Chapter 2

I remember the kitchen in my uncle's house.

I had rented a room from a crotchety old woman my first two months in Sydney. It was the first time she'd let out a room and had too rules on what I could and could not do, too many things to say, too many idiosyncrasies for me to bear. So I moved out and stayed with an uncle for a couple more months. The next session, I moved into the apartment and stayed there.

The house itself looked shabby and small from the outside. But inside, it was comfortable and felt lived-in. The living room was perpetually dark because of the heavy curtains but the kitchen and the rooms facing the downward slope behind the house were full of light. The kitchen was my favourite part of the house (the bathroom, with its heat lights and angular bath, came a close second, especially when it got colder). It had wooden floor planks and a large blonde wood table in the center. I spent my Saturday mornings at that table, poring over the weekend edition of the SMH in a quiet house. My uncle was hardly around, which suited me well, and Saturday mornings were no exception.

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My first morning in Sydney after a 4 month absence was sunny-beautiful. I woke up early that morning with a not-quite heavy heart, but a rather weighted one nevertheless. The strange feeling I had the night before still lingered and even now I can't quite describe it. It was slightly surreal, but then everything remembered takes on that quality. Possibly a cross between deja vu and jamais vu, although that doesn't at first glance make sense. It was that feeling of familiarity and comfort mingled with displacement and dispossession. This sensation never really went away during the trip, but it was the strongest those first few days living in the old flat.

Stepping out into the morning sun dispersed the sensation. It was only 10am but already the light was intensely bright (that rhymes!) without the suffocating humidity and heat that envelopes the tropics. How orientalist that sounded. It was exceptionally warm for mid-autumn, something I realized a few days later when the weather returned to normal. But that day was perfect.

It had rained early in the morning and the ground was still slightly damp. I remember smiling at the warmth on my legs from the sun, practically glowing at just being there and walking the familiar path to uni. The thing about being absent from a place is how much you forget in the interim, both the good and the bad. I had forgotten so much: the way those fig-like fruit crushed on the walkway perfume the air with their sweet, pungent scent, how bracingly crisp the air is there, the smell of cut grass drifting in from the racecourse. Sensory overload.

Chapter 1

Have you ever read 'Hopscotch', by Julio Cortazar? I picked it up from the library a few years ago after a recommendation from a lecturer who specialized in Latin America. It is a curiously structured book that you can choose to read conventionally (Introduction is followed by chapter 1 is followed by chapter 2 and so on until you get to chapter 155) or unconventionally (chapter 1 is followed by chapter 37 is followed by chapter 102 is followed by chapter 9 until you finish all of them - there is a line at the end of each chapter suggesting which page to turn to next, not the one which follows numerically). It is a brilliant idea, to let the reader assemble the story as s/he will, and to have it fit at the same time is masterful. I digress.

Monday.
I watched as many movies as I could stomach on the plane, as I always did. Put on my face in the cramped, slightly disgusting airplane bathroom because I refuse to look a mess getting off. The queue through immigration is unusually long, and slow. Collect baggage. Queue again to get through customs with my white card and passport in hand. The official checking the ticked boxes on the card waves me through and for the first time, after countless struggles with getting heavy bags onto the x-ray machines for 4 years, I get a free pass.

He was waiting in the arrivals hall. No surprises there. Those came later. The usual exchange of pleasantries follows, how long have you been here, sorry to keep you waiting, work-talk, accept compliment, weather-talk. Kingsford Smith has a new addition to its infrastructure - a multi-storey travelator in the carpark. It is on the travelator that he surprises me first, although I can't say that I wasn't half-expecting it. Oh the uncertainty, always the uncertainty! I think that's what gives me, us both, the rush. That potent mixture of fear, anticipation, uncertainty, defiance.

There was a light drizzle that night. The roads from the airport to my place were the same as I remembered, semi-familiar landscapes.

Later, I found myself in a room that had been mine but now wasn't. Almost everything seemed the same - the same furniture, the same people (at least the two who were around), the absolute silence of the apartment. It was a strange feeling, being somewhere that had been a home. Another curious thing was the lack of emotion I felt. I was sorry for him and would have done anything to help, but not angry or hurt or any of the hundred things someone in that situation could have been. How complicated human relationships get and how much they can change with time. But then, this was never a solid matter to begin with.

Introduction

I'm back

I know I was only there for 12 days, but those 12 days seem both like a lifetime and a blink of an eye. Where to begin?

To begin with, 12 days was too short. In between meeting up with friends and shuttling the family around, I didn't get half of what I'd wanted to do done. Despite my best efforts, I missed out on going to the beaches (too cold), seeing the Botanic Gardens properly (too big), taking the ferry from circular quay to anywhere, taking the train anywhere, digging through the library for books (definitely not enough time. and it's being rearranged. again.), and taking a full walk through uni. In retrospect, I would have needed a month to be even remotely satisfied.

I did however manage to make it to the Opera Bar after dark, to the art gallery for a final(?) visit, to David Jones food hall (where I found my sister looking staggered by the sheer amount and variety of food available - "I need help... can we stay here all day?"), to the fish market for seafood and the best oyster I've had (ever) to catch up with Duncan over coffee (and listen to him complain about his 1st and 2nd year students. and to be amazed once again at how much he has achieved by 30), to walk along the racecourse from my old flat to uni on a beautiful, sunny-sweet day (after a not-quite-dark-but-far-from-bright-night), and, most importantly, to laugh, listen, reminisce.
I also graduated (officially), which was quite fun.

A lecturer once told me not use a sentence as a paragraph. He was right. But this isn't an essay or an article.

Does that count as a start? I certainly hope so.

home

I'm Sydney-sick.

sometime in July/ August

I got on to the first bus to Central passing through Surry Hills. It was packed with a mish mash of commuters. Slightly dozey after my meal, I allow my thoughts to drift along unfocused, observing the people around me, the PDAs of the young couple a few feet down amusing me. A minute or so in, a man sitting opposite me catches my eye. He seems to be sharing my thoughts and smiles quietly at me. Caught off guard, the corners of my mouth curve upwards ever so slightly. I look away, slightly embarrassed, only glance back seconds later and find him still smiling at me. This continues for several minutes, each time our smiles widen until we’re almost laughing together 4 feet apart. All this without saying a word. I like the fact that he doesn’t appear to be undressing me mentally and it’s a pure expression of friendliness. A shared if silent joke. The passengers around us are eyeing the two of us curiously and the old man next to him looks at us as if we are crazy. The bus reaches its final stop and I rush off first. There are too many things going on in my life as it is. It’s time to slip back into city mode and I walk quickly. Armour up.

tug

I'm spending the day packing up the last many bits lying around my room. The people from the shipping company are coming in another hour or two to pick up the two boxes of books and miscellaneous items. Everything else which can't fit into my luggage is going to be left behind until April.

I'm already compiling a list of places to visit in April. La Perouse for the fish and chips I had yesterday, easily the best I've had in memory (which might not be saying much considering my memory storage but it was good), bills, mundo gelato, ichi ban boshi (maybe).

I feel like yanking out every last blonde/ copper hair on my head. They are bugging me today. Who messed with my follicles?

should i buy this dress?

Brunch at bills turned into lunch at Pancakes. Undercaffeinated, I forgot that the 372 didn't pass through Foveaux and we had to walk up Crown. And when we got there the wait for a table turned out to be 20 minutes. Hungry people don't like to wait. Even if it's for creamy scrambled eggs. And I still hadn't had coffee so it seemed like taking the bus to Circ Quay would take less time. So Pancakes it was, for eggs benedict with a buttemilk pancake instead of toast. (Btw, I decided that if, IF forced to choose a single cuisine to eat from, I would choose all day breakfasts. Yes, I know it's not a cuisine per se, rather a subsection of one but it's perfect! Eggs any way, pastries, pancakes, bacon, sausages, toast, tomatoes, mushrooms, coffee, juice, and table loads of other stuff - all good. My cousin would go Japanese, which would be my second choice.)

Erm. Where was I?

At the Rocks market:
squeek! cold!
"Can you imagine if I hadn't been standing in front and you went 'eee! cold!' to a stranger?"
I wandered off to stand in a patch of sunlight. Freak weather, it's usually sweltering at this time of the year.

The man wearing a cape and crown holding a scepter of stuffed toys waved at the cars stopped at the junction as he crossed the road. While I skittered through the shade and waited in the sunny spots until we hit Pitt. hehehe. hit pitt.




Myer was less packed than usual, maybe cause it was a Sunday. Which made for easy shopping. Buying lingerie always makes me happy. And there was a discount on pleasure state. And you get much nicer things here than in KL. Excuses, excuses.



Unfortunately the dress I tried out fit perfectly. Unfortunately it costs 250. Unfortunately, I'm obsessing over it. It's black, silk satin, above the knee, fitted at the waist, scoop/round neck. Nothing flashy or unusual but it is classic. What think you? The photo quality is crap but you get the picture.

I'm going to see if I can get approval from the Powers That Be to get it as a birthday/ thesis present >p

Mecca cosmetica is evil

I walked around the city with my nose stuck in the crook of my elbow today. Saffron, coriander, pepper, amber, and musk smells much better than cheap tobacco and the stink of the masses. It was a warm day.

And I did buy it at the end of the day. It looks like a giant gold nugget sitting on my dresser. And a rosy saint, and a gipsy. Rubberized casing gets me. Major wallet burn. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like my heart of stone has been wrapped in a fur. PETA begone.


We had pastries and coffee, chased with roasted pistachio gelato. And there's pate and sourdough sitting on the counter waiting for me. Purrr

overheard

"fe le lo ro shay"

guess what was being referred to. we then spent the next ten minutes mocking these little (Singaporean/ Malaysian) Chinese boys up and down the aisles.


I'm going to hell, I know. (psst. I don't believe in it so that's okay)

was going to pose a twisty conundrum here but when i started writing it i forgot what the point was. and it wasn't that tricky to begin with. brains scrambled from results. oof. shoo you, unless you're going to metaphysically celebrate with me. kidding.
i am content for now

peal

the ringing of the Town Hall bells at dusk created a strangely beautiful cacophony.

week end

I got drizzled on at the market. It was an overcast day and I got there past 10, which is early by my standards since I had to wake up at 8.

The smell of food grilling floats through the open air market. You know the way they draw odours in cartoons, those wafting wispy strands of scent leading people forward by their noses? Yeah. First stop was for confused eggs (fancy egg and bacon roll) - eggs scrambled on a grill plate, smoky bacon, rocket and barbeque sauce on a chewy bun *love*. The sisters made a special request for the pomegranate balsamic vinegar that they got when I took them there back in June. M swore it turns the simplest salad into gourmet fare. It's funny how I'll shell out 20 dollars for a tiny jar of truffle salsa but wince inside at paying 22 for a bottle of balsamic (limited ed granted). Being the dutiful and loving sibling I am, I scored the last bottle available for them and a good pack of bush dukkah too (again, another easy gourmet maker). Plus a smaller packet of dukkah and tayberry jam to bring to JY in Melbourne.

'What's tayberry?'

A cross between a blackberry and a raspberry it seems, and possibly the most curious item at that stall. A minute after I asked, a couple came up and asked the same thing after glancing over the jams and tarts on display. The jam itself is slightly tart (raspberry genes?) but pleasantly so. (note to self: finish off stash of jams in fridge - strawberries and champagne, lemon curd, cherry, err.. too many. slight jam addiction maybe)

And that was it. That's all I got because it started drizzling while I was polishing off my brunch and I was wearing a dress and it was cold. >( The drizzle paused for awhile but it came back as rain later by which point I was trapped in the closest mall.

The walk to and back from the market along the harbour carried so many memories. The last time I had been there was in June with the sisters, happy and anticipating. Every visitor to Sydney has been brought to Darling Harbour to play in the random miniature fountains and try to get to the middle of the water swirl structure without getting their feet wet. It's this circular installation of sorts where alternating panels descending to a platform with a sphere in the middle have water flowing down towards the center in a spiral. Hard to describe. Takes too many words, but you know which one I'm talking about. I remember walking on the bridge overhead with B, S, and others, friends.

I just realized this afternoon that the goodbyes have begun. Friday's lunch was probably the last time I'll see that friend for a long time. Dinner with Duncan and his wife tomorrow will be another goodbye. And Tuesday brings another possibly last dinner. And as for the city itself, I'm slowly, reluctantly saying goodbye to it. There's a list of favourite haunts to visit before I fly. Some of them are everyday favourites, on campus, in Randwick. Others are more specialized - the art gallery for a dose of culture and calm in the storm, my secret place really, Coogee to doze and watch the waves roll in (some of my books are testament to this - sand between the pages), the train ride from bondi to circular quay just for the view pulling into the station, bills surry hills for the food and perfect brunch ambiance. One by one.


---
Last night doesn't bear talking about. I'm still seething/ stewing. You can tell me it'll drive you crazy after I leave if we start again and whisper that you'll miss me. Yet you don't want to make the most of the time I have left here. Because it'll drive you crazy after. Spineless. Allow me to express my contempt for you once again.
i'm losing my favourite game. my heart is black and my body is blue.
---

Reading: The Ethics of What We Eat - Singer and Mason.
I prefer Pollan's writing style, it's more polished and does not have the agenda these two have. But it is a good read nevertheless. Like Pollan, they raise serious questions about the food we eat, usually without thought. I might turn vegetarian for ethical reasons eventually. If my ethics ever hold up long enough to have their existence verified, that is. More on this later.

pack for melbourne! triptriptrip

purrr

another 3 hour lunch, big breakfast with poached eggs
talk: Malaysian and Singaporean politics, miscellaneous topics, food, the perks of being an academic, god knows what else. the heat saps everything.

AND IT"S FUCKING HOT! 38 degrees out and sweltering

tomorrow: pyrmont market to see if they have any more pomegranate vinegar and bush dukkah. and confused eggs for brunch

Monday

I spent the afternoon in the city. From Chinatown I made my way up to the CBD, felt the heat from the sun on my skin. It's different from what it is in Malaysia. The air here has a clarity I haven't encountered anywhere else; not in Melbourne where it is filtered by cloud cover, more diffuse in Brisbane, and unlike the heavy and dense air in KL. The brilliance startled me every time I returned from a month or three away. Just walking out on a clear day, perhaps after the rain, even in the middle of winter, the clarity of the light makes me smile.

I picked up a loaf of bread, a chocolate hazelnut croissant, and a cherry strudel from one of the best bakeries in the city. The croissant was my lunch on the go, happily leaving a trail of crumbs behind me as I walked through the underground of QVB, back into the light, through Myer, and up to Martin Place to get cupcakes. Knowing that it was one of the last times, possibly the last time I would do that did not make it any less enjoyable and I smiled to myself all the way, chomping on the flaky pastry.

Almost every landmark in this city has a memory attached to it. Places to meet friends or lovers, places to walk alone through the crowds, places to escape from the crowds and just be silent. Over these four years, this city has turned from a stranger to something else. It's sharp beauty, like the edge of a knife would cut through whatever else was fogging my mind; the emotions, preoccupations. And when there were none, it amplified the happiness and peace.The clarity of air I have found only here at times bordered on being overly bright. Almost blinding.

Yet the sharpness never cut me, instead cutting through to me. Frequent pauses for a moment of appreciation, to just stop running for awhile and admire you.

It's an oxymoron - a beautiful city. Cities aren't supposed to be beautiful. They are brick and mortar, steel and concrete, man made defences against nature and the wilderness. They are elegant at best but elegance is not beauty. Somehow you have that quality rare in a city and wear it lightly.