Candian Autumn Summer

A view. Waters silent, reflecting the sky and clouds on high. A mirror image wavers, almost a perfect parallel world in the water. A broad lake, cuddled by mountains. Mountains, the faces of which teem with trees. Trees, glowing in shades of yellow, orange, brown and the blends of these colours that can hardly begin to describe. A rare sight, one I have only till now heard talked about, but it lay before me, surreal like a tranquil dream, yet instilling an inner calm that was and felt so very real.

Riding across the vast Canadian landscape, I still cannot believe that I am in a new undiscovered country.

• La Mauricie National Park IX
• La Mauricie National Park VIII
• La Mauricie National Park VII
• La Mauricie National Park VI
• La Mauricie National Park V
• La Mauricie National Park IV
• La Mauricie National Park III
• La Mauricie National Park II
• La Mauricie National Park II
• La Mauricie National Park I
• St Anne de Bellevue
• JuMing in Montreal II
• JuMing in Montreal
• Indian Summer on Mont Royal
• Montreal from Mont Royal

Dad?

I awoke, my eyes were still closed. In the background, the radio was still on. It must not have been more than a few dozens minutes after I lay down. In my mind, images floated and haunted.
"Dad?"

I saw dad. What he looked like or what he was doing, I cannot remember anymore. All I can remember was that yesterday night, I felt this intense pain and sorrow suddenly. The pain and sorrow woke me, and I could not contain my tears. They spilled out of my eyes so suddenly. And it has been a long time since I last cried.

I closed my eyes, and I remember calling out "Dad... Dad.... Dad...." desperately.

Then I was lost in that mysterious world of sleep once more.

Welcome home

The Saint-Laurent flowed alongside the plane, like a gilded path reflecting in the afternoon sun. The land lay lazily outstretched, having a week later put on the Autumn attire of what I now understand is colourful coat of an Indian Summer. There was not a cloud in the sky, and dusk light reflected off of the land , adding a golden tint to the beauty below. Montreal lay before us, as the plane silently and smoothly decended.

My second time going to Canada, and like the first, I was filled with excitement. It was well-deserved, because after 4 months of waiting, I finally have a letter from the Canadian authorities saying that I am permitted to study here, even though I have been attending classes for the past four weeks already!

So I proceeded to the passport control, and a friendly face welcomed me and referred me to the Immigration Office. There, I was led into an office while they processed my papers. The officers too were friendly, and asked me only a few questions about my status in a not at all intimidating way, and even started to joke that with a study permit I am free to enter and leave Canada as I wish, provided I do not kill anyone or do anything criminal abroad. "Good luck with your studies, and have fun here," the officers wished me, and showed me the way to collect my lugguage. Within a matter of only 5 minutes I was transformed from being a mere visitor to a legal status to stay. Finally, and hopefully, the final act of settling down in Canada is complete.

I exited the terminal building, and thought back at what I had just experienced on the way home. Here I was, in a totally foreign country where I have only lived for a short four weeks, but somehow leaving the plane and entering Canada felt like homecoming. I was welcome, genuinely welcomed by kind people and words, and made to feel like I am already a part of a society renowned for its multiculturalism and acceptance of people of all origins.

I thought back, ten hours ago, back in Europe, where my passport was scrutinised not once, but twice at the airport. The man in front of me flashed his passport as if he were doing a magic trick, and he passed through the passport control without any problems. Of course. He was white.

I hate to play the race and selfpity card, but when it was my turn, the passport officer interrogated me like I was a criminal (or worse), asking me how I obtained my citizenship, where I live, what I was going to do in Canada. She held my passport against the light, flipped through it again and again as if looking for some incriminating evidence of my visit to some impoverished primitive country. She examined the passport again through the light, scanned it again and typed in a number of words in a scene that reminded me of the worst excesses of the Israeli border police. And believe me, it is not pleasant. I replied the questions bluntly and coldly, showing how I did not appreciate this tone of voice. She handed back my passport, and dryly said "Just asking".

Inside, I was reminded once again the reason why I do not belong in the Netherlands, and never will. And this after having lived almost 15 years of my life there as an honest (I even have a certificate from the Minister of Justice to prove this!), tax-paying citizen, who wishes nothing more than to get educated and perhaps someday contribute to society at large. These wishes are now no more than distant memories from a time I told myself I could belong.

A country (or perhaps even the continent of Europe) that does not fully accept part of its citizenry and has reason to doubt and suspect people because of their skin colour or race is at war with itself. A self-destructive war, a war of contradictions, with severe consequences for a large minority of people born and bred in the Netherlands, but yet are made to feel foreign and alienatede at every moment of their lives.

One day, the ghost of hypocrisy and ignorance will haunt the Netherlands and the very principles of tolerance and equality that the Dutch love to preach about. Or perhaps that day has already come. The blacklisting of the Netherlands by Human Rights Watch recently as an anti-immigration and intolerant country is very well deserved.

But I have left the Netherlands, like the Netherlands has left me long ago.

Back in Canada, I opened the door to my apartment, and for a rare moment in my life, I felt I was home. And welcome.

The end of history

Source: http://flickr.com/photos/86685493@N00/2083986682

The bubble burst.
The tide has broken.
The hands point to the eleventh hour.
History is coming to an end. Time is turning.
And capitalism is dying with it.

The proclamations of self-deluding (neo)liberals the likes of Fukuyama may have spoken too triumphantly and too soon, for the markets are crashing like a sudden unexpected freak weather in the stormy Netherlands. Or perhaps not so unexpected, for all the warning signs were there. Uncontrolled consumption cannot last. Rampant desires and wants cannot be quenched with borrowed moneys and mortgages. Phantom hot money and speculation cannot be face up to the reality of creditors knocking at the doors. Capitalism's white-picket fence paradise has consumed one apple too many, and is slowly turning into a hell of indebtedness and bank collapses.

Once sacred temples of monetarism are reduced to humble pawn shops desparately hoping for that now very Visible Hand from the government. Even die-hard neo-cons are scrapping the halls of Congress for billions and billons of cash injection to kill an already malignant and deepseated turmour. The coins of privatisation have been flipped toward 'statisation', as public money is about to be channeled to save the ailing economy. Unheard of in the (Adam) Smithonian utopia. Laughable states (of affairs) in the heydays of the early 1990s when the catch-all and cure-all Capitalist phrases of globalisation, liberalism and laissez-fairism that hemmed the developing world into a perpetual state of indebtedness is now biting back. And who is laughing now?

Perhaps Marx, and the left-leaning liberals who were once scoffed at and marginalised can smile in the dark. But then again, smiles only for a little bit, for we are all in this media-hyped crisis together. So much for interconnectedness that we must share the juicy fruits as well as rotten berries together. The que at the cash machine was exceptional long. And this in a bank with 6 machines next to one another. Unexpectedly there was a meltdown of the electronic payment system. Shops seem to sudden have caught on the 'sales flu'. And every other street are signs of houses for sale, sending prices plummenting even further. Even here in Europe, newspapers are warning of a pending homeless crisis and mass unemployment. 1929 echoes. "It's the economy, stupid!"

But why scramble to the banks when the safes are already emptying? Why cut back on spending when the economy needs a consumption boost the most? If anything, panicking and calling 'crisis' at every shop closure and stockmarket drop is only going to exaserbate the situation even more, sticking the whole modern (read: Western) world deeper and longer in the gutters. Then we will really see who "looking at the stars". Spend like you always have, buy what you need, and brace for the storm, hoping that the politicians we have put in power will finally wake to the ills of a system that sucks on the have nots, and fat-feeds the haves.

The bull has been blinded by the red-clad torerro, and limps on on its final breaths.
The end of history is nigh.
And Captalism is (almost...) dead and buried.
But life goes on.
Nothing really changes but our perception and reaction to a system that has always fed on our desires and fears of want anyways.

Homecoming

Mum arrived two days ago, ending her 10 day trip to cities and places in Canada and the US here in Montreal. I picked her up at the airport, and together we rode home.

It was the first time for her to see my new place, and I had cleaned the apartment up the night before, making sure that it would leave a good impression. One thing about mothers is that they worry a lot about their children, and I knew this well. So everything had to be perfect.

And... mum did like my apartment, and she was happy that finally I have 'founded' a home of my own, and that I have a place to come back to at the end of a long day at school, and not feel confined to stay in my own room. She like the spacing and the brightness of the room, and despite having a few things to say about how my table and bed has been arranged (according to 'feng shui'), I am sure she likes it. So I passed the test.

But mum, I guess like all caring and loving mothers, still insisted in moving some furniture around, rearranging the cupboards, and giving the floor a good wipe. "So that when I leave here I know that you will have a safe and clean environment, and a good home to come back to", she said as she mopped the floor with her own hands.

I had saved a number of things till mum got here, such as use my new rice cooker, and my new set of plates and bowls. And just evening, we had a sumptuos home cooked meal together. It felt so homely, and for the first time since moving in here, I was not eating together with my laptop... though, the laptop was there too, playing smooth classical music.

Earlier, we walked around town a bit, and I showed her my university, even managing to climb up that steep street all the way to my institute. And I showed her how convenient my place is, located within walking distance to a huge forest, and also a huge shopping complex. All the while, slowly the trees donned on their yellow and red coats, and the leaves fell with the slight wind.

Tomorrow, I'm heading back to Europe for a few days with mum.

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.

Food for thought

I rushed in the rain to my appointment, worried that I might be late and keep the bank clerk waiting. The thought of moving into my new apartment in a few hours kept me excited and awake until the early hours. Not even the time to eat breakfast, though my stomach growled as I ran.

Luckily I made it on time, and did what I had to do in the bureaucratic process of obtaining a credit card. A few days before, for a class dealing with philosophical dicussions on law, I had just re-read Kafka's "Before the Law". Suddenly, and ironically, I felt as foolish, or perhaps as wise, as the man from the country struggling to affect the invisible yet overbearing goliath of regulations and rules. Sadly for me, I am defeated, and must obey and wait, and wait, and wait until my door opens, and until I am beckoned in.

I walked towards the metro station, and in the distance the neon-lights of Tim Hortons beckoned me in. The smell of fresh coffee and bagels baking in the oven was welcoming, and I ordered something to go. With my breakfast and cup of cocoa, I stepped into the rain again, and quickly dove towards the nearby metro station.

I ran down the escalaotor, but just in that moment, in the corner of my eye something caught my attention. On the stairs next to the escalator was a vagrant, lying there like a heap of discarded clothes, the steps as his bed. The escalator took me further downward, but my curiosity wanted to go up. I looked at my bagel, and felt the warmth of my hot cocao, and felt the sweet smell entice my nostrils. The image of the man's unkempt hair, soiled garments, and unshaven face lingered. A gust blew, as tires gradually screetched unbearably to a halt.

I lept off of the escalator and clambered up the stairs. I leaned in close to the man, and whispered, "Bonjour... Bonjour...", while tapping him lightly on his shoulder. There was no response, save for the light heaving of his chest with each soft breath. Without thinking, I put the cocao next to the man, and placed the still warm bagel on it. And I ran down the stairs, as quickly as I came, and never looked back.

I could go hungry for a meal, and not eat. But how many meals has the man not eaten, and how hungry must he be? A free gift, the kind that makes hairs on your neck stand straight because for a little moment in this often destitute world there is a gift that warms humanity.

The gift of charity.

Cycle

Students have a way with money. Every cent and dollar counts, and every bargain is an opportunity, every saving an investment. At least to some, and I happen to be one of these people.

So since I arrived in Canada last week, I have been scouting the web for bargains. First, it was for cheap accommodation in a desirable neighbourhood not too far from university. And now it is for cheap second hand furniture, items, goods, and whatever people want to pass on. There are tonnes of used items for sell… from the totally useless Yoga DVDs to full living room settees and kitchen cutlery. And there is a dedicated website for McGill students to exchange their goods (and services!) for great value. Since a lot of students are moving and leaving, often the furniture or daily items are relatively new, and all people want is to get rid of them at a low price.

So imagine my joy when I bought a fan-and-heater–in-one for just CAD$5! The girl is about to move back to the United States, and she even threw in the backpack that she carried the fan/heater for free! I skipped away with my latest acquisition, and with the knowledge that I was now somewhat be prepared for the notorious winter months to come. And I have been told, they will come.

Maybe to others it is strange, but one of the most essential thing that I wanted to buy here is… a bike. Before arriving, I have been told that—though not great—Montreal is a city that has cycle paths for green and health-conscious people like me who are quick on the pedal. The past dozen years in the Netherlands, I have almost daily never gone without hopping on a bike, so of course I have been scouting the section of the website selling bicycles.

And then I saw it. Almost brand-new, 18 gears, front suspensions, dark red, and well maintained. And only for CAD$50! So I called the person, and made an appointment to go pick it up. I may not have a bed yet, but at least I have a bike!

Little did I realise that he lived by the other campus of McGill, which is some 40 minutes out of downtown by bus. I found my way onto the shuttle service running between the city and the other campus, and for the first time, boarded an ‘American’ schoolbus—the only difference being that it was not yellow like those you see in movies. It was white.

Maybe it was the intense three hours of international air carrier liability earlier, or the cool breeze and lazy Autumn sun, but almost immediately I fell asleep…

“Time to get up!” the busdriver shouted, as the bus rode past trees, grassy lawns, and in the distance, the wide water glistening in the sunset. Everything was so green, so vast, so open, so natural. So very different from the noise and busy-ness of the city I had somehow been transported away from in the wink of an eye (literally). The bus turned, into a tree-lined street, on either side huge and beautifully built free-standing houses—almost villas by European standard— with neatly trimmed hedges and well mowed lawns. The only things missing were the white picket fence, dog, and happy smiling family of mum, dad, and two kids playing, otherwise it would have been the iconic semblance of Fairview (from Desperate Housewives). It then dawned on me, perhaps in one of those awing moments in life when you realise that this something you have seen so often but never experienced: this is the much talked about, and much envied and sought after new world of ‘American’ (actually, Canadian) suburbia .

I got off the bus, still dazed from what I have just seen, for it all seemed a dream. The campus was massive, like nothing I have ever encountered before, and dwarfed even the campus downtown, which I was already impressed with because of its spread and size. Later I learned that the second campus in the western edge of Ile de Montreal (Island of Montreal) houses the a number of faculties, including that of agriculture, and animal and plant sciences. Next to the campus, the mighty Fleure Saint-Laurent River flows into the grand Lac Saint-Louis.

A couple, in the setting sunlight, sat on a far away bench as water flowed silently past. A squirrel, an acorn clenched between its teeth, mischievously skips across the lawn and onto a tall tree. A maple leaf fell in the gentle breeze.

And I had a bike with me to explore this vast and beautiful land before me.

“Stop fondling me, or else the airline will be liable!”

Once in a while I encounter cases in my studies that are so bizarre that they must be mentioned. If not to educate, then at least it will entertain.

Imagine the following situation. You are onboard a long trans-Pacific flight, and the cabin lights are dimmed, as most passengers are lying asleep. You are next to the window, which on most long-haul economy class planes effectively means you are ‘hemmed in’ by two other strangers. You doze off. Then, suddenly, you feel something wriggling in your pants. You open your eyes, and see that the passenger next to you has extended his (or her) naughty hand down to fondle you. You turn your body away, causing the unwelcome hand to withdraw, and continue to sleep, only to wake up moments later to see that the naughty passenger simply has not lost interest in your underpants. You leap across the two passengers to freedom, and inform the flight attendant. The dirty perv is apprehended upon arrival. You sue the airline for personal injury.

And you win. Big time.

As twisted as this may be, there is no need to imagine, because this is exactly what happened in Wallace v Korean Air (US Appeals 2^nd Circuit, 2000). The poor Ms. Wallace woke to find that dirty Mr Park had “unbuckled her belt, unzipped and unbuttoned her jean shorts, and placed his hands into her underpants to fondle her”. The most bizarre fact was perhaps not the sexual predation—however undesirable it is and may have been—but that Ms. Wallace brought the case not against the sex offender, but against the airline.

She did so under the Warsaw Convention—that long-winded text printed on the back of airline tickets—which limits liability for personal injury or death to US$75,000 in the event of an “accident”. But Ms. Wallace actually managed to make the Appeal Court in the US find that the airline is liable for the unsavoury actions of dirty Mr. Park, because “the lights were turned down and the sexual predator was left unsupervised in the dark”. The court called what happened “an unexpected or unusual event”, and therefore the law which normally deals with a serious air crash or aerial accident on an international flight would apply.

It is of course not wrong that Ms. Wallace should get her right, and that she is indeed entitled to compensation for the emotional discomfort she may have endured. But do use the Warsaw Convention, which was drafted to deal with more ‘serious’ aviation accidents undermines the law and opens it up to abuse. Luckily, it seems like this peculiar case and peculiar facts are one off, and probably will not be repeated.

But the consequences of Ms. Wallace’s victory are mind boggling. Basically the case implied that airlines has a duty to know who is a sexual predator, and that the inflight steward(ess) should regularly patrol the aisles with a flashlight to see if there are any unwanted hands extended down unwanted pants.

Besides the regular security questions on whether anyone has tampered with your luggage, perhaps the next time you board the plane,the checkin people will ask you if you are a sexual predator, or whether you would mind sitting next to one.

I will be looking forward to my next flight…

In between

Despite the noise of the morning traffic, the racket of passing monster trucks, and the sirens of emergency services, it was a long and welcome chat on the phone. Thanks to my friend who called to check up on how I was doing, for an hour or so I felt less alone and more comfortable being here. We exchanged laughs, as I excitedly told her about my new apartment and how eager I was to move into my very first home of my own. She shared my happiness, and felt my anxieties about being here and having to start life all over again. It felt good to know that someone cares so much. Though she was far away, she was in fact so very close.

I guess in all the excitement about coming to Canada, I completely forgot how much I dislike the dirt and din of big cities. Or perhaps it just takes some getting used to, especially coming from a quiet little village like The Hague, where two pedals away I could always easily escape into the recluse of the forest. Like in my undergrad days in London, my new university is right in the heart of Montreal, situated in the shadow of skyscrapers and the city’s highest hill. In fact, there is even an metro station named after my university, which I guess is something to be proud of. Then again, it feels strange that once you step outside of the classroom, you are again in the bustle and hustle of city life.

I checked out of the hostel I have been staying in for the last five days. Originally I was supposed to move into the new apartment in the morning, but the old tenant was still there, so my landlord told me to wait till the evening. Since I could not do anything, I headed to the law library for the first time. A pretty building, right opposite my institute, five floors, and actually not all that big, especially considering it is the library that supports probably (one of ) the best law school in Canada. I was one of the very few people in the library, especially given that it was a Saturday, and that school had just begun. I sat down, and for the next hours till dusk fell, I worked on a paper that I am working on together with friends I met during the summer school in Barcelona.

Outside, for the first time since I arrived in Canada, it began to rain. The sky had been heavy and dense the whole day, and finally it started to pour. The city took on a whole new coat in the dampness, and even the skyscrapers in the background seemed to have their usual proud towering postures dampened.

I moved the remaining of my luggage to a temporary apartment that my landlord had given to me before I moved into my own one. I called him, just to ask what the situation is, and then came the bad news.

The apartment I had liked since I stepped into it is not going to be available. Apparently, the girl who is staying there changed her mind and does not want to move anymore. What is more, she is actually someone who special needs, which means it will take a lot of effort for her to move house, especially since special appliances that cater for her will have to be fitted, and this cannot just happen within a day or so. According to the landlord, she threw a fit, and was very difficult to deal with. And the landlord sounded really apologetic, and offered to give me another apartment that is in better condition.

What was I to say? To be honest, I was not sure what to believe, but then again, I did not have it in me to say that my needs for the apartment that I liked so much would come before a girl with special needs. I mean, I can only imagine how tough it must be for her to be living on her own, let alone have to be forced to move in a sudden notice. Of course, I was extremely disappointed, and have been feeling pretty upset since I heard the news.

But then again… it is just an apartment, right?

Settling down

(My first steps on Canadian soil...in my beloved Birkenstocks!!)

My fourth night in Canada, and slowly I think I am getting used to it. The street signs and language people speak are French, but then the kind of run-down alleyways next to towering skyscrapers are so typically North American. It still seems odd that I am here now, whereas a few days ago I was still cycling on my bike towards the beach. Big difference here though, it is 30C every day. At least for now, because it is “false advertising” for the real weather, as a lecturer put it.

Yesterday I had a chat with the director of Institute I’m studying in, and he again said that they were delighted to have me, saying that someone with my kind of “caliber” comes “highly recommended”. I modestly thanked him (again) for giving me this wonderful opportunity and the position as a fellow with a generous scholarship. Of course, part of my duties as a fellow of the Institute would be to “give back to the community”, so I will be involved in some extra curricular work. The weather in winter will keep me indoors most of the time anyways, I was assured.

I was actually feeling pretty deflated the first few days… I mean, I know no one, I am a complete stranger in a foreign country, and going from place to place looking for an apartment. Everything I saw was old or really expensive, especially in the so-called McGill Ghetto next to campus. Luckily, the lady bank clerk I met a few days ago managed to track down an apartment for me, and I went to see it this morning.

I was already impressed as soon as I opened the door. There are actually two apartments, one on the second floor, and one in the basement. The former one looks a bit older, and some places were peeling, whereas the one in the basement was restored brand new, and had a better separation of space. Though it is in the basement, and though I have this impression that it would be damp and dark down there, it was nothing like that. Very bright and airy, and the flooring, kitchen, as well as bathtub are all brand new. I did not have to think twice, especially after all the really rubbish and expensive places I had seen in the past few days! And best of all, just around the corner is a metro station, and it takes only around 15minutes for me to get to university. Lots of grocery stores and restaurants nearby, making it very convenient. And another bonus of the apartment is: it is in an area called Monk. So I will hopefully be more spiritual and at ease living in my new home.

The landlord is such a great and trusting person—none of that guarantor hassle or need to pay the first and previous month’s rent as a guarantee as some people have asked me to do. He did not even ask for a deposit, but just said I could move my things in right away. To him, he would rather have a trustworthy and honest tenant (like me!) than leave the apartment empty or let it be taken by drug-addicts or people with very low incomes. And he really is a reasonable person, who seems to have the tenants’ interests in mind. I signed the lease, and after that, he even offered to drive me to Ikea to look at furniture.

When I go to the big furniture store, I realised I did not have much money on me because especially since I am still waiting for my scholarship to appear… so, my bed and table and chairs for my humble abode will have to wait for a while…

But at least, finally after all this time longing for freedom and independence, as of tomorrow, I have a lovely place I can call my own. And this will really be a first.

Househunting

I am a getting anxious and desparate. Been searching for a place for two days, and there is nothing that I like. If a place is not too expensive, then the place is too far, or much too dirty and run-down. So I have been walking around the city, back and forth, going from apartment to apartment, hoping something good would show up.

And everytime I leave an aparment, I feel so deflated, because I have to continue looking. It is really exhausting, especially since I have not done any work for my studies yet, and nor did I have the time to buy books for what I need to read.

So as I came home again late at night, I felt really heavy with tension and stress. Every day I do not find an apartment I must pay a lot for my hostel, and I simply cannot keep on this for long. And living in a hostel means that I must eat out, which also costs a lot of money.... not only that, I feel so unhealthy, as if I do not get enough vegetables and nutrients whenever I eat out... so there seems to be a viscious cycle of despair, which all comes back to the fact that I STILL DO NOT HAVE A PLACE TO STAY...

Despite all these misfortunes, I did have some good fortune today. So I went to open a bank account, and this Asian lady helped me. When she asked for my ID, I gave her my passport, and she flipped through it, and was especially interested in the fact that I had many visas to Taiwan.

"So you go to Taiwan often, I see", she said.
"Yes, because my family lives there. And I was born there."
"Oh, me too!"

Turns out, the lady has been in Canada for 12 years, and also came as a young student, and has since been working at the bank. We started talking in Mandarin, and she was not only helpful in opening the bank account, she even showed me some places to look for an apartment, and offered to help if I need anything. This was a really welcome show of support, and made me feel all the less alone in this big, big city....

First day

I wandered around the unfamiliar streets of the city, cars, horns and sirens whizzing past, now and then the sound of chatter and laughter would pass me by. The sky darkened, and night had fallen. I was surrounded by tall steel and glass buildings, and suddenly it felt pretty lonely in the big city.

I guess the feeling is magnified with the fact that I was tired from having woken up at around 6 in the morning, and have been running around non-stop since then. First in search of an apartment, which still is as desperate as ever, and then going to class and having to wait a long time to be registered as a student. What made it worse was to hear that if by the end of the month I still do not have my student visa done, I will be deregistered and barred from attending class…

Earlier, I had gotten up early to go see an apartment with the lady at the hostel reception. She drove me there, and it took only 10 minutes with the car. For the first time, I could see how it was to go from the city into suburbia, and see that transition from crowded and busy sidewalks to white picket fences and mowed lawns. It was a very quiet residential area, and the apartment is huge, with two bedrooms, one living room, a kitchen and bathroom—all for around CA$600 only. But, later I found out if I were to commute, it would take me around 40 minutes to get to university, and I would much rather live nearby where I study, so I could blend more into the student life.

I treated the lady to some breakfast, for she had been so kind to offer her help in my house hunting. As we chatted, she mentioned something that struck me. She said that she was helping me because I was Asian, and if it were anyone else, then she would rather not extend a helping hand. Perhaps this is because of her divorce from a (white) local, whom she does not much of an opinion of. But then when it came to giving me advice on where to look for places to stay, she actually said that certain areas have a lot of Indians, and told me to avoid that. So much for the exciting multiculturalism and mix of peoples and languages, from Arabs to Europeans, from Jews to Muslims, from Chinese to Vietnamese, that I had encountered on the streets in the very short amount of time I have been in Canada.

I made my way back into the city on the metro. It rode on rubber wheels, like the ones in Paris, and soon I arrived at McGill, and it took sometime to find my way in the underground complex that lay under the main streets of Montreal. Riding the escalator to street level, I was again submerged under the shadows of tall towers housing many important banks and businesses. Then, at the end of the broad street, was an arched column, behind which scores of old building sheltered amid trees.

This was the McGill Campus, and I wandered inside, passing by countless other students on their way to class. Everyone dressed so informally in sandals and shorts, while I felt a little out of place in my white shirt and long dark trousers. It felt peculiar to be in a campus, the kind of place I have seen so many times in American movies, but never before experienced or seen. My first university was merely two buildings in central London, which housed a total of less than 3000 students. McGill was simply a giant, in terms of its student body and the scale of its campus.

I stumbled into my first class, and already a few classmates had sat down. They were pretty friendly, at least the first impression, and we briefly chit chatted. There were only around 15 students, all with diverse educational and professional backgrounds, and each from different countries, which should make the class really interesting. One thing that bound us together was our shared interest in and acceptance at perhaps the foremost institute for the study of air and space law.

The first three hours of lectures was intense, though the professor is really good. After a light-hearted introduction to the institute and to the staff, in the following hours we were bombarded with information on the intricacies of international air carrier liability. All I could think of was whether my long delay and missed flight the day before had anything to do with what we were learning about.

After the lecture, everyone seemed to just vanish somehow, which was a real shame. I was soon left wandering around the campus on my own, and it felt a bit disorientating, as everything was so big and there were so many people and buildings.

I only hope time will make me more familiar with the people and all these stranges sights and places...

Departing for Montreal

The plane rocked and rolled. Not the kind of experience you would like to have at 3000m above the ground, not when visibility was almost zero, and when the windows are constantly being lashed by large needles of rain. The cabin jolted, and one could almost hear a silent sigh of prayers as the little Lufthansa A320 attempted to break through the storm. Thick clouds, swirling and dense with turbulence. Thunder and lightning, and horrendous vibrations.

It was a relief to see the ground, which neared and neared until finally the wheels slammed onto the runway. Grind, screech, halt. Huge splashes of water flew off of the wing tip, as the engines powered reverse. Touchdown at Frankfurt Airport, an hour behind schedule.

The stewardess announced the gate numbers of connecting flights, and mentioned that the flight bound for Montreal was still at the Gate B46. I looked out of the window, and indeed saw the Air Canada Boeing 777-300 standing still at the gate. Peculiar, though, that the skybridge had already been withdrawn, and all the usual gathering of baggage carts and ground personnel were nowhere to be seen.

I stepped out into the rain, as my mind raced to be at the gate. But when you are in a hurry, everything seems to slow you down. Frankfurt this morning suffered sudden severe storms, and many planes like ours were told to circle the skies slowly to stall for time and for a landing slot. And due to the congested traffic, instead of being docked to a gate, our plane had been diverted to the tarmac, and we needed to be bussed to the terminal, which lost a good quarter of an hour. Once inside the terminal, I ran, and ran, following the arrows to the correct gate.

But it was empty. The display which would normally show the flight number and destination was blank. I looked outside the window, and saw the elongated Boeing 777, equipped with two of the most powerful Rolls Royce jet engines in the world, slowly pull away. It is bad enough to watch the train pull away from the platform, but when it is your connecting flight to another country, that is a whole different matter. My heart sunk, as I wondered how long I will have to be stuck at the airport. I was exhausted from the one hour sleep I got last night, and from having to wake up at half past three in the morning, but at that moment, watching the plane that I was supposed to be sitting on turn its back on me, I felt sick.

Deflated I dragged myself and my backpack to the ticket counter. A wait of almost an hour later, there seemed hope. I could be rebooked on a flight to Montreal, via Boston, the counter lady said. But I dreaded going through the US—with all its draconian security measures and baggage checks. There was another option, and that was through Paris, though it would mean a total waiting time of around six hours. Anything seemed better than not being able to arrive on time for my first day of classes tomorrow, so I took what was offered.

Who would have thought, or even imagined, that a simple trip to Montreal would take me through two different countries, with three different flights. But Paris was a welcome stopover, for it was the capital of the French-speaking world, while Montreal, my final destination, is labelled the second largest French-speaking city in the world (at least according to my trusted companion Lonely Planet). There is some meaning in everything I guess. And perhaps life is telling me to start refreshing my rusty French.

Outside, the sky is clear, as the Air France Boeing 747-400 soars towards the Arctic Circle, ready to curve down to Montreal. My journey to Canada is almost at an end. But a new life is just about to begin.

Pre-departure

A new world is about to open before me in just a few hours.

In the final hours in the Netherlands, I went to the beach, the same beach I have strolled down when I was sad, when I was tense, when I was feeling inspired. The seagulls called out and sailed on the rough seas. A strong wind blew, and I clung onto my clothes. The sea and its saltiness on my lips.

I was not alone. Next to me was a dear friend, guide, and support. Someone who has given me many valuable lessons, someone who has been there when I was lonely and down. The skies flashed, and it began to rain.

Drizzle at first, but then it stormed. On the final night in the Netherlands, I sat in my friends apartment, and listened to the rain fall on the window over a hot cup of tea and homemade cookies. The air filled with the delicious scent of cooking and homeliness, and temporarily I thought about how I will miss such company when I leave.

The rain has since died, the wind since calmed. Outside a starry night, soon to turn into bright morning. This final night in the Netherlands, my suitcase packed, my clothes for the long flight westward folded and waiting to be worn.

A journey is about to begin... my life is given a new opportunity, one that I still have to discover and learn about.

Home again

I spread out my arms, and felt like I was soaring! High, flying adored, on my bike I have missed much in the past two months. The sea fell on my lips, and air wafted through my hair. A kind of freedom and relief rarely felt, yet whenever felt rejuvenates. Speed flew past my ears with the wind, as I pedalled swiftly through the night. A cool breeze, a starry night, the night before my last day in the Netherlands.

It felt a bit strange to be home again, even stranger with the knowledge that within the next 24 hours I will be packing up and leaving again. Home had somehow become a sort of stop-over, between one destination and another, from one place in life to another. Ironic, since home is supposed to be a place you return to after a long journey and rest. But there is no rest for me, not now.

My cat greeted me at the door as I entered. She sat and watched me, turned her head sideways, adorably as if to say that she recognised me, but that it has been much too long. Yet, the two months in Barcelona was just the beginning. Coming Monday will be the start of a new era in my life, a real move out of the house I have been living in, or at least been going back to, for the past ten years.

It is with strange feelings that I now sit in my own room, knowing that the day after tomorrow this room will no longer be my room, but just a room like so many I have, or am about to, grace.

Goodbye Barcelona

The final few hours, in Barcelona. My home for the last two months, my home for the Summer of 2008. And now so soon, it all seems to come to an end.

So much has happened in the past few weeks, in so little time, that I wish I could try to capture it all in words. Now I am about to leave with mixed feelings. Exhausted most of all, but at the same time overjoyed that I have graduated from a highly-respected University. Tired most of all, but at the same time anxious what ample opportunities in the great wide space out there.

Barcelona, thank you for the great times, the moments of tension, the moments of laughter, friendship, and harwork. Thank you for the beauty in your narrow alleyways, for the beauty of your citylife, and for the excitement and liveliness you have brought into our lives.



BARCELONA

Barcelona Barcelona
Barcelona Barcelona
Viva

I had this perfect dream
-Un sueño me envolvió
This dream was me and you
-Tal vez estás aquí
I want all the world to see
-Un instinto me guiaba
A miracle sensation
My guide and inspiration
Now my dream is slowly coming true

The wind is a gentle breeze
-Él me hablo de ti
The bells are ringing out
-El canto vuela
They're calling us together
Guiding us forever
Wish my dream would never go away

Barcelona - It was the first time that we met
Barcelona - How can I forget
The moment that you stepped into the room you took my breath away
Barcelona - La música vibró
Barcelona - Y ella nos unió
And if God willing we will meet again someday

Let the songs begin
-Déjalo nacer
Let the music play
-Ahhhhhhhh...
Make the voices sing
-Nace un gran amor
Start the celebration
-Ven a mí
And cry
-Grita
Come alive
-Vive
And shake the foundations from the skies
Ah,Ah,Shaking all our lives

Barcelona - Such a beautiful horizon
Barcelona - Like a jewel in the sun
Por ti seré gaviota de tu bella mar
Barcelona - Suenan las campanas
Barcelona - Abre tus puertas al mundo
If God is willing
-If God is willing
If God is willing
Friends until the end
Viva - Barcelona

Hours before the presentation

In a few hours, it will all be almost over. A presentation still needs to be done, but at least the vast majority of deadlines, assignments, assessments and lectures are all over. A sigh of relief, but not just yet.

It is interesting in a group of people how quickly you see people's true nature. Though we are supposed to be in a group project, it appears to be always the same people who show up at meetings, the same people who go to bed late, and always the same people who do the writing, the administrative work, and who try to get everyone else organised! And I happen to be one of these people.

Not that I am complaining, but sometimes you ask yourself and wonder: where are all the rest? Why are they not involved? Why do they get the same assessment as me, when they have done almost nothing at all?

I do enjoy what I have been doing for the past few weeks. We are involved in such a historic prjoect that could potentially change the way the world thinks about space activities. I mean this is why I chose this project, and why I volunteer myself to do whatever I can to make it however better it can be. Because I believe in space, and its ability to bring people together. When we humankind discover what possibilities are out there that overshadow the pettiness of nationalism, greed, indifference and intolerance, then we will realise that we need unity, peace and understanding of one another. In space, we realise how lonely we are, and realise the ugliness of our small feuds and discontents.

Tomorrow, the project will be presented and delivered, and it will be over for us. But a new age has just begun. If not, then at least for me.

Politicisation of flags

I am not really sure how I got embroiled in a political conflict, here at tmy summer school of space studies. I am at an institution founded on top-class education based on international exchange and intercultural understanding. But somehow the issue of my Taiwanese nationality has become an issue of debate. Unhappily so.

It all began as we were entering our final preparation stage for the report due next week. Historically, because the team compiling the report consists of dozens of people from all over the world, the tradition is that on the back cover there is a list of names, with next to the names the flag of the country where the person comes from. There have been incidences where people who have two nationalities have two flags next to their name.

So I do have dual-nationality, and like everyone who has the right to have both his/her country represented, I asked the person responsible for designing the cover to include the Dutch and Taiwanese flag.

Then came the email. From a fellow Chinese student who protested against the inclusion of Taiwan or the Taiwan flag in the flag. As if echoing the speech of an official from the Chinese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, this issue (before I realised it became an issue at all!) became labelled as a "serious matter".

So I took steps to stop things going any further. Believe me, the last thing I want is to be in the middle of a debate about sovereignty and never-ending "Taiwan-is-a-part-of-China" claim. It is simply futile and does not get anywhere. I wrote a very diplomatic and carefully phrased email to our programme director, requesting that he clarify the issue, and I cc-ed the email to people in our team, thinking they should be informed about the latest development in this very unpredicted protest from our Chinese colleague(s).

Hours later, I was spoken to by the chair. Though it was right to refer the matter to the director, and though the Chinese student had no right to decide what goes in or out of the final group report, it was a terrible mistake for me to cc the email to everyone. It was escalating things further, and putting the matter on the public forum, I was told.

I came away from that meeting somewhat disheartened. I am not sure what I had done to provoke anything, and if I did do anything (like write that email and send it to everyone) then it was only because I wanted the input from a neutral party with the authority to decide on such matters of controversy. And somehow the issue has come back to bite me, and I've made a number of people irritated.

It is funny.... even at an academic institution of learning and international cooperation, that politics can raise its ugly head and wreak discord and sow upset. All because of a flag... all because certain people cannot tolerate dissent or another opinion, and feels the need to shoot down all semblances of what has so often been labelled "splitting the Motherland" or "subversion".

And all I wanted was to be represented. All what I wanted was to be represented fully like everyone else has a right to. I am Taiwanese and Dutch, and those are my identities, those are the cultures and countries that have shaped me. Am I to deny that because someone else protests?

Once again, the politicization of everyday mundane things unveals its ugliness.

Go Andorra

I guess my friends and I were just fed up. Fed up with meetings that last hours but do not really get anywhere. Fed up with having to sacrfice Saturdays and Sundays to have discussions and work almost constantly day and night. Of course we all know that the project we are involved in is extremely important, and may even have an impact on the future of space activities, but we all needed a break!

So we silently sneaked out of our dorms on Sunday morning, and headed quickly towards the bus station. We booked a place, and the bus to get there, within an hour or so of deciding that we should take a short trip to get away from it all. Andorra awaited.

The bus journey to the mini-state lodged between France and Spain was uneventful, mostly because we were all dead-exhausted from lack of sleep and overload of work in the past few days. The day earlier, we had spent almost ten hours of non-stop meetings, and tensions between certain people in the group were running high. It was somewhat unpleasant to be there, and I could feel people getting really stressed and demotivated. So I slept almost the complete three hour journey from Barcelona to Andorra, only waking up at times to catch a glimpse of the scenery outside.

Mountains, blue water reflecting the sky, majestic rock formations, wooded landscapes... Catalunya is really such a diverse and magical land, with such much to explore and discover. It seemed like every turn of the bus revealed a new lands waiting to be discovered, towering tops of mountains, blended with gorgeous valleys and plains. Eventually, we arrived in Andorra, crossing the border with ease, and we were in another country.

The main city is located between soaring mountains in a way that it sometimes felt claustrophobic. There are only a few streets, and the main avenue was a shoppers paradise, filled with designer clothes, cheap electronics and ridiculously cheap cigarettes and liquer, because Andorra is a low-tax heaven. Most of the cars were Spanish or French, which shows how popular the country is. I felt a bit trapped, and wanted to get away into nature, but I didn't have much of a chance.

But it was nice to be with two people I could get to know better, and I think a shared experience like a road-trip, especially when sharing a room when the snore of another is so very close, really brings people together. We walked around the shops somewhat, and even had a chance to climb up half the mountain. Most relaxing of all was enjoying a long, long soak in the local thermal spa, which softened our bones and muscles after the past eight weeks of intense work and stress. I slept so surprisingly well, and did not get up until half an hour or so before we had to check out of the room!

I felt refreshed and rejuvenated returning to my little room in the middle of the heat of Barcelona. And I felt a little guilty too, especially since most of the group of people I'm doing this project with were here, slaving away... But sometimes you just need to get away to get some perspective. And get away to be free.