Yay!

There are sooooo many things I could whine about right now. But the list would probably end up so long that after reading it, people will want to stab themselves in the face. There’s already so much bloodshed in the world…must. control. self.

So instead, I’ll rejoice over the highlight of my day. And with the day I had, any highlight is great and to be capitalized upon. But anyways, the China Post arts editor told me today that I should be a novelist! I should’ve said, “If I write a book, will you promise to buy a copy?” That’d way I’d at least have one customer. In the end, I guess forcing myself to write posts here and there has been fruitful. (Although the other day, Brian got me a little paranoid when he told me that that he reads most blogs because he knows what subjects will be discussed. Mine, obviously, would not be one of those.)

He was also looking at my pictures from the Chamber Ballet Taipei press conference and sounded rather surprised when he asked, “Did you take all this? They’re quite good.” Which just comes to show you don’t need a fancy camera and extra-fancy lenses to be a good photographer. Unless you want to be a great photographer, in which case you absolutely must have that. Who thinks years and years of undelivered birthday and Christmas presents might just amount to $1000-$2000 dollars?

Cinderella

It was my first night out in Taipei this summer – and it only lasted till 1am. Cinderella, indeed. It’s okay. Once more people are back, we are going to do it the right way. The Asian way!

Reminder to self: times for the last MRT trains, because what else would I be running to catch?

Muzha to Zhongxiao Fuxing – 12:01
Zhongxiao Fuxing to Taipei Main Station – just after 12:10
Taipei Main to Beitou – before 12:20

This is so I avoid the three heart attacks I almost had upon arriving at each of the three stations tonight. Otherwise, it’s been a fun night! Except for the part where I called a friend to check there were still trains coming, and because I was all alone, rather red, and speaking English, everyone else on the MRT stared unabashedly. Probably because they thought I was too drunk to notice anyway, which I solemnly swear I was not. Stupid Asian glow. Seriously speaking though, unless I’m being recognized for my outstanding writing and design skills or my sparkling personality, I really hate being conspicuous.

Now that I’m home, I’m torn between sleeping, waiting for people to get online, or getting on those overdue articles…

Terrifying post-grad thoughts

Mary just reminded me that some of our friends are graduating in less than a year.

My exact words to her were: this is too much reality to deal with at 4:30 in the morning.

And now my computer is making funny noises. Why?!

MUCH TOO MUCH :’(

I apologize for this inadequate post after many days. I will try to be better…as soon as my overdue edits are sent to the Mochi gmail account. In my defense, though, I’ve been doing writing everyday for something else, and they’ve also started shoving interviews and press conferences and real writing assignments down my throat. In addition to the 6.5 hours of copy editing for six days a week. All that time in that backwards office has unfortunately been seeping into my life, too. At home on my laptop, I find finger reaching for the delete button instead of the backspace button.

Out and about in the streets of Taipei

Read: observations from inside my mother’s car. It’s way hot to be wandering around outside.

I’ve forgotten how fun people-watching can be in Asia, especially when you pay particular attention to people’s wardrobes. It goes beyond the baggy, flowery pants and loose shirts with half-dollar flip flops in bright blue or red. People have gotten so much more creative these days. As a result, I find myself so much more amused.

Take this couple I saw crossing the street, for example. Oftentimes, you’ll see a plainly dressed guy walking hand-in-hand with some scantily dressed girl, or a well-groomed fashionista hanging on to some slob. A gruesome twosome of a couple, then, is a rare treat. The female half of this blessed pair was wearing a micro-demin with ankle cowbow boots. Not only do a skanky combination short skirts and heels make, the boots were also of a putrid, toxic shade between tan and neon orange. So it was much to my surprise that her partner looked just as laughable. Generic tee, okay. Cargo shorts, fine. Boys will be boys. But paired with hefty, chunky boots of the Timberland variety – in the middle of the humid, sticky summer in Taiwan? He might as well be strutting down the street in his swimming trunks wearing a big, fat, furry bomber hat.

Speaking of skanky, the only thing worse than wearing short skirts and heels is wearing super short shorts and super tall stilettos. How I see many women donning such scandalous apparel, feigning modesty with a cute blouse, to show up at the office with briefcase in hand is truly beyond me. But at least they have that blouse. instead of, say, the hot pink off-the-shoulder number this motorcyclist was boasting with her pair of butt-shorts.

Male motorcyclists provide lots of great entertainment, too. I remember reading the back of this t-shirt with some cartoon guy dunking a basket: “I’m two kinds of a player. Your girlfriend knows both.” Looks like someone’s looking for a satisfying session of ass-kicking? Then just yesterday, someone wore a black tee with bold white letters proudly declaring, “I choose what I wear.” There wasn’t really anything intrinsically wrong with it, but it made me sad that when this guy finally grew up enough to pick his own clothes, he chooses to wear such unflattering, bland shapes. So if any guys are looking for reasons to learn their English, please point them towards my blog.

The upside of all this is that my self-esteem has skyrocketed since arriving in Taipei. According to my sister, I look Californian.

Two days at the China Post

It totally was not what I was expecting. Maybe I watch too many movies or read too much chick lit. Or maybe it’s the fact that China Post is an English newspaper in a Mandarin-speaking country, or that it’s Asia. But I’d envisioned polished, shiny floors and flattering, bright lights. Glass accents. Pretty reception area.

Instead, we have linoleum floors and walls painted in the most generic shade of white. The computers are also among the most ancient I’ve seen. On Monday, I had to learn DOS. That’s right. I can now call up articles, run spell checks, save, and send articles back to the common server without a single click of the mouse. Because these computers don’t have mice. What they do have is a single ugly font in a single ugly color: yellow. Which just happens to be the same color as the frames of the computer monitors, although I’m pretty sure those were white once upon a time.

I have to ask myself, what does the New York Times office look like? It has to be different. It must. Or a small part of my journalistic self will die inside.

Other than that, though, it’s not all that bad. Yes, six hours of copy editing gets to be pretty grueling, and looking over released wires isn’t necessarily all that exciting. But I appreciate the fact that they throw actual shit at you and let you deal with it, instead of making you do bitch work like a friend is doing in the editorial department of a magazine. Yesterday, I was even lucky enough to work on a computer with white text. I guess the one color varies and it just depends on which station you happen to sit down at. Editing local pieces also come with a bit of fun, since there are actually substantial changes to be made in those. From reading all those articles, I’ve also picked up some interesting facts, like how global warming may lead to increased risk of kidney stones, which can be caused by drastic change in temperature rise. Or how seeing their babies smiling triggers a reward-related area in mother’s brains that encourage them to be better caretakers, whereas seeing their babies frowning or crying elicits no more activity in said area than watching a stranger’s child. Or how between the two names considered for the Jolie-Pitt twins, Knox and Vivienne, expert name-raters prefer the girl’s.

Or how there’s such a profession as rating names.

I haven’t decided yet what I think of the big boss, Mr. EIC. Before I went home last night, he gave me two packets on how to write news stories and what it means to be a reporter. I don’t know if that was condescending, earnest, or realistic. Because, let’s face it, the only lines in my resume truly and technically pertaining to newspaper work describe experiences from a very long two years ago. It just felt slightly belittling since I performed amazingly in those experiences, if I may say so myself. But he’s probably right. There’s nothing wrong with reviewing the basics. Fundamentals are the building blocks of fun, right?

I think I like him. He’s a nice old man who seems supportive of my learning more about a field Wash U does not have a department for. I probably have to prove myself to him, because he might think I’m slightly less intelligent than I actually am. During the interview on the first day, he asked me to name some wire services. I think the fact that the interview was conducted in Chinese really threw me off, because at that point, I completely blanked. All I could muster was “uhhh…AP?” Reuters. dpa. Jeez. But it’s okay. There’s a lot I have to learn from him, and in the next month, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

Home sweet home

Three hours later, here I am. Still waiting for the China Post (in Taiwan, for the unworldly ones out there) to call me so I know when I should go into work today. At home, I am a snowflake in the desert. That is to say, melting.

Speaking of China and Taiwan, someone said the oddest thing to me the other day. I was checking in for my flight to LA and asking the lady at the AA counter to transfer my luggage to my connecting flight to Taiwan. She took my boarding pass, typing away at her computer. She then asked me, “What airlines are you flying to Chinese Taiwan?”

Huh? Disregarding the whole Green/Blue parties thing (refer to comment from last post about politics and religion), I have never ever heard the phrase “Chinese Taiwan” in all the twenty years of my life. I don’t know if that’s what they call it in the AA guidelines, or where the lady got that from, or what. It just made me very confused. To make sure it’s not just me, I briefly googled “Chinese Taiwan.” The only results that turned up in the first two pages are the websites of the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China in the Republic of Kenya, International Federation of Accountants, and International Water Association, in addition to an eBay ad selling an F4 poster. So, really, Chinese Taiwan?

Up at 5:42am in Taipei

In other words, I am majorly messing up my body clock. Having gone to bed at the relatively normal hour of 1am and subsequently waking up at the healthy hour 8am, my eyelids began to feel somewhat heavy yesterday in the late afternoon. Because my parents are strange creatures who commit to spending a fortune buying this beautiful house with beautiful decorations and then decide they must save money on electricity, I was also feeling nauseous from the heat. The only natural course to take at this point was a little one-hour nap before dinner.

When I opened my eyes again, the house was silent. It was 3am.

So here I am. After heating up my dinner and blindly pulling a random DVD off the shelf (Uptown Girls) to watch while I eat, I decided I should participate in a more intellectual pastime. Like blogging on WordPress or reading a book of substance. That means not getting comfortable in bed with “The Truth About Forever” for the ninth time nor “Something Borrowed” for the twelfth, which I left in St. Louis anyway.

I usually make it a point not to publicly discuss the two subjects of politics and religion, especially with people I don’t really know. Probably for the fear of offending someone, feeling ignorant in comparison, or meeting a crazy. But remembering that holidays are the only time I can take a break from hours and hours of daily reading and analyzing for class, I picked up Richard Dawkins’ “The God Delusion” on a friend’s recommendation. It’s not the gripping fiction you take to the beach, but I get so much density from fiction literature during the year anyway that I figured it’s a good time to delve into a work that’s not so fictional. To be honest, I haven’t done too much damage yet. Soaking in 100 pages on atheism isn’t quite the same as gulping down 100 pages of identity issues, challenging careers, true love, or other such life crises. So far, though, I’ll have to say I like it. I appreciate the the appreciation of the world’s mysteries the author describes, which he says is shared by religious and non-religious people alike.

Speaking of appreciation, international flights are amazing on so many levels. Like I said, there’s the food. Not peanuts, not pretzels, but hot, steaming dishes of food: lamb chops, prawn, porridge, omelet, sweet and sour chicken, rice noodles…the list goes on. But it’s more than all that. The main dish always comes with appetizer and dessert, salad and cake, fruit and Haagen-Dazs ice cream. If that doesn’t fill you up, you can ask for instant noodles at any time. EVA carries this seafood flavor, which sounds extremely weird but is only extremely delicious. Then there’s the alcohol, not that I usually have any of it. But knowing the option is there, especially when I’m 20, somehow induces a very liberating feeling.

Next, in-flight entertainment, namely TV-on-demand. TV and movies. And cartoons. And video games. Seriously. The movie option itself has four channels: Hollywood blockbusters, Timeless Classics, the Best of Asia, and Around the World (international films). So don’t ask me again why I sleep through my domestic flights and then fight to stay awake as long as I can on my international flights.

It goes beyond what you get inside the plane, though. Sometimes it’s the plane itself. When people start drifting to sleep and the lights go off in the business class cabin – which, unfortunately, I cannot afford except with years and years of mileage upgrades – the passengers get to pretend they’re sleeping under the great big sky. That’s right. The ceiling becomes dimly lit in a soft blue hue, punctured by tiny white lights that are supposed to resemble stars. The whole system is way fancier than the couple of fluorescent bulbs in my bedroom at home.

My favorite part, though, is the jet lag that comes with getting off such international flights. As a night owl accustomed to sleeping in till noon (or on the occasion, after) when chances arise, I’m pleasantly surprised every time when I wake up at 8am. Who knew the morning could last so long, or that there were so many extra hours to the day? It makes me feel alive. It helps me wake up in time for work, too.

So here’s to praying, so to speak and without engaging in religious discussion, that this time the jet lag will last a while.

Airport adventures

I feel like such a cop-out. I blog for, what, two weeks? Then stopped writing for another with the explanation of vacation and packing. Real writers should have need no excuses. But it’s okay, I’m back! Defacing the inside cover of Cosmo’s August issue, to be exact, since I’ve boarded the plane to Taipei and have no internet or even computer access.

I need to stop spending so much money at the airport. In the eight hours since I passed though security at Lambert International Airport, my wallet has acquired a big dent of minus $40. Figuratively speaking, of course, because who brings cash to the airport for purposes other than cab fare or emergencies? Anyways, I first billed a grand total of $26 at the bookstore in the C gates wing. This copy of Cosmo I’m writing in was a crucial for some light and fluffy reading when I didn’t feel like exercising my brain or didn’t have time to read a chapter from a novel. Except, oh wait, I left “Nineteen Minutes” – my first and long overdue Jodi Picoult – at home. Which meant I needed to shell out more bucks for a new novel. For some reason, the current books on the shelf were annoyingly unappealing this time, mostly consisting of flaky, poorly written romance novels (NOT the same as chick lit) or history stories. Not my ideal type of in-flight reading, but moving on. Once I settled on “Bones to Ashes,” a somewhat morbid selection centered around a forensic pathologist, I truned my attention towards the true essentials: fuel for the body. Yep, snacks. Spending two ridiculous dollars of bottled water…I’m over it. In any case, you can’t go without it, so fine. Then I started telling myself I could leave, since I’d packed a small bag of Snyder’s Honey Mustard and Onion pretzel pieces in my bag. But…that’s not sufficient for lunch, is it? I decided to take some beef jerky for proteins and a balanced diet. And a Nature Valley Oats ‘N Honey bar in case that’s not enough, or in case I start craving something sweet.

At this point, I need to whine again about the non-existence of food on domestic flights. Perhaps I am a bit of a spoiled brat at times, but all I know is that the meals on my 13-hour EVA Air flights are only getting better and better to include the likes of dimsum and Peking duck, while American Airline meals have been reduced to a pack of pretzels. They’re not even yummy pretzels like Snyder’s pretzels. They’re the most generic, liberally salted and dry variety. This is why Asian food > American food. Always.

Thinking I’d done enough damage to my bank account for the day, I boarded the plane to LA. Once I trekked over to Tom Bradley International, it was time for lunch. The cheapest meal started at about three dollars, from McDonald’s. Fifteen minutes later, however, I found myself sitting down with a $15 Oyako bowl, with salmon sashimi (which is not a word according to WordPress spell check) and roe over rice. Why did I do this?! Paying for completely overpriced sushi right before I headed back to Taiwan should’ve been a ludicrous notion. But I told myself that McDonald’s is too fatty and unhealthy, that we had plenty of that in Chicago anyway. Then what of the noodles I had the last time I was here? It’s way too hot for noodle soup. Besides, I wanted something light. It’s not a good idea to test your stomach before a long flight. A final attempt to console myself: it’s comfort food. For feeling bad about leaving people behind in St. Louis. I’ve always hated turning my back and walking away, much more so than watching others leave.

Speaking of which, I never really made up my mind about airports. I inevitably end up feeling sad and/or nostalgic, at least during the beginning part of the flight. Or when saying goodbye at security. Because then I’m going away. You leave a place and people behind, you miss out. Maybe it’s the knowledge that life goes on without you, instead of people leaving you to do what they need to get done, that makes this seem worse. But airports are also very happy places, particularly the Arrivals hall. Not that people are falling passionately into each other’s arms with smiles and tears “Love Actually” style, but that’s the scene that comes to mind. So heartwarming.

Enough digression. I’m realizing that I really miss my computer. My hand is starting to feel sore, so I’m just going to fast forward past where I spend $6 to help restructure an article for Mochi. Okay, fine, and to update my Facebook status in manner that closely resembles OCD. In-flight entertainment has started (read: TV on demand) so stay tuned for more on why international flights are amazing miracles.

The emotions post

Fear

Who the hell sits at the entrance of a residential courtyard, unmoving but staring out into space with big, shining evil-possessed eyes at 9:30pm on a Wednesday night? I almost had the heart attack I had coming after eating those three tea eggs for lunch the other day. Honestly, if you want enjoy the great outdoors, walk 50 steps and have fun in the park across the street. If you want to be emo, go shopping for lots of black clothes and practice smearing rings of dark eyeliner around your eyes. Otherwise, leave the poor people who want to go home safely alone!

Satisfaction

Speaking of eyeliner, I was taking out my contacts just now (after my hands had stopped trembling thanks to Emo Mother Earth) when I looked into the mirror and decided I really liked how my makeup looks today. A frivolous anecdote, perhaps, but something about the fact that my makeup looked good after what felt like the longest week made me really happy. Once more, I’ll let the aesthetically anal journalist in me take the blame. It’s just too bad I don’t remember what I was doing this morning while I was rushing to catch the bus.

Sentimentality

Maybe it’s another onset of nostalgia, the kind that tends to strike when a certain phase comes to an end – the end of a semester, the last days of summer, graduation. Whatever it is, I keep thinking these past days of how fond I’ve grown of my job.

To be honest, my dad wasn’t completely off the point with all his neurotic paranoia, wanting me to quit early because the Loop didn’t seem very safe. When the other intern Will first went home, I felt a little iffy staying in the little gallery all alone for six hours a day too. Especially when the tall, crazy guy with headphones lingered by the windows, peering in and talking to himself. But as time passed, I got used to it. The tattooed, pierce-sporting type had never been the sight I was used to. Not that that’s the only or dominant type on the Loop. In any case, these characters like all others were harmless enough, even friendly. Everyone goes about doing their own thing, be it setting up chairs outside a restaurant or taking a smoke during a break (although I still maintain smoking is bad, BAD). You walk by the same people at the same time every day for long enough and sometimes it begins to feel like you’re becoming neighbors.

But it’s really the people I love most of all. There’s the artist who follows the spirit sense and the man who heard voices. There’s the woman teaching art as a healing tool to children in Rwanda. There’s the Sharpie artist who left a big box of matches on the shelf today. There’s the bus driver kind enough to remind me we’ve reached my stop. There’s the Spoken Word artist who parties by night, oversees creative writing programs by day, and teaches me about dream interpretation in between, more of which I’ll share later along with his original Long Island Green Tea Recipe.

They’re down-to-earth in the sense that they represent something more humble than the beautiful Gothic buildings and shiny windows on campus. They’re somewhat inspiring in a way that I can’t really put my finger on why I see them in that way. Maybe it has something to do with how they are unassuming. Unpretentious. Simple. They seem to have a good grasp of how they see life – which doesn’t sometimes does not equate with how anyone else sees life, apparently – and are completely comfortable with what they have been given in it.

And the kids. How could I not mention the kids? It is to my huge sadness that I only got to spend one weekend with them. They’re the ones people kept warning the program about, the ones certain to behave like monsters. But to me, they’re the ones who clamored to climb into my lap, incessantly asking me to read to them and tightly grabbing my hand when we stood up to cross the street. I miss them.

Jovan said to me, “I think you’re a beautiful person, inside and out.” Call me cheesy, call me sappy, but it made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

I will miss my job on the Loop. Tomorrow, I will leave for work half an hour late so I can tell my bus driver it’s my last day and to have a good summer.

Words

I’m a writer.
Words should mean something.