BALI

In the weeks before Christmas, the boy and I decided to go to Bali for ten days. It was a place, it seemed, that everyone had been to but us. And with my impending trip to Europe, affordability was a must.

We booked our flights and accommodation months beforehand with the intention of planning every minute detail of our journey. But you already know how this story ends. A combination of work, exams and, mostly importantly, procrastination landed us in Bali without much more than our passports, a handful of cash, dysfunctional phones and a single change of clothes in two little backpacks. Yup, we’d dived into the deep end, and cultural asphyxiation had our heads spinning as soon as we stepped onto Balinese soil.

The trip did not start well. My eyes stung from inserting contact lenses after a long flight and the porters demanded money for grabbing our feather-light bags. Outside, the humid night air was heavy with strange smells and sounds that we did not understand. Only the thought of a clean, air-conditioned hotel room comforted us on our bumpy trip along the pothole-ridden roads from the airport. However, the strange room we walked into with no wifi, phone reception or drinkable tap water only added to our sense of isolation and despair.

As the boy muttered: “I could’ve taken you anywhere in the world!” I lay down on the hard bed and thought it was going to be a long ten days...

And in the end, it was. But in the best way possible.

Early next morning, our luck began to change. After a good breakfast by the pool and palm trees, we met our Balinese tour guide, Roy. Though having only heard about him the night before, he could’ve been sent to us by the Balinese gods. Roy was young, charismatic, spoke great English, and within half an hour, had planned three full day trips, organised a driver, and given us some easy-to-read maps.

And so, our journey began...

EAT

Bali is simply a food lover’s heaven. A dinner for two at a nice restaurant including drinks will set you back no more than $20AUD. And the food is nothing short of drool-worthy (oops! Sorry, Keyboard).

The most popular Balinese dish is Nasi Campur (pictured above), or as I like to call it: rice with the LOT.  While the boy played it safe, I also tried a few delicacies like sweet and sour frog legs and oxtail soup. Come on, I was in Bali!

We did have a lot of fun experimenting with different drinks though...avocado smoothie with chocolate syrup, mint tea with jelly cubes, and young coconut straight from the fruit, just to name a few. And with the exception of a very bitter iced coffee, we loved them all.

A few delicious highlights?

Lunching in the clouds, surrounded by volcanos. Eating grilled lobster on the beach while wriggling my toes in the sand. Mistaking a chilli for a green bean and losing control of my voice box and tear ducts for ten minutes (ok, not so delicious). And enjoying a buffet breakfast with lions playing outside the restaurant window.

It’s a miracle I didn’t put on any weight...

PLAY

For many, Bali is synonymous with beautiful beaches and hot night clubs. We, however, saw neither. Of the beaches we visited, none were remotely comparable to Australia’s. As for the nightclubs, we simply weren’t very interested.

Instead, we visited a monkey forest, where the boy made many new furry friends. They were all over him. Literally. They loved perching on his shoulders and practically swallowing our bag of bananas whole. It wasn’t until after we had left Bali that we learned selling bananas to feed the monkeys is a local joke the Balinese like to play on tourists.

We enjoyed a day spa treatment (though I nearly passed out in the sauna) and numerous wonderful massages. And luckily, recognised as a couple, we were not offered any “happy endings”!

We spent a day at Waterbom Park, floating around the Lazy River and satisfying our adrenaline-junkie alter egos with waterslides like the Boomerang and the Climax. Some snorkelling ensued the next morning in rather murky water, but the schools of fish nibbling from our fingers made the experience worthwhile. I also got to lift up a 50kg turtle! 

Shopping, of course, was terrific. Once we’d learned the art of haggling – well, the boy anyway, my Chinese genes took over quite naturally – we managed to score quite a few decent bargains in the market stalls. For more hassle-free shopping, we wandered around the huge Discovery Shopping Mall. Not only was it an all-too-convenient five minute walk from our hotel, the lack of “massage?”, “transport?” and “come in, very cheap!” calls in our ears made Discovery an attractive place indeed.

The last two days brought us many new adventures at the Bali Safari and Marine Park. Nothing spectacular, you know; just handfeeding zebras and lions, riding elephants and being followed by a herd of deer. Well, there was also the piranha feeding time and petting tiger cubs... Oh, and we slept in canopy beds in air-conditioned huts with rhinos and zebras walking outside the balcony.

Yep, eat your heart out, Melbourne Zoo.

LEARN

The Balinese are a very religious people. One of the first things you’ll notice when walking around Bali is the offerings made to the gods every morning, placed on the front doorstep of every house, hotel, electronics store, massage salon...you name it, it’s there. They are little trays made from banana leaf, filled with little things like a piece of meat, some rice, a biscuit and a few flowers. Temples are as common as...well, churches here...and every family has their own temple area within the family compound. Roy explained their “variation of one god into different gods” belief to us, but somewhere along the way, I got really confused. So, that’s that.

One morning, we went to watch the traditional Barong & Kris dance. Basically, it depicts the eternal battle between good (Barong, a lion) and evil (Rangda, a monster witch thing. Actually, now that I think about it, it looked like one of the Wild Things). Then, at the end – oh wait, SPOILER ALERT! – the men all stab themselves with Kris (a wavy-bladed sword thing). It was scarily realistic. We were more than a little confused until Roy explained that it was to drive the evil out from within.

The Balinese weave and dye beautiful cloths in a process known as Batik. It takes roughly twelve steps – apply wax, dye, reapply wax, redye, re-reapply...you get the idea – to layer the colours and patterns. But the end result is so worth it. Simply stunning.

So, that very briefly wraps up our ten days in Bali. Ok, so you tell me 1200 words isn’t exactly VERY BRIEF, but trust me, it took a lot of control not to keep typing! Anyway, now for the sentimental wrap-up so that you, dear reader, can go enjoy your new year away from your computer screen:

Bali was...quite an experience, not only for all the reasons stated above, but also because it was a sharp learning curve for me as a traveller. It was a reminder to my inner control freak that caution and planning are good, but sometimes, enjoying things as they come makes the best kind of holiday.

Oh, and one last thing, the smell of RID mosquito repellent will now forever remind me of Bali...

Patience is a Virtue (I don't possess)

I am not a very patient person. Well, in a ‘time’ sense anyway. 

You see, I don’t like waiting for the kettle to boil or watching as the pan heats up. I do, however, like to take my time making a cup of tea or cooking a nice meal. At uni, I detest waiting for exam results, but I love learning, studying and working on assignments. The same goes for teaching. Waiting for a late violin student drives me crazy, but helping them to master a single technique over many weeks feels incredibly rewarding.

So I guess you could say that my ‘impatience’ is really just my need to fill in every breathing moment with doing. 

Oh, and I multitask. Compulsively. Surprise surprise. 

Like right now, the only thing keeping me sane while waiting for my photos to upload on Facebook is using the time I would otherwise waste staring at a snail-paced blue progress bar to update my blog.

The other day, I rediscovered this charming trait of mine while camera shopping with the boy. While I was ready to buy the first camera within budget that I laid my eyes on, he insisted on checking out all the options before making a decision. And in a complex devoted to electronics stores, there were a LOT of options. But we did – him being the patient, mature adult asking about picture quality and processing speed while I tagged along, whining that they all looked the same to me.

Of course, in the end, although I did ironically decide to buy that first camera I saw, the boy’s patience paid off by finding it in a different store for a good $50 cheaper.

I do hope I won’t be so hasty in buying bigger items in the future...

But with my family's track record (both car and house signed for within a few hours of shopping), I really shouldn’t be too hopeful.

Heatin’ it up...in the kitchen.

Lately, I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in the kitchen; simmering, sizzling and sautéing away. Yeah, yeah, bring on the jokes...my mother laughed at me too when I told her. But much to my surprise, not only have I managed to not singe my eyebrows, I’ve actually come up with quite a few tasty dishes.

So, from now on, my blog will periodically take the form of a recipe, not only for my benefit, but also to tickle your taste buds and maybe even give you a few ideas for simple, affordable meals. Oh, and for the wheat and gluten-intolerant population out there (like the boy), these meals are all celiac-friendly or have wheat/gluten-free options.

So, my fellow poor and lazy uni students, read carefully!

Honey's Pasta with a Punch 

...in 10 fail-proof (fingers crossed) steps!

(Serves 2)

STUFF YOU'LL NEED (or want, based on personal taste):

Butter

½ onion (diced)

3 garlic cloves (finely chopped)

Pepper

300g beef mince

1 can/jar pasta sauce

1 packet of pasta (gluten free, if needed)

...and most importantly, CHEESE!

Optional veggies:

3 celery stalks (finely diced)

½ red capsicum (finely diced)

1 tomato (roughly diced)

4 button mushrooms (sliced)

1 small red chili (finely sliced)

Parsley

 

THE FUN PART:
Meat sauce:

1)    Heat up sauce pan to medium heat, melt a little butter

2)    Add onion and garlic with some pepper, sauté till slightly golden

3)    Add beef mince, break up with wooden spoon and cook until almost all brown

4)    Pour in pasta sauce, stir through mince, simmer for 3 minutes

Optional extras:

5)    In second pan, melt a little butter

6)    Add celery, tomato and capsicum, cook till tomato is very soft and skin curls

7)    Add to meat sauce with mushrooms and chili (for that extra punch!), simmer for 1 minute

Cheese it up:

8)    Turn off heat, add a handful of grated mozzarella cheese to sauce, stir

Pasta:

9)    ...read the instructions on the packet!

Om nom nom nom:

10)  Drain pasta, spoon on as much sauce as you like, top with parmesan cheese and parsley, and tuck in!

Buon appetito, dear reader. I wish you happy cooking and even happier eating!

Venting, Tchaikovsky-Style

Tonight, I found myself in one of those moods again. You know, the ones that make you want to break everything around you, or run around screaming, or bawl your eyes out like a three-year-old. Or a combination of all three. But seeing as the house around me isn’t mine (and thus neither the things around me), the first really wasn’t an option. And having scarred my poor boyfriend quite enough with my mood swings already, I decided the second and third weren’t so wise either. 

So, I picked up my violin to play some Tchaikovsky. Naturally.

I’ve been doing this for years now, venting my feelings through music. And no, not of the heavy metal variety. For me, letting my negative emotions flow into creativity certainly seems a lot healthier than the alternatives that some people take; vandalism, drugs and violence, just to name a few. And before you protest, yes, I do know that these actions are often influenced by difficult family circumstances. I know I have been most fortunate to have parents who could afford to send me to expensive violin lessons and take me to professional concerts.

Actually, this reminds me of a conversation I had with my boss at work a few weeks ago. Having just had the shop window broken and the nearby bus stop smashed for the umpteenth time, we came to this simple conclusion:

Instead of wasting thousands of dollars every week repairing broken windows, painting over graffiti and replacing defaced property, why doesn’t the government put the money toward more free youth programs? More sports clubs, music groups, dance classes, whatever. Just so that bored or angry teenagers (like myself, at times) can find a creative outlet for their emotions. The result? More education, less crime. It’s a win-win situation, isn’t it?

 

But I digress. So, by the time I’d poured my heart and soul into Tchaik’s Violin Concerto, Monti’s Czardas, and Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, I was feeling a whole lot better. And I’d made some beautiful music (or perhaps that’s just the boy flattering me again) in the process.

Take that, hormones!

"Would you like some manners with that?"

Holidays, eh? It seems a rather odd name for my current thirty-hour working week. The term becomes more ironic when I consider my uni contact hours over this past year: fifteen per week. But I have no problem with the long hours (I’m an impoverished med student about to embark on a six-month journey around Europe. Money is good). I do, however, have a problem with rude customers. 

Let’s start with the little things. You would think it is common etiquette to give a little smile or nod to the person behind the counter, no matter how brief and insignificant your interaction (you know, acknowledge their presence in some way, shape or form, because it is the POLITE thing to do). Yet, it astounds me how a cheery ‘good morning’ and ‘how are you’ on my part can be met with cold silence, or how a ‘thank you’ and ‘have a good day’ can provoke an ungrateful scowl or ill-tempered grunt. And isn’t it a little sad when more fifty-five-year-olds need to be taught their please’s and thank you’s than five-year-olds?

Do these people derive some sort of perverse pleasure from spreading their grumpiness? Do they enjoy being perpetually angry at the rest of the world? Yet they seem to be the ones who frown upon the younger generation of Goths and Emos. Seriously?

Then, we have the openly hostile customers. I like to call them the “active volcanos” (as opposed to the “dormant” variety above). I have had the pleasure of greeting quite a few in my time, both as a waitress and sales assistant...

Me: “No sir, (for the tenth time) the two-for-one deal only applies to the pastas.” I made that quite clear before you ordered. And again while you were ordering. It’s also written on the board. Right in front of your face.

Man: “That’s f!@#ing ridiculous! I’m not paying for these pizzas.” (Storms out)

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t sell lottery tickets to minors.”

Boy: “But it’s for my mum, she’s just outside.”

Me: “Sorry, you’ll have to ask her to come in and buy them herself.”

(Boy leaves, re-enters with mother a few moments later)

Mother: “Are you f!@#ing happy now? Makin’ me get outta my car? You can’t even sell a f!@#ing lotto ticket to a boy? What the f!@# is he gonna do with it?”

Me: “I’m sorry ma’am, but that’s the law.”

Mother: “Don’t answer back to me, you stupid b@#$%!”

Wow. Is she going to react the same way when the liquor store refuses to sell her underage son booze?

Me: “Sorry, your magazine hasn’t come in yet.”

Man: “What do you mean it hasn’t come in yet? I’ve been getting them here for months! Ritchie’s next door got the same magazine in yesterday!”

Me: “Sorry, the order must be running late. Perhaps you can get the magazine at Ritchie’s just for this week?”

Man: “That’s just outrageous! You know what? Forget it. Cancel my order. I’ll go somewhere else!”

Later that day, he called the store to apologise for his behaviour. Apparently, he was “having a bad day”.

Ok, I appreciated the apology...but really? Does the “bad day” excuse cut it? Is it even an excuse? Everyone has problems; everyday has the potential to turn into a bad day, but only if you let it.

Yes, dear customer, life might suck for you at the moment, but don’t take it out on the rest of the world. Grow up and put on a smile. You might just get one back. You never know, that might just be what you need to pull yourself out of your bad day.

Beautiful Brisbane

Coffee, check.

Grilled cheese sandwich, check. 

Big, squishy pillows, check. 

Warm, snugly blanket, check. 

And a lazy afternoon all to myself? CHECK. 

Time to update the blog!

After a few stressful weeks of studying and exams, punctuated only, it seems, by jogging and waitressing (often at the same time), my last weekend in Brisbane could not come soon enough. In the end, of course, it was well worth the wait.

As planned, the boy flew up from Melbourne the morning after my last exam. Together, we explored the city which, for him, had existed only on the other end of the phone and the cyberspace of Skype for the past year.

Having had enough of the glossy materialism and impersonal chain stores of the CBD, we had booked a little motel a three-minute stroll away from the heart of West End, my favourite suburb in Brisbane. Over the next few days, we enjoyed the kooky cafes and restaurants, raised our eyebrows at the “organic herb stores" and explored every little book shop along Boundary St. The taste of dark chocolate and chilli gelato still tingles on my tongue and the smell of delicious spices and new books still fills my nostrils. I will also never forget the doll-head chandelier at the Lychee Lounge (although I am not sure that’s a good thing). For the Chinese-food-adoring celiac population, Jackpot is the go-to restaurant with its mouth-watering gluten free menu: sizzling beef, garlic king prawns and chilli tofu stir-fry just to name a few!

Though I have yet to find a Brisbane market comparable to the Queen Vic in Melbourne, I had fallen in love with the West End Saturday morning markets on my two previous visits. The fresh veggies had me itching to cook my own meals after a year of college “food” and I was ready to sink my teeth into a ripe mango or devour a freshly-baked croissant. So, naturally, I dragged us both out of bed at eight in the morning for some market-style breakfast. After laughing our way through the funny t-shirts stall, sampling goodies here and there and tearing myself away from the craft and jewelery stands, we sat down under the shade of a big...shady tree (the boy is the botanist in our relationship). Here, we ate our crepes and Greek sweets and drank spicy chai with honey. I also sipped luxuriously on my 100% cacao beverage, which the boy didn’t enjoy quite as much...oh well, more for me!

Something else I had come to love about Brisbane? The CityCat. Or for those unfamiliar with the city, the ferry that travels along the Brisbane River. Gliding over the water with the wind in your hair while admiring the million-dollar properties on the riverbanks turns every trip to uni or the shopping centre into a scenic tour. I do regret to say, however, that our ferry ride to the quaint little town of Bulimba was probably the cause of the boy's lobsteresque sunburn...oops!

He adored the bats, water dragons and geckos that I had grown accustomed to seeing around and marvelled at the ibises that ate (or in my case, pecked viciously) from our hands. I mourned the last of the jacarandas and delighted at the blooming frangipanis. We picnicked in the botanic gardens and swing danced at the Philippine Festival. There was also much lazing about on the man-made beach by day and long walks along the glittering river by night. Then finally, having said my goodbyes to the wonderful friends I’d made this past year, the boy and I jumped on a plane back to Melbourne.

It didn’t hit me until Brisbane had become a maze of sparkling lights outside my airplane window that I wouldn’t lay eyes on her for another eight months. What will I have seen and done by the time I returned? Who will I have become? These thoughts terrified me, but at the same time, the impending adventures and endless possibilities made my heart race. 

It seemed that the city I had once associated with change and independence had somehow come to represent stability and home without so much as a “how do you do”...

Brisbane, I’ll miss you.

People Watching

Having kicked off my exam week to a good start this morning, I decided to forgo study for a bit and run a few errands at the local shopping centre. Two hours later, errands run and brand new shoes tucked under arm (it was inevitable), I sank into a big blue leather couch to eat my lunch. With a side order of people watching, of course. Don’t get me wrong, my salmon salad sandwich was delicious, but my mind has a nasty habit of straying at the best (or worst) of times. So, devoid of company and literary entertainment, my eyes quickly came to rest on the busy escalator before me.

When I am people watching, I like to think of myself as a sort of passive script writer for an infinitesimal fragment of an endless film. I simultaneously narrate the film and create internal monologues and unheard dialogues for the actors passing through. There is even character development. At first, all the characters seem unique, bearing no resemblance or relation to one another. Later, patterns emerge and they become easier to label – the business man, the retired couple, the new mum. Then eventually, the nuances are picked up and individuality overrides stereotype once more. 

I always make some new observation about the characters in these brief episodes. And with each sequel, they are adjusted and re-established, their exceptions noted. Here are a few off the top of my head:

1) Most people don’t acknowledge Strangers.

The few who do (with nod, a faint smile, or just eye contact) almost always receive a surprised smile in return.

2) People very rarely look above their eye level.

3) Parents with Small Children are almost always crabby and anxious. They treat curiosity like a disease and have a vocabulary limited to “no” and “don’t”. This is expressed in a pleasant tonal range of Grumpy to Cranky. They frown at everything, especially that blessed minority – Parents with Well-Behaved Children.

This minority treat their kids with respect and use gentle-but-firm explanations.

There couldn’t possibly be a connection here, could there?

4) People never seem to notice the Watchers.

5) There are always other Watchers. The Watcher usually seems oblivious to this fact.

There is a song by Jack Johnson – called “People Watching”, funnily enough:

“I'm just people watching,
The other people watching me...

I see so many feet going so many ways,
People passing by, they got nothing to say,
All on our own, just watching and confused...

We're as lonely as we wanted to be
We're not so lonely as we wanted to be”

The last two lines have always puzzled me. I’m still not sure what Jack Johnson means by them, but they do remind me of another observation I’ve made:

Although we all appear lonely to passersby, behind the scenes, everyone has a whole network of family and friends – an unseen web, the hidden body of the iceberg, a private universe. And then I think, each individual in this network has their own world, and each in that world links to hundreds more...and so on and so forth until everyone on Earth is connected in some way. It really does make my head spin.

Or perhaps, the lyrics refer to the fact that we think we are alone in our people watching, that we can be “as lonely as we [want] to be”, but in actual fact, we are not because there are always other people watching us back. 

What do you make of it, dear reader? Are you a Watcher too? If not, next time you go out, stop and observe for a while. You never know what interesting things you might see. 

Just remember, there are always others watching you too...

A Nomad's Life

Packing. Again.

As I attempted to squeeze my ever-expanding earring collection into my ever-shrinking (I will record measurements one day for proof) jewellery box, I found myself wondering what it might be like to live in the same country, the same city, or even the same house, all your life.

Having divided my last eighteen years between three countries, five cities, and ten schools, it is a concept I find almost impossible to grasp. The idea of growing up with the same friends, surrounded by childhood memories in the same places intrigues me. I am both envious of and puzzled by the people who walk down the street and wave to every second person: a friend from high school, an old drama teacher, the owner of a favourite restaurant.

Take the boyfriend for instance. With him, an intended five-minute stop at the local shopping centre can easily turn into an hour-long social gathering.

They are the ones who have remained in a place with which they have a shared history and a deep, almost spiritual, connection; a place that they belong to as much as it belongs to them. In short, a place that is, irrefutably, Home.

As for me, the word ‘home’ has simply come to represent the location of my bed at any given time and the space around it in which I keep most of my belongings. I guess it does get lonely at times, but having known it all my life, I really cannot imagine living any other way.

An old friend in a similar situation once said to me: “we have no roots; we are simply islands, floating from one place to the next, wherever the current chooses to take us”. Perhaps this is true, or perhaps we are more like mangroves, able to spread our roots. Whatever it is, I am just grateful for the force that has carried me from China’s bustling streets to Florida’s tropical cities and Australia’s sun-soaked beaches.

Eventually, I might find a place to drop anchor and take root, but right now, I’m just enjoying the ride...And with Bali and Switzerland on the horizon, I don’t think I need to worry about the current letting up just yet!

Proper English, where art thou?

Sitting in my Music History lecture last week, I once again came to the sad realisation that we are butchering the English language. Or at the very least, mutilating it beyond recognition.

Despite the sadistic timetable allocation (the last of four two-hour lectures every Monday) and content-heavy nature of my Music History course, the lecturer’s endless wealth of knowledge – and refreshing linguistic ability to express it – made the lectures worth attending. I never ceased to be amazed at the buffet of delicious adjectives he so effortlessly produced; always doing the beautiful music we studied justice.

So, having just marked our latest batch of essays, it came as no surprise that he felt obliged to comment upon our (often hilarious) grammatical errors, spelling mistakes and misuse of vocabulary. However, as my ears perked up at the mention of “the subtle nuances of the English language”, I noticed that not everyone seemed to share my enthusiasm. No, the whispered (and some not so whispered) remarks of my neighbours – “Who cares? It still makes sense...”, “God, he’s so pedantic!” and “Can you explain that again, in English?” – made that quite clear.

In a world where words longer than three syllables are now compulsively shortened with an ‘o’ (for your speaking laziness convenience) and we avoid typing out full words like the swine flu, our lecturer is one of a dying breed.

Yes, we can blame Australia’s less-than-satisfactory education system; where spelling and grammar are nonchalantly sacrificed for longer playtime and extra PE classes. Or maybe this overwhelming technological boom is the real instigator for “dis kewl nu way 2 txt 2 ur bffls”. Overshadowed by the blinding light of our iPhone and iPad screens, it seems that our appreciation for the English language is fast fading into the darkness, along with the ancient Walkman and paperback novel.

But somehow, I don’t think “my primary school teacher liked sports better than English” or “it’s how everyone writes these days” is going to quite cut it at our next job interview. After all, the pen (or keyboard, if you prefer) is mightier than the sword.

So boys and girls, next time you reach for that glossy Cosmo or FHM magazine, opt instead for a good piece of literature.

Note: think Jane Austen, NOT Stephenie Meyer.

Dish Therapy

A little note about me:

I think too much, I stress too much. I think about stressing too much and I stress about thinking too much. In short, I am something of an obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive worrywart. 

And it’s not that I stress about irrational things. (Ok, so I just wrote out the same music assignment three times because the note stems were crooked, but that’s not the point. Irrational is more like...well, you know, being abducted by aliens, attacked by dinosaurs and stuff...right?) It’s the fact that I over-think everything I do down to the last minute detail, repetitively, that stresses me out.

Do you see the vicious cycle?

My reason for pointing out this little glitch in my sanity is to aid in your understanding of my newfound dilemma. At roughly 5:11pm yesterday afternoon, having just annihilated the Anxiety preceding my blog debut, she was reincarnated in the form of another question: “well, that’s that...but what to write about next?”

You see, while I had started “blogging” in the technical sense of the word, what I had really written was a preface to my blogging. So, do I now choose to take the path of the Cynic or the Philosopher? Perhaps, the Documentarian? Or maybe even the Troubled Teenager...

I spent the next few hours weighing up different options in my head as I scrubbed dishes and served food in the little Italian restaurant where I waitress. (How about that, guys? Our mothers were right – washing dishes really does build character.) It wasn’t until I walked out the front door, olive-oil-stained and tomato-sauce-splattered, that it dawned on me: it doesn’t matter. Why restrict myself to one character when I can be, and am, all of them at the same time?

This blog is for whinging about uni assignments, contemplating the meaning of life, raving about that last concert, marvelling at human nature, and documenting travel adventures. It is a way of manipulating a slice of my mind into digital form and sharing it with the rest of the world. It is to remind myself that I am constantly growing and changing. It is about leaving behind a footprint.

There, I feel less stressed already!

If only resolving the other worries in life were just a dish-scrub away...what a calm, clean world we would live in.

Blogging

Today, I type my first words as a..."blogger".

Why the hesitation and use of quotation marks? Not because I am reluctant to be associated with the term. No, quite the contrary. I just don't believe that I yet possess the dazzling writing skills required to be considered one of "them".

You know who I’m talking about. The seemingly ordinary citizens walking among us by day – the Clark Kents of the office, the Peter Parkers behind the pizza shop counter – but whom, come nightfall, wow the world with their literary prowess under secret aliases. Surely, their ability to turn daily humdrum into reading delight, to blog diligently at the end of a long day rather than fall into bed or in front of the idiot-box must be superhuman.

What do you think, dear reader? Is good blogging some sort of innate gift, or a skill to be acquired and mastered? I suppose that is something you and I will soon discover amidst the numerous little black letters fighting to escape my fingertips. 

So, it is with great respect for my fellow bloggers, the English language, your eyes and my own sanity that I tentatively embark on my journey into Blogworld...

Hope to see you along for the ride!