is a little welcome consolation.

And then there's the sea. Sometimes it's so brave and energetic you cannot but leave feeling that awesome rawness go through you. Sometimes it's so quiet and still you cannot but feel it soothe and clear your mind. And in between these extremes of feelings and thoughts, there are those moments of the future and the past flash by.

I really miss the sea...

Stopover Vancouver

It was such a smooth flight. Barely any turbulence, and the tailwinds blew with us across the Pacific. I fell asleep almost immediately after boarding, waking only to eat, turn my body a little. Most of the flight I was deep asleep. Perhaps the massage a few hours before the flight, despite leaving dozens of bruise marks all over my back, has really made me more relaxed and sleepy.

With four hours to spare, I ventured into the downtown area of Vancouver. It didn't take much effort, and a bus ride and half an hour later I was at the port area. Towering skyscrappers, lights reflecting in the sea. A cold chill, colder than in Taipei, but, as someone texted me and mentioned, may very well just be a little preparation for the frigid cold waiting for me back in Montreal. It seems like the further east you go, at least when flying from Asia, the colder it gets.

I felt a little strange in Vancouver. Wandering around the downtown area, which was no more like any other North American city, there were all these Asian(-looking) people. On the bus, on the streets, on the billboards of restaurants and shops, signs and evidence of the large Asian community here in Vancouver. It seems strange, so bizarre even, that having just left Asia and arrived in Canada, I would be surrounded by people speaking in Mandarin, Cantonese, and by people though Chinese(-looking) speak in such a way if you did not see their physical appearance you would think they were Canadians, down to the very "eh?". And they are very likely born and bred Canadians, just... perhaps having lived in Europe for much too long, the notion of race and nationality is still very much engrained in my thoughts and consciousness.

Not that I saw much of Vancouver... but from what I saw and experienced, it is such a peaceful city, such an organised and English (-speaking) city. Right on the Pacific, surrounded by mountains. Even from the air at dusk as we approached in the changing twilight, there was a serene beauty about the city and its surroundings that make Vancouver somehow attractive.

Now... soon back to Montreal.

Departing for Canada

Sitting alone at the terminal building. Gate D7, and not a passenger in sight. This is not my gate, but with almost two hours to spare, I wandered through the airport looking for a place to settle. Settle for a few moments before I get up, leave and fly far, far away.

This trip home is about to end. And it is with confused feelings that I leave. In the final hours at home, I felt frustrated, lost, confused and feel the race of time against me. The more the time ticks away, the more I feel I may have missed something. And the feelings of helplessness, of loss, of defeat sweeps over.

I notice it is a terrible pattern of pre-departure blues which brings the mood at home down to a low point. I try to resist, to control my frustrations, frustrations that I think are related with my inability to really let go. But it is hard. As I took my last bath before leaving, I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. Calm my mind, calm my spirit, and try to reassure myself that I can go on, that I can leave without leaving a bit of me behind.

The day has been long, and tiring. A morning of rain and fierce winds we braved as we rode to pay our respects to dad in Jinshan. I felt overwhelmed as I held those incense sticks and spoke to dad in my heart. I told him to take care, to be happy, to be free, to take good care of himself, to eat well and dress well, and to look after mum. Words and wishes as if he were there right next to me. Only, unspoken words, words of such deep affectiong and care. I felt my vision blur as the tears threatened to spill.

Later at the airport, I would hug my mum, again, and again, and again until the last moment before entering the restricted area. I could see her eyes moisten, and perhaps my brother's eyes were not dry either. So many departures, so many times I have had to say goodbye at the same spot. When I was young, I used to cry. No, I used to bite my tongue and hold the tears in until after I entered those glass doors. Then I would quicklu walk into a corner and shed those heavy tears. But today, as I held onto mum, in my heart I silently wished her well. Wished that she would be happy, be care-free, be healthy, be able to move on and find strength to live without worry and fear.

For that is what I wish for her. Nothing more. And with that I can make peace and leave... leave home, in order to go home.

6 February

On this day last year, my dad passed away. I had rushed half way around the world for that moment, and just made it. It was a gray, dull, cold, rainy day, much like today. His hand held onto mine, or rather, mine held onto his. It was wrinkled, dry, and peeling somewhat.

The beeping of the machine slowed, slowed, slowed, and gradually stopped. I whispered soft words into his ears, telling him to go with ease and in peace, and to let go. Let go of this life, let go of suffering, let go all the worldly things that keep us all so preoccupied all the time, yet, at the end of it all, amount to nothing. And he let go, left, the warmth of his body fading slowly until what remained on that hospital bed was a thin, frail corpse.

I did not shed a tear then. A calm overcame me, a stillness never before experienced, yet so subtle it felt surreal. In meditative serenity I comforted myself, and others. Life is only so much, I then realised, but memories are so much more that continue to live on longer than life.

So it is fitting that on this day, exactly a year later, I should be packing my bags in preparation to leave home. A year has come and gone, and I too have come and am about to go. Strewn on the floor of my dad's old bedroom are my bags and suitcases. When I open the drawers and cupboards, it is as if the trapped memories are released into the present and relived again. Pictures, letters, clothes, books... each a story, or a part of a story of a person, of a life, of a part of this all which is somehow connected to everything else and leads to everything else. Pens, audio tapes, bedspreads, namecards... each a reminder, a souvenir from the past that can make you remember the times and moments shared and passed. Alone they are merely objects, some yellowed by age, others faded away and barely readable, yet together they are pieces of valuable memories that continue to live on.

Indescribable gratitude

There are moments and people you encounter in life sometimes for which you are so grateful to that thinking about them can almost bring you to tears. And the more powerful when the moments and people are combined together to evoke feelings that I cannot describe.

Mum arrived in Puli this afternoon, after a year of not having been here. I had been hoping and wishing that she would come here, to enjoy the peace, capture the beauty, and hopefully bring some of it back home with her. Finally she’s here.

I notice that she’s so happy here… smiling, laughing at reverend’s jokes, and listening attentively to reverend’s dharma talks. I sit next her and deep inside am so glad that she can be exposed to all this peace and good feelings and good thoughts, and secretly wish that it will recharge her, give her the boost of energy that she needs in order to go on.

And I am so grateful, as I knelt before reverend this evening before retiring for the night. So grateful to him for taking us in and bringing so joy to my mum’s life, bringing wisdom and the dharma into our beings, and for making us understand that it is ever only so much. So grateful I am too, to others like Jane who are so kind and willing to help others, willing to extend a helping hand and expect nothing in return.

There is a deep sense of gratitude that I cannot express. But I feel it. And it brings almost tears to my eyes.

On the bus to Puli

Just left Kaoshiung, after a quick one day visit and stay at uncle Alan’s place. It was nice to see them all again, especially the children. We went to Pintung yesterday, to the Great Peng Bay area, which is an island salt-water lake. As we rode the boat, we watched white cranes fly and soar behind us, in flocks like white shadows trailing in the foaming path of the boat. It was a magnificent sight, and very calming to ride on the waves, together with mum and brother, and uncle’s family.

The children… they’ve really grown a lot, and both are almost as tall as I am. The older one, Iain, has a deeper voice now, an is as shy as before. Perhaps he’s just getting used to his new voice, and he hides his mouth behind his hands a lot. Behind his hands I can see him smile and snigger sometimes. I wonder what he is thinking behind those smiles.

We walked together to the railway station this morning. And only in own brief moments alone did I learn that he may be moving to Canada as soon as this summer. In a way, I am happy for him. But on the other hand I also can sort of feel the anxiety, and perhaps fear, of leaving home, and about to be away from family and friends. It’s not yet sure where he will go, or where he will study. But there is a likely chance that he may go to Montreal. When asked where he’d like to be, given the choice of Vancouver and environs, he said why not stay with me. I feel humbled that he’s think of me, and want to be with me. But then again, I wonder whether we’d get along, and how life with be with a teenager who’s about to go through the confusing period of puberty and getting to know himself. Will I be able to guide him, be there for him, help him and support him when he needs it the most? Will I be able to cope with his psychological developments, his initial feelings of isolation and estrangement when he first arrives? I’m not sure. And, perhaps things will not turn out that way

Down South

Down south, it is so much warmer. Close to 28C today as I sat in the sweltering heat. Had to strip down to my undergarments to keep cool, for the sun was almost unbearable.

Second day of my stay in Chiayi. Eating with relatives, meeting and chatting, sometimes even just sitting down at a table and listening to the grown-ups talk. It brings us all together, even if for a very limited amount of time, reconnecting us, and defining us again as family and relatives.

To be honest, I feel a little gap, a divide in the circle of relatives. Yesterday was spent mostly with people on dad's side, but it felt like we had to be careful what we said, or how we acted, because some of them don't have a high opinion of us... Besides, sitting in that loud and crowded restaurant was exhausting, and I really didn't feel like talking much.

Today was much different though, with mum's relatives. A quiet little room for lunch, just the few of us, great food, and good conversation. The atmosphere was much more at ease. Tomorrow, we plan to head south to Kaoshiung to visit uncle and his family.

The only thing is... mum has been having severe diahrea for the last two days. It all started when she suddenly threw up yesterday while we were about to enter a restaurant. She saw a pile of intestine lying there, and just couldn't help it. Puke poured out of her mouth, her nose. I turned just in time to catch her arched over and throw up right there on a crowded street. I cleaned up her clothes, patted her back, and bent down to wipe her shoes. She had put on nice clothes to go see relatives, but after that she looked so frail and so embarassed...

I am concerned.

Side effects

Sometimes I'd silently stand by her bed and watch her sleep. Watch her rest. Watch her recover, if ever that is possible. The top of her head has grown a little grayer. Even the faded dye cannot hide the passage of the seasons, and time slowly creeping, ticking away. Her cheeks have grown thinner, and her eye lids more layered. Perhaps from age, or perhaps from fatigue. On her face, patches of freckles have appeared where there were none before. As people get older, they get freckles. But the more chemo people get, the more freckles they get too. I cannot tell which from which.

And sometimes I'd lie by her side, and feel the faint beating of her heart. Quietly so as not to wake her, I'd reach out to touch the tips of her fingers. Fingers, thumbs, toes, the ends of which have become increasingly numb. Worsened when she touches cold things, she says, and worsened also when the weather suddenly becomes cold and damp, like it has been recently. All part of the side-effects, which more and more are taking over, and more and more are prolonged. It will take two years for all the effects to completely go away. I try to imagine what that numbness, that tingling sensation must feel like. Is it like putting your fingers in the socket? Or the feeling of hitting your funny bone, only more permanent? While reaching out to touch the tips of her fingers, I'd wish that those uncomfortable sensations would leap into my body and stay with me instead of her.

"Don't worry about me," she'd say, "I'll be alright. When you're not here, I still have to manage on my own."

And so I will leave, and soon she will be on her own.

Vegetable vendor

Her hands were rough, and dry, like bark. Her nails dirty from soil and toil.

"Fresh vegetables from the mountains!" she called out. And then I recognised her. Those eyes, that careless and uncombed tuft of hair with fringes of white, and a mole just above her upper lip. She has a smile, small but infectious, one that distracts from her deep wrinkles and wind-beaten cheeks. Normally she sells her basketfuls of greens up in the mountains nearby. Spinach, cabbage, carrots, leeks, onions, and vegetables I do not even know the names of. Whenever we go up there, we would buy from her. Fresh, home-grown and exchange a chat or two. Perhaps the festivities had driven her down to the city in hope of a little more money to welcome the new year.

Her shoes were worn, having been worn for who knows how long already. The threads had split, giving away to a little hole that revealed the roughnes of her foot. She wore a yellow windbreaker, the surface of which had remnants of dry mud, and the traces of raindroplets. "Fresh, these are all fresh from the ground. I cut them a few hours ago. At 2am."

"2am?! Wasn't cold then?" A chill blew, as if in response.

"Yes, but I have to if I want to get to market on time," she said. I looked at her rough hands again, dry and rough like bark, and tried to imagine her gathering vegetables under the cover of dense, dense gray clouds, braving the howl and cold of gale force winds at 2am while the rest of the world slept soundly in warm beds.

"And your husband helped you?"

"He returned. Last year," she answered. A Taiwanese euphemism for someone who passed away.

"Mine too, on new year's eve of all days," my mum said.

And right there, was a shared moment. Shared grief, sorrow, yet also of shared comfort, and a momentary silence that seemed to quietly say "I understand how you feel". Especially on this eve before the new year.

Around us, the usual din of the market, of vendors' calls, of cars buzzing by continued, drowning our thoughts.

One year on

My words singed, turned brown, and then disintegrated into charcoal black. Gentle words, words of gratitude, words of description, powerful words that convey my feelings and confusions throughout the year, words in black and white, words that transcend time and space. Now and forever, lost, consumed by the bright orange creatures of fire and smoke that grew ever stronger as they tossed their heads and hands in a colourful dance. In the great big stack of burning paper, in the midst of soot and at times unbearable and uncontrollable flames, the letter I had written to my dad disappeared into a heap of ash before my eyes. Small pieces of paper, fueled by lively flames, took flight and hovered, up, up into the heavens. Offerings, prayers and wellwishes for those who have already moved on.

More than 14 hours had passed since arrived at the grounds where dad's remains have been laid to rest almost a year earlier. We woke early to avoid the rush hour traffic, and ventured through the mist to the Pacific coast. Even now, I can still see how against the stark and pitch, pitch black silhouette of mountains, the dawn sky gradually brightened. A silvery sliver of the moon hung almost unnoticed and too shy to shine up above. The same moon, a little shier, would return to accompany us on our long journey up and down the island as part of an elaborate ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of dad's death.

One year after one's death is a special event here, and a pivotal milestone on the road to reincarnation. In local beliefs, the world of the living and the dead intersect and interact in a symbiotic nature. True to Taiwanese customs, the spirit of the deceased is believed to linger in the world after death. To offer the spirit a home, immediately after death, high priests or Buddhist monks are called in to direct the spirit into small wooden memorial plaques, which are worshipped and kept in temples or even in people's houses.

It may sound strange to be offering food, flowers and incence to a piece of wood. Even stranger when some bow and kowtow before a little piece of wood with a few scribbles on it. But somehow a plaque bearing names of the ancestors and forefathers (and -mothers) offers hope and comfort. Like all rituals and rites, remembering the deceased, honouring those who came before us gives people solice, and perhaps a way of self-therapy to deal with the inevitable loss and death of a loved one. Respect, reverence and remembering the ancestors is a way to preserve virtues and values of gratitude, appreciation and humility.

Frogs croaked, and crickets cried. A feel of dew blew through the light sea breeze as night dropped its dark curtains. In the distance, I could hear the waves of the ocean washing and flowing against the shore. I looked back at the day that had come and gone. I have long longed for this day to come. Not out of anticipation, I do not think, and certainly not out of excitement, but perhaps more out of a feeling that I wish to be able to come to terms with the permanent absence of my dad in my life. Even (or maybe especially?) one year later.

The light scent of fresh flowers, the pungent smell of fresh fruits and dad's favourite dishes and delicacies. Before the ancestorial plaque I stood, eyes closed, hands cupped together in reverence. The little piece of wood looked insignificant, yet bore the marks and scribbles of much emotional and family history. At the day's end, I had learned that I am but a little link in a long lineage that spans over four generations, or possibly more. I saw the names of my ancestors. People who lived in times when the island was considered a hideout for ruffians and pirates... people who lived during the Japanese colonial era... people who underwent prosecution and the terror of the invading Chinese Nationalist government. People I never knew existed, but somehow felt a close connection to, even though we have never met, and never will. Reading their names, I tried to imagine their faces, their lives and voices. Pasts and lives forever lost, yet have always been a part of who I am today, and where I come from.

Closer to my generation, I could identify names that sounded more familiar, and picture lives that were once part of my own. There was my grandfather, who raised six children and sent them all to university just by repairing bicycles... my grandmother, memories of whose calming smile and kindness can still bring me to tears... And the most recent addition, the name of my own dear dad, whose voice and face often still dwells in my thoughts and dreams.

The bell chimed, the night mist grew dense. The frogs still croaked, and the sea still ebbed and flowed, as it has done over and over again in the past year, in the past decades and centuries. The natural cycles and movements of the world continues, in life and long after death.

In the flames that consumed my letter to my dad, and mesmorised my thoughts of the people who came before me, I felt calm, surprisingly peaceful and blessed.

Chemo-ordeal

"Ouch...! It hurts a lot", she cried. From a distance, I sat on a chair and watched her cringe and frown as the needle penetrated the skin. The syringe, and the long, winding plastic tube which flowed from it, immediately dyed blood red.

Hospitals are not merry places. Mum said she felt nauseated as soon as she could smell that particular scent of medicine and disinfecting solution. The smell of sickness, perhaps even of death. Harrowing, the sound of faceless patients coughing, wheezing, holding onto dear life for that much longer.

I looked at their faces, many half hidden behind a breathing mask. But the sorrow, the pain, tears and fears cannot easily be hidden. It shows in their sullen and sunken eyes, in their skin darkened by poisonous chemicals aimed to kill cancerous cells, yet at the same time break and weaken patients and rob them of life. I closed my eyes, and inside wished that these people around me, and so many sick and dying people everywhere, may somehow find some sort of comfort, a little semblance of happiness. Even in suffering.

Two more days of chemo-ordeal begins again.

Note

I saw a little piece of scrap paper today. Just a piece of paper, probably not more different from any other. Yet one side were a few words scribbled on:

"Staying at [the hospital]!
The lottery [ticket] is for the living expenses!
Keys for 1) motorcycle 2) mail box."

That was all. Just a few short and simple sentences. But perhaps the last words that dad ever wrote. Later, mum explained that that was the note she found one day. They had not talked for a while, yet the words carried that dry sense of humour and that sense of caring that dad could never really easily express in person. A few days later, he passed away.

I looked at that piece of scrap paper, and stroked the paper, feeling the texture, feeling the beautifully written words as if they somehow carried more than the green felt-tip pen they were written with. There was a connection to a past, a history and story that soon will be one year old.
Dad's potrait sits silently on his bedside table, his bed has been unused since he left. In the closet, his suits still hang, and his scent lingers on.

And in my mind, thoughts of him linger on too.

Natural process

I stood on the plateau overlooking the valley below. Sun set, the world was coloured orange and gold, warmth fading slowly as the sun dropped slowly into the mountains with their backs hunched over the horizon. The air filled with the chirping of insects, and gentle song of birds. The dogs stood around me and wagged their tails in glee. The sound of water flowed quietly in the background.

It's been almost a year since I last stayed at the monastery. A little haven of peace, an undiscovered place of peace and bliss hidden away in the mountains of central Taiwan. As a lone stranger I wandered onto the monastery grounds almost three years ago. I was not sure what to expect, and only little more than the basic ideas about the Buddhist teachings and way of life. But almost immediately, I was mesmerised. By the beauty, the tranquility that nature had to offer, by the leaves that seemed to come alive in the wind, by the sounds of invisible creatures that lived in the dense forests surrounding us, by the mountains, sometimes draped in silky white mist, sometimes flush with green, which forever changed their colours and appearances.

The first time I visited, I only had enough clean clothes to last two days, three days max. In the end, I stayed over three weeks, and only left somewhat unwillingly to go back to the din and chaos of city life. I'd return in the course of the years, again and again. The place has become like a home, the people there like family, and the Hawaiian monk who resides there like a guide, a friend, and a father. Through him I learned about mindfulness, compassion, loving-kindness, and living with wisdom. Through him, the previously nervous and agitated me calmed down and took things as they came and went in meditative reflection. Though far from being an enlightened being, I am today a tiny step closer, and the peace and understanding of the everchanging nature of the world and things today has changed me, my world, and the world around me.

A few days ago my Buddhist master asked me a simple question. What would you do if you only had 6 months to live? I'd travel the world, I said, go to all sorts of places, see the world, because there is so much to see. And I'd write about it all, I'd share it with people stories and places that one could only imagine. Because after I'm gone, those words will be what is left of me.

It is perhaps an ideal answer, from an idealist not yet faced with the stark reality of having not much time left. We seem to live life believing we'd all die old, if we think about death at all that is. When death lurks nearby, waiting and praying, and may pounce on you at any time, the answer to the simple question may be much, much different.

This much I know from a friend, and from my mother.

Walk through Taipei

Strolled through the city, next to towering skyscrappers, the bright lights and flashing neons abuzz with life. It's been over two years since I last went to the Xinyi District. What used to be parking lots and grass fields now are construction sites and the skeletons of buildings near completion. How much has changed in the span of time!

Mum and brother left to Hokkaido this morning. I encouraged them to take a holiday together, to get away and spend time together. Though I never imagined somewhere even colder than the blustery winds and cold spell that is hitting Taipei now. But earlier in the afternoon I received a call, and brother said that they arrived safely, and have already enjoyed their first soak in the hot springs, an open-air one at that, and at the same time snow was falling. Must have been some sight and experience.

So I came home to an empty apartment. Though auntie A-Hua is living here, she has a 24hr shift today at the local hot spring hotel. I chatted with her over breakfast, and she lamented how much of a hard work her job is. It's not that she's always working, but she has to be there at least 24hr on call, ready to clean up after guests have used their bath facilities. She works one whole day, and gets one day off. Seems fair, but then again if you calculate the hours, one whole day means three working days for a normal 8hr/day job. And on days when it's really cold, people constantly stream in, even in the early hours. This is, after all, a city that doesn't really sleep. I listened with compassion, trying to imagine the hard work, but at the same time hoping that she would continue with her work, as it's given her financial independence and security. Later as I wandered through the streets, I came across at least two homeless people. The economic depression is really visible.

I came home just now, and closed the door. I sat down, and there was a silence, an emptiness. It's a big apartment, and sitting there in the living room, looking around, I realised how lonely it can get here. Especially if I just looked around, and see all these objects, belongings, pictures and reminders of me, brother, and of dad too. Is this what mum feels at the end of the day?

A moment

Once I stood on the bank, watched in silence with my dad who was equally silent. It was a clear day, with wind almost too shy to blow, and a calm bay that lay lazily beneath our feet. Into the distance spread a pristine stretch of blue, light at first, then gently fading into a darker shade further out to sea. Clumps of cotton-like clouds floated overhead, soft decor for the sky that fused into one with the water on the horizon. The mountain ridges, partly scarred and blemished rough, partly smooth, lush, and green with grass, soared above the water's surface. Far, far away, a lonely little island rested, unwavering, small and lost in the big, big ocean surrounding it.

We stood and admired the sky, the land and the sea. I imagined those sailors who came across this scene long, long ago, and was closer to understanding why they called it the "Beautiful Island". I broke the silence, and simply said, "How beautiful this is". My dad nodded in agreement.

As the car skirted the coast, I looked at that same sea, caught in that muddle between the present and the past, feeling estranged and yet somewhat familiar too. Barely six hours hours earlier, my plane had flown past these very shorelines. It is all the same sea, but at different times, under very different circumstances. Whereas the sea and this landscape is for me but a beautiful memory of shared and treasured moments in the past, for almost a year now dad watches these waters and the mountains day and night. This is where he would have most wanted to rest, we think.

I stood before dad's memorial, and put my palms before my chest in prayer. A monk chanted lowly, Buddhist music chimed, and the scent of incense filled my eyes and nostrils. A solemn moment, one I had tried to imagine over the past few weeks and months, and had finally come. I cannot describe that feeling then... that feeling which is a blend of longing, of sadness and loss, yet at the same time struck and awed by the feeling of serendipity, comfort and gratitude.

Somehow, despite being spread thinly over different countries, different continents, and in different realms of existence, our family had come together once again.