My dear suitcase

My dear suitcase,

I was overjoyed to hear about your safe arrival in Korea, and that you and I will be reunited soon once more. Tell me, have the ground staff at San Francisco been treating you well in the days we were so forcibly separated? Where were you hiding that they could not even locate you, even with the latest tracking technology and a luggage tag so clearly and boldly strapped onto your handlebar?

Please forgive me, but honestly I did not abandon you on purpose. After being stranded in San Francisco, my initial response was to inquire about your whereabouts. I was worried that you had boarded the plane that I had missed by a mere 15 minutes. Those crucial 15 minutes turned into 24 hours of waiting for the next best connection, after I rejected the ridiculous idea that United Airlines proposed, which was for me I fly back to the East Coat to Washington, then to Los Angeles in order to catch a flight from there to Korea. I told them: I just came from Montreal!

But however long I had to wait, know that you were my main concern. I knew I would eventually get to Korea-- even though I received no compensation or reimbursement for my lodgings, food, transit to and from the airport-- but the question was would you? United personnel told me, on three separate occassions no less, that you were still around, and that you will be loaded onto the flight I was rescheduled on. Even when I checked in the next morning, United reassured me again that you were coming along to Korea with me.

But it turns out they were wrong, and I suspect too afraid to admit it. Instead they made up a story, tried to placate me with tall tales while they bidded for time to find you. Or at least I would like to hope they made the effort to locate you. The very next day, as soon as I landed at Narita, I asked again about your wellbeing, and the airline personnel assured me that you were getting cosy with your fellow travel buddies in the belly of the plane of the onward connection to Korea.

Nothing could be further than the truth. When I arrived at Incheon Airport, I waited, and waited, and waited. The baggage concourse emptied, and soon so did the terminal building. Then the concourse stopped moving, and in that spacious baggage pick-up area, I stood there and could almost hear the echo of my heart breaking. You were nowhere to be seen.

I filed a "Missing Luggage Report" immediately, and they spent an hour trying to figure out what had happened, in vain. I gave them my collection of boarding passes (by now enough to start an album), and gave them details of my grueling trip from Montreal to Chicago, to San Francisco, to Narita, and eventually landing exhausted and unbathed two days later at Incheon. It was already past ten on Sunday night, some 55 hours after we both happily left home in Montreal. Who would have thought that fate had destined us to be separated so dramatically and for an uncertain amount of time?

But, little did I know, more drama was to follow. Believe me, I called the airline every single day, on some days twice or even three times. Tuesday last, I was thrilled to be told that you were making your way to my hotel. The afternoon came and went, and night tiptoed on the horizon and eventually fell. I waited, and waited, and waited, but there was not even a shadow. The ever so courteous airline was of course kind enough not to even bother to keep me informed of the latest developments.

I called the next day, only to be told by that you had suddenly gone missing again. Somehow you had 'appeared', and then did a miraculous vanishing act in their records. That you were coming was yet another blatant lie.

All this time, tag code "UA362154" was the only link I clung onto in the hopes of locating you, and yet the online tracking system did not recognise the code. I tried calling the United helpline in the US, in Canada, and in Korea. They all told me to wait, to be patient, but I feared for the worst... Kidnapping... theft... it all crossed my mind. A fine and sturdy, black and well-travelled suitcase like you is much sought after. Especially as on either side of your fine body, you have those beautiful tattoos of all the flights you have taken and all the places you have been to. Worst of all, I thought of the possibility that perhaps someone was jealous of the sticker"If it ain't Boeing, I ain't going" that you proudly bear on your chest , and decided to hold you hostage.

Then I rang again this morning, and somehow the airline managed to find you. Why didn't you let people know you were hanging around at SFO all this time? And did you request to be placed on "Airline of the Year" Asiana, despite the fact that I was forced to downgrade to the disjointed United?

How thrilled I was that you are arriving, and so well timed that you would arrive one day before I leave again. The conference already began and is nearing its end, and my presentation was already over and done with. I had to make do with makeshift last-minute shopping for new clothes, socks and underwear, even though I longed for the warmth and familiarity of the contents of your body.

Did you know the airline was actually going to send you in a truck to my hotel, even though in the same evening I would have to haul you all the way back to the airport again to catch a flight early the next day? As much as I would have liked to be reunited with you earlier, I told the airline that there was little sense in sending you to me, and there's even a chance we might cross paths and miss one another, as we have already painfully done. I suggested to the airline to simply load you onboard the flight I will be taking to Taipei.

But they said that they could not do that. That would pose a "security risk", was the reasoning, for you cannot be handled or checked on board a flight by a third party. I protested vehemently, and questioned the airline on the absolute nonsense they once again were feeding me.

If you cannot fly or be left alone because you supposedly pose a "security risk", then how can you be abandoned at SFO (of all countries to be paranoid about security threats...) for 5 days and eventually check yourself aboard a 12hour flight across the Pacific when I was not even aboard that flight? Were not these examples more of a security risk than automatically loading you aboard the same flight that I will be taking anyways? Apparently, the airline had not caused me enough grief and anxiety, not to mention financial expenses already and was putting more obstacles between you and me.

More phone calls, more complaints, and eventually United gave in and agreed to my request. How much effort did it take to locate you, and to convince them what would be the most logical and efficient way of reuniting with you? How much time did I waste listening to broken reassurances and fantasies told by one airline personnel after another?

I will see you, bright and early, Friday morning.

I hope it really is you

Surprise

I had to leave that place as soon as the mellow music began to sound in the background. Tears were filling my eyes, and my vision became a watery blur. Wandering around Danshui, I stumbled into the former home of Dr. George Mackay, the humanitarian doctor and Presbyterian priest who established the hospital I was born in. The old artifacts and the little room, which used to be his consultation office, made me emotional, and the music was what pushed it. Merely a few hours after landing in Taiwan, I was crying. Belated tears which I held because I did not want to appear weak, because I did not want to see my mum see me cry.

Three hours earlier I arrived home, put down my suitcase, quickly showered to cleanse myself of the sweat from hauling my belongings up the five flights of stairs. My heart was racing, and I was smiling unexpectedly from the anticipation of seeing mum again. I called her, and as expected, she was at the hospital.

Immediately I sensed something was wrong. It was in her voice. It was so... sad, so... silent. Gone was the energy with which she spoke when we spoke earlier just before I boarded my flight at Incheon. I rushed to meet her at the gates of the hospital. When I saw her, she somehow felt me coming and looked up. With arms outstretched, she beckoned me to come closer. We hugged and I patted her gently on the back, close my eyes momentarily as I savoured that moment of reunion.

There was a sadness on her face. A sadness compounded with disbelief, and perhaps confusion or even fear. The prognosis is not good. There is a 'lump', this time around a lymph gland. The doctor recommends immediate chemo.

"Some things cannot be predicted..."

Eight sessions, with around a two week interval in between each one. Each one lasts around two to three days. And each one takes a week to recover from. Until the next session.

"I've been eating well, sleeping well, and even 'doing it' well. Who would have known?"

The treatment will be more intensive, and the drug will be stronger than before. Hair will fall out. We strolled slowly together. I was close to tears, but clenched my teeth so that the tears would not flood over my eye lids and run down my face. How that moment hurt. How, as those words left her mouth, I felt like a heavy, heavy weight weigh down on my previously flighty and light heart.

"Last year when I stopped the treatment, the effects of the drugs took a long time to go away. And now I have to inject more poison into my body. I will become so tired, so weak..."

Right then, I felt like turning away, running away and crying quietly in the corner where one could see me, where no one could touch me. I knew I could not. I must be strong. I must be there for my mum. But how strong can I be when even now, as I type, I tremble at the thought of my mum under going treatment again? How strong can I be to have to watch her suffer, watch her strength fade from day to day, helplessly watch her feel the immeasurable amount of pain and anxiety that I cannot do anything to take away?

Mum is at work now, for an hour or so longer until she finishes for the week. As I walked to kill time before she finishes work, she accompanied me to the door. I walked slowly away, and turned back to see her stand there in front of her office and look back at me. I gathered the strength to wave at her. And she smiled back. She still stood there, and watching me as I disappeared into the crowd. I turned back again, only to see her, with sunken shoulders and a lowered head, gradually make her way into the office.

Mum, I am home.

Homeward bound

Sitting here at the airport, about to round up my trip to Korea. It's been an eventful trip, with missed connections, frustrations at the lost lugguage, being unbearably lost in translation. But there have also been positive experiences too. This truly is a unique country, so steeped in tradition, history and culture, yet all those roots to the past and to the Korean heritage is so well grafted onto modernity, technology and hope for the future.

Just spoke to mum on the phone, as today is the day when she receives the results of her latest checkup. She sounded good, telling me to go to all these places and to travel around and enjoy myself. I told her that I was in Incheon (where I really am), and she said it's a big port city, where dad and her visited before when I was very little. She once told me that I was so happy to see them leave, and even waved goodbye to them. Yet little did I know they were going to be away for a number of days, probably the longest I've ever been away from them. I can't remember if I cried after saying goodbye.

I am in Incheon, but little does mum know that I'm at Incheon International Airport. She recommended that I go to Jeju, a tropical island that's supposed to be very beautfiul and famous. She said that it's best to fly there as the distance is far to travel. I said I'll think about it. And I smiled inside. Indeed, I'll be flying to a tropical island, but just not the one that she was thinking of.

Later around noon she will probably be at the hospital. It's also around the time that I arrive in Taipei. She said she's been asking the Buddha for blessings, and hopes that things will be alright.

I will find out when I arrive.

"My sister's keeper"

I have a particular habit of watching sad movies on a long flight. Moving movies, movies that are deep, or perhaps depressing. Movies that try to portray the human side of life and, naturally, of its counterpart.

So no surprise that on this trans-Pacific flight I was fixated by My Sister’s Keeper.

The cabin air was dry, but my eyes were not almost throughout the movie. On a tiny screen not much bigger than the display of my camera, I watched the movie as we brushed the skies over Alaska. A simple story, if simplified, about a family living with a dying child with severe leukaemia, and the attempts of a determined mother who has done and continues to strive to do everything she can to save the daughter’s life. Death is cruel and inescapable, and the girl eventually succumbs to fate. Prayers cannot withstand the spread of sickly cells. The world’s best medicine cannot reverse the failure of the kidneys and gradually the poisoning of the blood. And even love, though deep and with miraculous abilities to heal, cannot heal the girl’s terminal illness.

Watching someone struggle and cling onto dear life is difficult. Even more so if it is someone dear, someone close, someone you wish you could give or do anything if only to win one last brief moment with. But ultimately you lose the person. You try to hold your tears, in vain, as you hold onto the person’s still warm hands, and feel, and watch. Watch, powerlessly and unwillingly, as life wanes and fades, as the slightest twitch of the fingers stop.

Watching someone’s eyes grow yellow, head go bald, and arms become frail and thin is unbearable. You are pained and cut deeply by the contrast between images of a time when there was not a worry in the world, when life was filled with good health and happiness. The next moment twisted by the uncertainty and apprehension of going into the cold, sterile environs of the oncology ward. You think of the beautiful memories, lasting and long, repeatedly played over and over again in your mind… of times spent laughing, of childhood and growing up, of the romantic moment sharing a sunset, of silently watching from a distance as the person is peacefully asleep.

And yet, they become so wretchedly contaminated with the realities of death, and dying. How do you let go? How do you let go, but at the same time remind yourself that you will not forget, because if you forget this person dies with your lost memories?

My Sister’s Keeper spoke to me. Personally. But it is also a reminder to everyone of us how fragile life can be, and how easily one can become so caught up with the onslaught of death, whenever it may come. And as sure as the sun will rise, death will come. In the face of death, fear and uncertainty often consumes us. And in the face of someone else’s death, loss, regret and deep, deep sorrow often swallows us.

But it is not the dying that is the end all or be all. And neither is the girl’s death the highlight of the movie— if death could ever be a highlight of anything. It is the first kiss, the hugs before bed, the warmth of being wrapped in your parent’s arms, the uncontrollable outbreaks of smiles and laughter over a family meal, the joy of jumping around in the sand next to roaring waves that matter. It is the in-betweens, the intimate moments, and the shared times captured by a little picture or caught by plain words as they float around with the passage of someone’s lifetime that count, and that are worth remembering.

In those final moments, the girl hands her mother a little scrapbook filled with photographs, scribbles, cut out messages and drawn hearts. Perhaps to leave something behind in this world, and in the lives of others she has come across. Or perhaps to tell her mother that death is not necessarily the end.

Stuck in San Franciscio

There was a chillingly cold breeze blowing in from the Pacific. Night fell, and the streets of the normally vibrant city emptied. I strolled toward the pier, the same place where only two months ago was packed with bustling crowds of curious tourists and sightseers. Now there was only the occasional couple braving the cold in one another’s embrace, and some random commuters trying to rush home for the long weekend ahead. Even seagulls, abundant in the hot, humid summer, seemed to have hibernated.

Beneath the yellow glow of street lights I wandered alone. Somehow, a sore twist of fate and missed connections landed me this moment of reflection in San Francisco on this breezy October night. Leaves fell and danced at my feet, as trees shuddered. The spells of anticipation and deep disappointment at missing my Korea-bound flight had already subsided. As I looked around, I realised I was not the only one wandering around the city aimlessly.

A man and his friend pushed a cart filled with plastic bags and salvaged bottles down the pavement. Another clung onto a soiled and ragged sleeping bag as he limped on. A few lay on cardboards close to holes that vented warm air as the subway rushed past. The clanking of coins in a cup sounded as I passed a dark alleyway. I looked down, only to be confronted by the sorry scene of an unshaven man in tattered rags huddled together trying to keep warm. There was a pungent stench of unwashed clothes and frayed human hair that had weathered the elements for far too long. In a set of sunken eyes was the sight of pity, sorrow, and of destitution. “Change… Give me change…” For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he meant spare coins or was begging to some unknown force to somehow suddenly transform his current sad fate.

On top of a flagpole, a gigantic star spangled banner, perhaps mockingly too big and majestic, gently waved and slightly wavered in the wind.

Eastbound

Already October, and the leaves are changing colours once again.

The windy night will probably blow many onto the road, sweep them away as if they never were part of the lush, dense, green foliage that provided shadow in the heat of summer. Soon, the trees will be barren again. Shame I will not be here to see that gradual transition of the seasons.

Second last night here in Montreal for a while to come. The luggages are half-packed, and in that apprehensive mode before embarking on this long trip eastward. It will be quite a trip, and to be honest I am not really looking forward to it. The first journey across the Pacific will be horrible... 22hrs of travelling, in three different planes at three different locations. That is, if I manage to catch all the planes on time. One hour of transfering does not leave much leeway for error or delays... Hopefully I arrive in Korea incident-free...

Then the presentation on Tuesday. I think I am prepared.... even though for the past two weeks I've been avoiding working on it. The person I was working with (or supposed to be working with) didn't do much, and in the end had lots of criticisms on how the visual presentation was set up. Fair comments, on being too wordy and to lengthy... but there were even comments about the background blue colour, which really put me off. So I've been pretty depressed for some time, wondering about the quality of my work... wondering if I'm going to make a fool of myself standing there in front of people and talking about such a simple (read cynical) thesis as space cooperation. I think, or at least I hope, after the presentation I will feel more relieved...

Then yesterday I spoke to mum, and she sounded down. Anxious, perhaps, about her latest checkup, and talking in a way that seemed to suggest that she might not be here this time next year. It hurt to hear that, and I tried to sound confident, even so deep inside I was already mourning... already crying invisible tears. I wish I could be there for her now, comfort her, make her happy and smile. But I'm not there.

The only way I can be there is to change my plans. Originally I planned to stay a week in Korea to travel around a bit, but I cancelled all that. And now I'm set to fly back to Taiwan a week or so early. On the day that mum gets her latest checkup results. I'm imaging rushing to the hospital as soon as I arrive and sitting there in that narrow crowded corridor waiting to be called in by the doctor...
I want to be there, whatever the news.

Maybe I cannot help her, but hopefully my being there, however fleeting and brief, will distract her from her dark, brooding thoughts...

The East is still Red at 60

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers, men and women, stood on Tiananmen today as President Hu Jintao cruised by in his Chinese-made limousine. These members of the People’s Liberation Army, Navy and Air Force are awe-inspiring, vigilant, and no doubt proud to have been chosen to be part of the meticulously planned parade to celebrate the People’s Republic of China’s 60^th birthday. Even the sky was bright, sunny and manipulated. The whole atmosphere surrounding the ‘Gates of Heavenly Peace’ must have been reminiscent of that revolutionary song “The East is Red”:

The east is red, the sun is rising

China has brought forth a Mao Zedong.

He works for the people's welfare.

Hurrah, He is the people's great savior.

Chairman Mao loves the people,

He is our guide,

To build a new China,

Hurrah, he leads us forward!

The Communist Party is like the sun,

Wherever it shines, it is bright.

Wherever there is a Communist Party,

Hurrah, there the people are liberated!

The pomp and show, Communist kitsch and symbolisms will no doubt have been broadcast and shown around the world. Hu’s normal Western attire of suit and tie was today traded for a black Mao costume. Even if the era of everyone dressing in the same drab clothing is long gone, on occasion the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party must don on that stern, sterile, smile-less look of a simple party cadre. A sea of children with red and yellow flowers and banners spelt out inspiring messages as "Listen to the Party," and "Be Loyal to the Party."

There were magnificent floats showcasing the People’s Republic’s achievements in the last six decades. There were floats representing all of China’s twenty-two provinces, and ‘autonomous regions’, including ones with happy, rejoicing Tibetans and celebrating Uyghurs all too happy to have been liberated and incorporated to be part of the “great rejuvenation of the Chinese nation”. Distant are memories and images of those dark times when the vast majority of the country was an impoverished mass of peasants suffering under the yoke of corrupt landowners and imperialist lackeys. China today is the world’s second largest economy, with shiny skyscrapers in bustling world-class cities like Shanghai, its very own Airbus production line, and the ability to send a man into outer space (and back). China, as a veto-wielding power of the Security Council, the only ally of North Korea, is undoubtedly playing a key role in regional and world affairs, and not afraid to show that its new-found wealth is fuelling vast investments and vested economic and geopolitical interests in Africa, and the developing world at large. There are even those who are quick to tout Red China’s recent decision to “go green” will be the trigger of most significant revolution in human history since the launch of Sputnik.

Then came the long awaited speech. There was silence, deafening, awe-inspiring, and glorious as Comrade Hu spoke beneath portraits of the Great Revolutionary Father Mao Zedong, and the Great Mastermind of “Socialiasm with Chinese Characteristics” Deng Xiaoping. Hu urged the millions of Chinese people, ‘told’ to watch the celebrations at home, to "work hard to achieve new victories in building a moderately prosperous society in all respects and write a new chapter of a happy life for the people". This is a different China, a new China, a China that is forever a “rich, strong, democratic, civilized, harmonious and modernized socialist country”. The waves and waves of applause and cheering must have rivalled the moment when Mao, on that very square, uttered in his squeaky voice that “the Chinese people have stood up”.

Dreams....

It's been a while since I last had such intense dreams. Must have been early morning, in that twilight zone between morning and night. It was so intense, I could feel myself 'cry' dry tears and cringe in sorrow. In my vision appeared two people I miss in my life, and who have unfortunately passed away already. And I never thought I would see them in my dreams... especially not together.

First to appear was my grandmother (on my dad's side). She and I were really close, as when I was young, I used to spend time with her during the summer. It's been a while since I last thought of her, but in the dream she was still the sweet and kind old lady I remember her as. A smile with few teeth remaining, wrinkled skin, and worn hands from years of working and toiling to raise a family of seven... I realised in my dream how much she meant to me, how I really miss her, and how little I've thought of her...

And somehow my grandmother merged into my dad, who appeared too. I forget what we did or said, but he was there. And it's been a while since he last appeared before me. He looked the same, healthy and thin, and that unmistaken smile. He felt warm, gentle, and spoke in a way that broke me, even though I no longer remember what he said...

I woke up, and felt so alone... naked, and exposed. I clutched onto a pillow next to me, and longed for human company. No matter who, just someone to hold me, to comfort me, and to whisper to me that things are alright. To just tell me that things are not as lonely as they seem...

Looking

What am I looking for?
Maybe if I stop looking, I'll find it.

Official song of the Deaflympics 2009

聽得見的夢想 (Dreams you can hear)
Sung by mandopop diva Chang Hui-Mei (A-Mei).





Translation mine:

The stars silently flash with light,
Humming and singing with the musical movements of angels,... Lees Meer
Breeze from the mountains warm up [your] raised chests,
Raising your silent and brooding expectations.
Cover [the], hand placed on [the] heart,
Close [your] eyes [and you] can see the distance.

Never been afraid,
You and I are the same.
There is nowhere [we] cannot reach.
The warmest treasure
Through the vision of concentration [we] hear dreams.
The most realistic strength
Hides the silent skies,[we] hear hope.

Laughter is love’s bridge,
In the process [we] treasure even the pain.
Maybe the journey is longer,
[But I] see you arrive with pride.
Cover [the] ears, raise [our] hands toward the sky,
Use the heart to receive cheer’s fame.
Sweat is the medal radiating with blinding light
Lighting the places you hurdle [across].

My Canada Day

Some nineteen hours since I left home, after boarding three different planes at three different locations, I finally made it across the Atlantic. A long journey it was, braving thunderstorms, missed connections, lack of sleep, and the cruel fate of forced (albeit temporary) separation from one of my suitcases full of my momentos. Still clinging onto my clothes was the scent and saltiness of the North Sea.

Though I arrived a little later than planned perhaps, last year, and on this very day, the warm breeze of a late summer’s night in Montreal blew in the winds of change. I remember my very first step on Canadian territory in my Birkenstocks. Despite the losses of the previous few months, I was fortunate to be given a new opportunity. A new country, a new city, a whole new world lay before me, waiting to be discovered. How exciting and refreshing that was!

I remember my very first meal, of couscous and shrimp brochettes, on a terrace beneath the shadows and reflections of towering skyscrapers. And I remember my very first sight of the Rodderick Gates, behind which in the months to come opened up a wealth of memories and learning at McGill.

That first night, I wandered through the unfamiliar streets of a then big and foreign city. I knew no one, and no one knew me. Cars, horns and sirens whizzed past, while the sound of random chatter and laughter passed me by, almost intensifying a growing sense of loneliness. The sky darkened, and night had fallen. And the closest thing I could call ‘home’ for the coming two weeks would be a downtown hostel.

Life hurries on, and at times I am left trailing behind trying to make sense of all that has happened. And of all that is still to come.

One year on, and I have slowly began to build up a life, a home, friendships and a sense of belonging. Right here, right here in Canada.

On Lake Katchewanooka

There was an ever so faint trail of mist, white, lingering and hovering over the smooth, smooth surface. Light was just dawning as the sun slowly rose. All was quiet, all was still, save for the sporadic birdsong and the creak of some lonely cicada. Or perhaps it was a cricket?

The lake, undisturbed and unstirred from a sleepy, moonless night, rippled underneath. The sky, blue and clear, lightly dabbed with clouds of cotton white, reflected on the watery mirror that spread into the distance. The sound of water drip-dropping from my oar onto the lake’s almost flawless face was almost embarrassingly loud.

With every stroke, a thin silvery whirlpool emerged and faded. With every paddle, the lake parted before the bow, bowing to form gentle waves that would ebb, flow and fall across the horizon onto silent shores.

Early morning and two people on a simple canoe glided over the Katchewanooka. I looked into the murky depths of the lake, overgrown with weeds and water grass, parts of which were so dense and thick that it resembles a nebula of greens. In other parts of the lake, the water was so shallow we seemed to be skirting the ground, ever vigilant of the treacherous rock or boulder that could sink our little vessel.

We skimmed the surface on the lake under my rhythmic movements. Pull, lift, pull, lift, steady as a beating drum, and the canoe rocked forward. In a field of reed we stopped and listened. To the quiet whisper of the winds, the soft flow of water, and the rustling sounds of grass dancing and nodding their heads.

For a moment we seemed to be alone in this great big world. Dark silhouettes of trees crowded the shores around us, and little lily pads floated to softly stroke the side of the canoe. Nothing but wild, raw nature, untamed in its beauty, unmatched in its tranquillity and serenity. We faintly drifted to the sway of the breeze and currents. Until the distant murmur of a roaring motorboat cruelly brought us back to reality.

It was such a simple joy, being there, paddling away, and at times simply drifting away to wherever the currents pleased. A simple joy of doing something so quintessentially Canadian in a little canoe on a big, broad lake.

“If you’re going to San Francisco…”

The taxi lurched forward, gliding gently over the paved pathway. Outside the transparent glass, a gigantic neon-light crab went by. A tingling crowd had gathered before a row of stalls at Fisherman’s Wharf vending steamy clam chowder and fresh king crabs. The scene was like the silent still of a travel documentary, yet lively and real.

“So you’re a visitor from out of town, right?”

“Yeah, just here for a few days. I’ve heard so much about the city, it’s so exciting to be here,” I replied.

“Yeah, San Fran is unique alright. Inspiring and rich in colours and culture everywhere you go,” he said with a smile.

On a street corner, a group of youths sat gathered in a circle shaped like a the crescent moon. One guy with long sideburns played a guitar, while a girl with long beaded hair and flowery dress danced. Her movements were carefree, light and mesmerising, as if she had not the slightest worry in the world. “Who were those people?

“Them? Hippies, they call them. And it all began in what they called the “Summer of Love” of 1967. Youngsters began to flock to San Francisco that year. To use a phrase of the time, they came to “turn on, tune in and drop out”, and they lounged on colourful psychedelic buses all over town, but mainly in the Haight-Ashbury area. They believed in free love, experimented with drugs to free the mind and experience different levels of consciousness. And they championed respect for the environment, spoke of “flower power” and “green power” even before scientists alarmed the world about the effects of global warming. Have you heard that song “San Francisco”?

“Not sure. How does it go?”

And with that, the he began to sing. His voice was mellow, yet forceful; calm, yet able to carry the words and their meanings across time and into my ears.

“If you're going to San Francisco,
be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.
If you're going to San Francisco,
you're gonna meet some gentle people there.”

“ ‘Gentle people’, huh?” I repeated, hinting that I was unsure what that meant.

“Yeah, I think Scott Mckenzie capture it best with his song. Hippies were not a bunch of idealist layabouts, as they were dismissed as in those days. They genuinely believed in something real. They believed in the possibility that love and human compassion can change the world. They spoke out against the establishment, which they believed was based on exploitation and oppression of the lower classes.”

“Classes? As in those juniors in my school?”

“No, ‘class’ was a social invention of the 20th Century. It was a psychological barrier created in the minds of narrow-minded people who believed themselves to be better than others because they had more wealth or power or influence.”

“But that’s outrageous!” I said, with disbelief in my voice, “Aren’t all men, women and children born equal, with equal rights and all deserving of the same respect?” We passed a group of tourists who stood in the middle of the road, posing and photographing. I gazed up, and saw a steep and crooked road wind its way uphill as vehicles meandered down. Pedestrians battled the sharp gradient, and climbed the steps that were highlighted with floral decorations.

“That’s how it is today, sure. But back in the day, some people did not have a say because of their gender or because of the colour of their skin. People with dark skin colour were traded as commodities and used as ‘slaves’. Certain people, because of their religious beliefs or traditional ways of living, were exterminated en masse. Many young girls and boys were forced into prostitution. And there was hunger, famine, homelessness and poverty.” The green, tiled roof of Dragon’s Gate gave way to the bustling market of vendors and hawkers swarming Chinatown’s narrow streets. The ring-ring of the bell alerted passerbys of ancient cable cars that climbed and slid down San Francisco’s steep slopes with ease.

“No wonder they called those days the Dark Ages. What a terrible place to be,” I said, reminded of pictures in my textbook of a ragged man begging on the street. Even now, I could see it before me. That soiled face, those sunken eyes wallowing in shame, in hopelessness and desperation. Something about that image made me look again. Though it was just a picture, I felt pity, I felt deep sympathy, and at the same time I felt resentment too at how the world then, with all its riches and fortunes, could possibly ever allow a fellow human being to fall to this dilapidated state of existence. Surrounding him, in dozens of hole-filled plastic bags, were all his belongings. Discarded plastic bottles he could exchange for a meagre few cents, left over bits and pieces of unfinished sandwiches and take-aways.

“Well, that’s all in the past now,” the driver said, his voice taking me back to the present, “Nowadays the future is clearer, brighter, free of all those miseries. Luckily, contrary to how Hobbes put it, life in the world of today is no longer “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short””.

I smiled hearing that, grateful that humanity has somehow, despite the struggles, conflicts, differences and wide range of beliefs, managed to find a common purpose. I thought back at how far human beings have come from those dark, dark days. I thought about how in exploring the vast, endless reaches of boundaryless space has allowed us all to realise how miniscule and insignificant we are in this universe. It was this realisation that spurred that communal will to mould weapons into ploughshares, to come together and embrace other cultures for the sake of humanity’s continued existence, and indeed, very survival. The vehicle jumped a little, and I was thrown back into the seat. Beyond the steep decline before us, the city sprawled like an organised maze of towering skyscrapers, brightly coloured Victorian townhouses and sporadic greenery. A wide body of water lay on the horizon, glistening magnificently like a mirror in the sun.

“Have you not heard that classic song, “Imagine”?”

“I may have. How does it go again?”

Once again, he broke out into song. His voice smooth, full of drama, full of romanticism.

“Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace”

I hummed along with him, my heart moved by the melody and simple, simple words. Outside, engraved on a rectangular stone monument, I could just about make out Rachel Carson’s saying that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find resources of strength that will endure as long as life lasts”.

A majestic, white building with majestic columns and graceful arches loomed before us, awing in sight and posture. Puzzled, I asked, “What is that building?”

“Oh, that. That’s the War Memorial Opera House. And next to it is its identical twin, the Veterans Building.”

“War memorial? Veterans?”

“You’re probably too young to remember. And you’re lucky not to have experienced or lived through wars. Those buildings were dedicated to the soldiers of the First World War—the first of many great, big wars to come. In fact, in the last century, war and conflict were commonplace. They fought for all sorts of reasons. For territory, for resources and for wealth. People tortured, killed and slaughtered one another like mad, and justified it in the name of racial or religious purity. And sometimes just for pride and for the sake of it. All sorts of atrocities were committed, including pillage, rape, extermination and forceful internment. Human beings were like savage beast then, but at least animals do not kill or injure others with the malicious intent of doing so.”

“But wasn’t war outlawed as an instrument of policy in the Kellogg-Briand Pact?” I asked, somewhat proud that I actually remembered something from History.

“Yes, it was. But the 20th Century—the so-called Century of Wars—was marred by war and conflicts. You know that the United Nations was established here in San Francisco, right? Yeah, right there, in the City Hall building. That beautiful building over there with the impressive gilded dome and spire.”

“I see it.”

“Well, after the Second World War, a group of Allied Powers came together in that very building and vowed “to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war”. They even promised to respect fundamental human rights, and obliged the international community to “practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbours, and to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security””.

“Such noble causes! What happened?” I asked, curiously.

“Those idealists didn’t foresee that the idea of the Nation-State, which was so sacredly protected and which formed the foundation of the new world order, was founded on selfish interests and political ambitions of individual States and their politicians. How could one talk about an international community, yet still cling onto the idea of divided borders, of national interests and sovereignty? Whatsmore, the UN was fundamentally flawed in that the Allied Powers crowned themselves with the inviolable position of “guardians of the peace”. Yet in the face of humanitarian catastrophes and ongoing conflicts, the Big Powers did nothing. They self-interests triumphed over common understanding and sense.” The vehicle seemed to grunt in agreement.

“Those are such foreign ideas to me. Don’t we speak in terms of humanity, of Earth Home and of humankind as a whole now?” I said, even more puzzled now. What kind of world government is established and run by the select few and powerful?

A colourful mural of people of all colours and races, laughing, dancing, singing, hugging and handing hands, adorned the walls of a building. “Yeah, but this came only after many more wars, many more natural and human-made disasters that brought us to the brink of annihilation before we realised that there is more that unites us than divides us”.

The vehicle sped past a theatre. On its side, in large illuminated letters was the word “Castro”. Across the street, an enormous flag fluttered in the wind, bearing the colours of the rainbow. “So this is the Castro District, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess you could say the life of the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community in San Francisco is itself a reflection of the gay movement. Life Magazine even named the city the “Capital of the Gay World”, and one of the first pride parades was held right here”.

“Pride? How are gays any different from straight people?”

“Well, there may be no difference today, but back then, gays were discriminated against. Some were even beaten up for holding hands, others were hounded by the police. And some were even killed by gay-bashers and religious fanatics who condemned the “homosexual lifestyle”. A layer of fog was by now forming. Thin, mystical like a gray, semi-transparent veil unrolled by an invisible hand in the heavens, the fog crept quietly over parts of the city.

“As if it’s a choice,” I said solemnly.

“Exactly. But people those days were blinded by fear and intolerance. When the AIDS epidemic broke out, some even gave it the derogatory name of “gay cancer”. It took courageous pioneers like, Harvey Milk who endlessly believed in dialogue and practiced non-violence, years of struggle to finally establish equality, marriage and rights that many of us take for granted”.

The vehicle rode on, through the dense and lush foliage of a park. Over the treetops, I could see the top of a Japanese styled pagoda. Next to it, a distinctive building made of twisted metal and mesh spiralled upwards and houses the de Young Museum.

In that muddle of reflections and thoughts that jumped between the past and the present and the world that flashed quickly before my eyes, I noticed the vehicle had come to a halt. The glass doors opened, and he pointed out into the distance. “We’re here. Look at that there. The most photographed bridge in the world. Probably,” he said.

“Thank you very much,” I said as I stepped off, “You’ve been so kind and welcoming. I’m really grateful”.

“Anytime. Enjoy your stay. And peace be with you,” he said, as he pulled away from the pavement.

I stared for a few moments, captivated by the sheer size and beauty of it all. All the pictures, postcards, movies and wordly descriptions could hardly do it justice. Out of the fog, two red towers soared skyward, unfazed and unshaken by the cold and ever-changing weather creeping in from the wild Pacific. A testament to human engineering and ingenuity, the Golden Gate stood like a causeway into the unknown. A bridge too far, yet connecting the wide expanse of the Bay in a long, straight line, almost as if cutting the wild ocean from the tame, tranquil waters embracing the shoreline and beaches adorning San Francisco.

Fog horns of the bridge and massive container ships sounded and echoed rhythmically like the call two long lost friends trying to locate one another through the subsiding veil. Seagulls spread their wings and caught the free current of the winds. Their flight was liberating to watch, their call was almost soulful, and their small bodies in the endless sky all around reminded me of how small yet connected we are in this great, wide cosmos of living and inanimate beings.

I looked across the Bay, at the inviting and unspoiled raw hilltops of the Marin Headlands. Their arched backs and curved bodies meandered along the tranquil shoreline, and the hills lay silently like gentle giants sleeping against the dusking sky. Stranded at sea, the rocky shores of Alcatraz rose like the shell of a half-submerged turtle. Behind me, the fine dome of the Rotunda peered above the treeline, and stood almost lonelily as one of the sole survivors of the devastating 1906 San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Far away, in the heart of the Financial District, a pyramid-shaped white structure poked into the heavens alongside a host of skyscrapers all vying for a place. On top of a hill, Coit Tower stood like a well-wishing candle, and almost seemed to burn ivory white.

Greedy men have come and left this city in search of striking it rich with tales of gold. World leaders have once arrived here with loud sounding promises and yet departed without having heard or heeded the words of San Francisco’s “gentle people”. Mother Nature has many times unleashed her most deadly power and devastatingly shaken the city to a hollow hell of burning buildings and suffering. Yet, the spirit, liveliness and peaceful mood of this metropolis on the Bay continue to live long and prosper through and through.

It is through stories and lives of the American Indians who lived in peace with nature, the songs of the hippies, the industriousness of the Chinese and Hispanics, the perseverance and endurance of the blacks and gays that San Francisco today still maintains that air of human hope and unity.

Even if it is nicknamed the Foggy City.

Sleepless in Seattle

I was hungry, having not eaten much since the quick excursion to Wreck Beach before heading to Vancouver Airport to catch my flight southward. Hungry I was, until I took a few bites. A seagull stared down at my plate of halibut, fries and salad, and eyed my cup of clam chowder. A sea breeze blew in the scent of fish and salt.

My mind wandered, away from the hustle of the Seattle seaside boardwalk in the light of the dying day, past the emptying Pike Market, and back to the street corner where I first saw the lady. I only passed her by briefly, yet something made me turn around to take
another look as my footsteps carried me further.

Beneath the soiled, ragged clothes and a blanket she had wrapped around her to fend off the gathering evening chill, was a face of sorrow, a face of agony. It pained me in that fleeting moment as my eyes darted across her face. She leaned over a bench, on which her plastic bags of precious belongings cluttered. She held her hand to her face, her forehead and cheeks contorted into a powerful expression of human suffering right before my eyes. The rush-hour traffic was dying. Passerbys walked on by.

I too walked on by, yet the haunting image of the homeless lady lingered as I took another bite. The food I was looking forward to which came so highly recommended in the guidebook suddenly tasted so bland. The dusking sun suddenly seemed so dull. Only the moon, its face bright and pocketed, glowed in reminder of a face I came across not so long ago.

The seagull still stared at my half-finished plate of food. I got up and asked for a container, and quickly marched back toward where I first met her. The food steamed beneath the transparent lid, yet more and more it lost its appeal. My appetite was somehow already fulfilled.

I laid down the plate on the bench, and walked on by.

Pilgrimage to Paine Field

There is a reason why Seattle is alternatively known as the “Jet City”. Though the Boeing Company’s headquarters is now located elsewhere, this is still the region in which William Boeing first realised his dream of building a better aircraft to serve humanity. And indeed, some seven decades after the maiden flight of Boeing’s first flimsy linen and wooden seaplane, the company that bears his name continues to be a, if not the, jetsetter in aviation.

It was at the Everett Factory that the first jumbo 747-100 rolled off of the production line, down the runway at Paine Field, and soared into the skies. For decades, thousands more jumbos took to the heavens, bridged far away continents and shortened distances between people and places. Indeed, as the introductory film on the Future of Flight tour reminds us, compared to a 14 month epic voyage across the seas from London to Vancouver in the 17th Century, modern aviation is saving us both much precious time and money.

The Everett plant began operations in the late 1960s, and has today expanded to become (what is claimed to be) the biggest building on Earth by volume. It was said that due to the immense size of the building, together with the heat generated by the million or so light bulbs, clouds actually formed near the ceiling and that it would sometimes rain down on the thousands of workers below. Modern air-circulation systems prevented all that, and with the expansion of the plant came 26 overhead cranes capable of carrying up to 40 tonnes, and close to 4km of underground tunnels beneath the factory floor, the walls of which are lined with many more kilometres of piping and wiring.

All this is necessary to keep the production of Boeing’s twin isle wide-body jets going 24hrs a day. The mighty 747 may have today been overtaken by its European rival, yet Boeing’s innovative technologies, such as better fuel efficiency and quieter engine output, coupled with passenger comfort-oriented features, like ambiance lighting and bigger windows, have become integrated into Boeing’s latest products. The 747-8, with its swept back wings and composite alloys is nicknamed the Intercontinental, and will have the range to bridge city-pairs as far apart as London and Sydney or New York and Tokyo. Next to the reinvented jumbo is the world’s record-holding long-haul jet, the 777, which in 2007 flew non-stop for 21 hours from London westward to Hong Kong. Also my favourite plane at the moment, the Triple Seven is also the record holder for the passenger jet with the largest and most powerful engines, the GE90 Turbofan. And no future can be without dreams, hence Boeing’s 787 Dreamliner, with its much reduced noise and fuel emission levels, light weight and streamlined shape, is (said to) set to revolutionalise plane travel in the coming decades.

I gazed in awe at the immensity of the assembly plant, and began to feel so small. Spread all over below were machinery of all shapes and sizes, as cranes inched overhead on the ceiling. There were hundreds of cabinets containing precision instruments and tools, as well as rows and rows of computer terminals and stress engineers hunched over vigorously testing, and retesting specifications. For a plane to be put together, first the wings are meticulously put together, then sections of the fuselage, and towards the end, the wings, fin, wings and body of the aircraft is pieced together like a snap-fit model plane. At this stage, the fuselage looks green, the colour due to a layer of protective vinyl sprayed on to protect the metal from scratches and bumps during the assembly process. Meanwhile, as all the assembling of the exterior of the aircraft is taking place, seats (or cargo compartment if it’s a freighter), wiring, computers, and some 6 million or so bits and pieces of bolts and components are placed inside the plane. All this can be complete within 3 days, and it takes another 5 days for the entire plane to be spray painted to the customer’s custom logo and design.

I stood there for a while, breathed in the slight scent of welding, listened to the cacophony of drilling and hammering, and watched the (wo)men rush, sometimes on bikes or even golf carts, back and fro like busy ants below. In one corner of the 777 assembly line was a plane with the distinct orange and green fin of Eva Air, while two other 777s carried the unmistakable red dot of JAL. On another side of the hangar, the world’s first 787 to be placed in commercial service—which will soon enough bear the blue and white livery of All Nippon Airways— seemed to glisten and outshine the rest.

“All Asian airliners,” a local visitor muttered, “What happened to American carriers?” Deregulation, and years of heavy indebtedness, cutthroat and destructive competition, overcapacity, downward price pressures, and, at times, poor management sprung to my mind.

No cameras were allowed on the tour on-site, but I have seen part of the secret behind Boeing’s success, watched first-hand the stringent yet efficient production process unfold before my own eyes. I even gave Boeing back part of my scholarship money in exchange for scale models, T-Shirts and fridge magnets of my sponsor’s latest aircrafts. On the panorama deck I looked out onto Paine Field. A row of finished 777s stood on the tarmac waiting to be delivered. The last 747-400 ever produced hid in one corner, while two 787s stood still close to the runway, their lights blinking as if impatient waiting for the next test flight. In the distance, the gigantic hangar doors of the world’s largest plane assembly plant were closed tightly.

The runway was deserted, for now. But this very plant, these very paved tarmacs, and down this very skid-marked runway, planes will hurtle, rise and soar into the skies on their maiden flights.

Wild Pacific

Perched on the top of a tree, it looked down at the bay below. A pair of powerful talons gripped tightly onto a leafy branch, as its white feathery head turned and scanned the surrounding world. I inched closer, so close I could see the combed feathers of the mighty bird's coat, yet the eagle did not stir. Perhaps this traveller in a bright blue hoodie was not interesting enough.

Shrouded in mystery, veiled in mist, the light morning breeze was dense with dew. Water and the air merged into one, a curtain of gray that stretched into the distance and consumed the space all around. Surrounded by the faint figures of evergreens that swayed in the wind in the distance, and the low rumbling of a boat engine, there was a strangely attractive feeling of wild desertion.

Desolate and deserted nature may be, yet in the midst of it all, surrounded by the sounds, smells and emotions evoked, was often an unspoken sense of romance and liberation. A feeling that I, save for the clothes that I bore and the camera that I carried, have returned home to the wilderness from which we all came.

On the brochures that had originally lured me to the isolated little town of Ucluelet were breathtaking scenes of majestic mountains and green forests mirrored on tranquil water. Instead, for two days it seemed as if I had suddenly left the scorching summer heat of downtown Vancouver and been transported into the dead of a damp, blistery winter. Yet beauty, and especially the unblemished and raw kind, outs itself in different ways in different temperatures, and does not necessary need the sun to accentuate it.

Originally I had planned this stay in the far-flung western coast of Vancouver Island for myself, but seeing that my cousin had just moved to Canada, I thought it might be helpful for him to get to know and understand this country by seeing more of it. So at the very last minute I took him along. Together we packed lightly and set off, unsure really what to expect. But two days of hiking and biking brought us closer to nature. And closer together too.

Parts of the trail were dark and broody. Jagged and untamed rocks spread pierced out of the water. Waves ebbed and flowed into estuaries, and lingeringly twirled around in whirlpools. Lost driftwood, and at times even more lost bottles, struggled to keep their heads above the immense volume of water all around them. Other parts were green, and alive with vegetation and slugs that languished over the pathway beneath the footsteps of infrequent hikers. At times wild deer would graze on the roadside, then shyly step away to make way for the human intruders. Numerous signs adorn the pathwath that warn people to be wary of big hungry grizzlies, who
like to scavenge of leftovers.

Vancouver bound

(on board AC 111)

On board and around an hour away from Vancouver. Beginning a trip to the western Americas. Two weeks, first visiting family, then wandering southward to the San Francisco area to attend an ISU meeting. To be honest, for a long time was not really enthused about the trip, but for the past few days, maybe doing all the planning and itineraries, I feel more interested. Perhaps the trip will help me discover myself, help me recover that energetic and intelligent side of me. Help me get back to work and be productive again. I know I have been telling myself for the past two months that “Tomorrow I will start working…” or “Tomorrow I will go to the library”, but nothing came of these promises, and every day I feel more and more useless.

Hopefully this trip, to cities and on paths never before travelled, will help me rediscover how resourceful I can be. It is always good to go somewhere you’ve never been, and find your way there.

Like finding your way in the trip of life.