I am the egg, and (fish) food for thought

So, once again I find myself in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia for moderation from Sunday to Friday. A most whirlwind trip.

"Moderation: what's that?", you ask.

And even if you didn't, I don't care. I'm telling you anyways.

It's pretty much 'quality control'. I go over to Malaysia with a group of my colleagues from university and we make sure our overseas partner is teaching our units how we do, and marking as we do. Generally, it means downgrading the marks significantly. This transpires into a large cohort failing, and me being Queen Biatch for a few days. But hey, I get put up in a nice hotel, get to go shopping and eat big-ass buffet breakfasts/big-ass banana leaf dinners/big-ass hawker food every-meals to the point of I-want-to-pass-out-ness every day. What's not to like?

Staying at the ParkRoyal in the city centre, I must say I was a tad bit disappointed with the size of my room. It was a pokey corner room that I had convinced myself I got stuck with because I was vertically challenged. To my delight though, I later discovered that even our 6'4 staff members were not immune from being siphoned into hobbit holes. Don't we love corporate cost-cutting?

But on the plus side, I did enjoy the view of the city from my abode, the TWO good-night chocolates on my pillows each evening (traveling alone, they were mine: all mine!), AND the television was so strategically positioned that when you are on the loo with the door wide open, you can watch it! Very handy when you want to catch a heavily-censored airing of 300 but have got a serious case of the runs from too much dahl for dinner...

The hotel seems to think my name is "Yoke Swee". Even after I tell them that it's not, front-desk staff keep insisting that it is. So I concede – some battles should be forfeited. Alright, for the next 5 days... I am Yoke then. Lennon was the Walrus. I am the Egg.

The weather was kind to us when we were in KL. It only rained twice, and the heat and humidity was nowhere as unbearable as it had felt same time last year. The familiarity with the city centre meant that I was considerably more relaxed and clue-y about where I was this time around. Want to know the good places to eat? Want to know the good shopping (hello Pavilion, but why-oh-why must Kenny G-does-Christmas be the muzak of choice everywhere I go)? Ask me. I think this whole Malaysia-every-December thing is starting to grow on me.


4th December 2008

On my final day, I decide to pamper myself.

New York: day spa in Greenwich Village – a pedicure (I think my 'foot specialist' still wakes in the middle of the night screaming, and drenched in sweat at the memory of my hopelessly ugly and calloused feet), and a facial (only because I wanted to nap after my pedicure).

Malaysia: fish spa. Let me explain.

Well, for the Christmas special of just 69 ringit (just under AU$35), I opt for the deluxe package of a foot and shoulder massage, and 'fish spa-ing'. Now, I had imagined that the massages would be 'relaxing'. I really should learn the definition of 'reflexology' before I commit myself to it in future. Because it certainly was anything but relaxing!

One of my friends slaps me with $10 bet (don’t we love international roaming on mobiles) that I can't get through the entire session without laughing or giggling. I like a challenge. But in the first 10 minutes of a 1 hr & 10 min. session... I lose. Spectacularly. There is only so much facial contortion, rolling of eyes to the back of one’s head, and clenching to the arms of the chair that I can do before I give in. I burst out laughing, and have to apologise to my masseuse. I am so juvenile.

When it comes to the shoulder massage, the only way I can sufficiently describe it is to paint the picture of a P.O.W. being subjected to inhuman treatment. Can we say: P-A-I-N? By the time the massage is over, I am beyond the point of feeling pain. In fact, I think I have 'transcended' somewhere else (very much like some mentally abused child who has found a 'special place' to retreat as a coping mechanism).

Then, the moment I've been waiting for. The 'fish spa' treatment.

Let me set the scene: a pleasant little Zen area with wooden floorboards, fronds dotted throughout the space, and glass tanks at feet-level all around you. Soft music plays in the background. Soothing. Oh so soothing.

You submerge your feet, up to your knees, into the glass tanks. And like piranhas-in-training, hundreds of fish swarm around your bare legs... to EAT THE DEAD SKIN.

I yelp, and laugh uncontrollably. Everyone is looking at me. Pfff. Virgin fish spa-er. I look up, and before me is a sign that says "QUIET PLEASE". Oh man. That $10 bet died a long time ago, along with the dead skin that is currently being sucked off my naked legs and feet by sea critters. Did I mention that they are EATING THE DEAD SKIN FROM MY HUMAN BODY? As a vegetarian, I voluntarily subject myself to being fish food. Is this not a complete oxymoron?

There's two levels at the fish spa.

Level 1: small fish.

Level 2: big fish.

I anticipate having no toes left by the time I have finished up with the big fish. There shall be only two stumps.

I am glad to say that my toes are in tact. And no blood was spilt (do they even have teeth?). In fact, after the initial reaction I found the whole experience rather... calming. There's nothing like being cannibalised to induce one into a state of Zen-ness. When my foot-chewing experience is over in half an hour, I am rather sad to wave goodbye to my little finned friends.

Really. I still have all my toes.

Fag haggery, BBC filmmaker Simon Reeve and make-believe catering friends

This week, I have been called many things. A faux 18 year old (which I take complete responsibility for, please don’t ask), a fag hag in the making, and a Facebook whore. I’ve been slotted into so many subject positions that my head is spinning from the experience. It’s been an eventful last few days of hasty Re-education, Reflection and Rejection; proving that the 3 Rs of Reading, ‘Riting and ‘Rithmatic ain’t always what the university of life is all about.

Today, was a landmark of a day. Today, Christina called a guy. And he was straight (I think).

Somewhere out there, I should be christening a ship with a bottle of champagne in commemoration.

Okay, stop rolling your eyes. It’s a good story. Really. Not quite as exciting as a limousine ride through the city with Brad Pitt, but hey. He’s getting long in the tooth anyway. Botox can only stave off wrinkles for so long before you look like a blow-up doll.

Facebook. Heard of it? No? Then you need to have less of a social life.

I’ve been posting up, for the last 3 weeks, ‘status updates’ along the lines of: “Christina is madly in lust with BBC documentary filmmaker Simon Reeve”. And the following week, it will read something like: “Christina is still madly in lust with BBC documentary filmmaker Simon Reeve”.

You see, I’ve been following his 3-part series Equator. Simon Reeve and his strange, funny and at times sobering adventures have been the sole reason I’ve stayed in my jim-jams for three Saturday evenings in a row. That’s dedication. There’s another D word that I could use, but let’s not go there (and if you have a dirty mind, please clean it – it has 11 letters, not 4).

Come on. The guy stuck his finger up a chicken's ass and made it compelling Saturday night viewing. What's not to like about the London chap?

In my defense, I do teach Media and Cultural Studies at university so I am always on the look-out for good documentaries. After using One Day in September for several semesters when teaching the ramifications of media intervention in historical events (I also wrote an article about the documentary for an Arts Critical Reader), it only recently 'clicked' that the book from which the documentary was made was written by Simon Reeve. I like a man who I can have an intellectual conversation with that doesn't devolve into discussions of his obscure parts (one of his series goes to parts of the world that no-one has ever heard of).

Was that a good enough disclaimer?

This evening, after a night of kung fu I return home to check my Facebook to find a message from a friend. Let’s call him X, shall we? X tells me that today, in Perth, in Western Australia, the most isolated city in the world, he met Simon Reeve. AND he has his number. To protect X’s identity, I’m going to say he works for an electronics store that sells mobile phones. Or a pie shop. Take your pick.

To cut a very long story short (long story? who me?), by end of Facebook exchange with X, I not only have butterflies and a wanton urgency to embarrass myself, but I also have Simon Reeve’s phone number in Australia.

I also have the support of X, who I quote verbatim:

X: “In all seriousness, just ring him up and ask him out – he’s all alone in a big city, and it’s his first night here. Just try not to gush too much...”

Sage advice. X pretty much gives me a script to read from, because as much as I like to stand up in front of 600 students in a lecture, I give Dustin Hoffman a run for his Rainman-money when it comes to one-on-one with men that I like.

I am also informed to say “I got your number from a friend who is a caterer” because apparently it’s a dead-end answer. I am a terrible liar without those prompts (this has me wondering if X does this regularly for a living).

So, with number punched into my mobile and a sense of anything goes (and if it doesn’t, I’m pretty sure I bought a big ass slab of chocolate today which is stashed in my briefcase), and after several push-ups to burn off excess energy, I make the call.

Do or die.

Preferably not the latter.

* brrrrring brrrrring [that's the phone] brrrrring brrrrring *
* click of the phone being picked up*

Simon: Hello?

Christina: Hello? Is this Simon?

Simon: Yes it is.

Christina: Hi Simon. My name is Christina. You don’t know me but a friend gave me your number. They said you were in town and I was wondering if you had anyone to show you around Perth?

Simon: Actually I do. I have my film crew.

Christina: Ah. Ah. (followed by some very strange guttural sounds loosely translated into, “Oh bugger, what now?” and “where is the advice of X when you need him?”). Oh, that’s good.

Simon: We’re shooting a series here.

Christina: Wow. That’s great. Have you been taken out for drinks yet?

Simon: Actually, we’ve just come back from drinks. We’re flying off early tomorrow morning to Exmouth. By the way, how did you get this number?

Christina: Oh, a friend of mine does catering and they passed the number on. They saw on my Facebook that I liked your Equator series. It was fantastic. (I refrain from saying, “you’re the reason why I sacrificed my Saturday nights three weeks in a row so I sincerely hope you're neither gay nor married")

Simon: Why thanks!

Christina: Well, if you’re back in Perth again and you need someone to show you around, you have my number on your mobile.

Simon: Thank you. And I’m really glad you liked the series.

Christina: Thanks Simon. Cheers and best of luck with the new series. And I really am quite normal. (and after I say that, I know I shouldn’t have: George Lakoff's book Don't Think Of An Elephant springs to mind)

Ta dah! See. I am shaking off my Fag Hag robes. Not quite the response I was hoping for, but nothing ventured and nothing gained. Except an exercise in self-humiliation.

On the plus side. It’s a step up from gay boys, 21 year olds and Mirkwood Elves.

Hey. I tried.

Buy me an ice-cream if you see me on campus. I’m milking the sympathy for as long as possible.

Baby steps, bench-pressing the plank and flabby bodies floating in a spa

Today, I made the first of my baby steps.

I finally changed the clock on my mobile phone to reflect Perth time, and not London time. So you see, I am sort of re-acclimatising. I should add a disclaimer: it's out of convenience more than anything else. My digital clock broke this morning, so of course I slept in to some ungodly hour and missed a 10.30am appointment. It happens.

I decided to get back in to the social swing of things on Friday night. My friend was having his "Farewell - I got a job in Brighton" party. It's the sequel. We celebrated the first time back in April; he went over to the UK and realised the university he was to work at still had his application sitting on their desk. One month later, he was in Perth again. Two months later, he's going back to the UK.

Okay, so I turn up to this party that is full of his friends who I have completely forgotten from the first do-dah. But you know me. I'll talk to the pot-plant if I have to. Turns out, I end up having a rather pleasant chat with a tree-lopper who keeps leaving mid-way during our conversations to go blow his nose (he has a cold, it's not me). One of the ladies screams out "CHONG CHEW!" when she sees me. I don't know her. I am about to get up and tell her where she can park her ass when she corrects herself and screams out: "CHO CHANG!"

Now that I can handle.

She clearly has difficulties remembering my name, thus keeps calling me Cho Chang. So I am Harry Potter's girlfriend for the rest of the night.

I'm playing Bar Tender at the party. And bloody hell. I'd be everyone's favourite Bar Tender ... if only I could see over the counter, and knew the difference between beer and ale. My recipe for any alcoholic mixer is: 2 parts alcohol, 1 tiny (tiny tiny) part everything else. I know they say Vodka doesn't smell, but the way I make my drinks - it smells. This is after I've had some white wine. My mathematics is all over the place.

During my semi-tipsy state, the conversation between myself and a guy called Dan turns to how much we weigh.

DAN: I'm 89kg.
CHRISTINA: I'm 47kg.
DAN: I benchpress that!

30 seconds later, I am doing my very best to be a plank. And Dan is trying to benchpress me. It doesn't really work. I'm sort of drunk. And he is completely drunk. I'm staring at the ceiling during this failed human feat, thinking: "If I fall, I'll land in the fireplace... or crack my head on the table 20 centimetres from my head. This is fun."

For part of the evening, I chat with a guy who works for a bank. And when I realise he wants to get my number, I spend the rest of the night running away from him. And instead of flatly telling him: "No thank you" at the end of the night as grown-ups do, I decide to do it with more style and panache... I pretend to be totally engaged in a deep and meaningful conversation – about curry – with a neighbour's (inebriated) partner until bank-man leaves.

Oh okay. I was lying about the style and panache bit.

When I go to say farewell to my friend Mike, he is at the point of no return. He's got that blurry-eyed look about him (probably thinking profound thoughts like "Who is the Walrus?"), and is sitting in a spa in the garage (it's 4 degrees Celcius outside) with about 11 other people. And they're all naked. And not in a "firemen's ball-sexy" way.

I have not been so scared in such a long, long, long time.

Therapy is a walk around the river on Sunday afternoon (followed by yet another all-nighter prepping for a lecture I need to present at noon on Monday - does anyone want my job?). The sun was out. The sky cleared. And it was hot.

And it's our winter.

Yes. I'd like to rub that in.

The end of the London-Glasgow-Paris partay

I didn’t just come down to reality. I came crashing down. Not only did I land in Perth utterly depressed (the weather is wet, cold and overcast), but I also ended up with a nasty bout of food poisoning. So from 4.30am to 10.30am, I am doubled over the bathroom sink and wretching like there is no tomorrow (ever tried using the palm of your hand as a plunger?). When there’s solids, it’s almost satisfying. When it’s just bile, then it’s just not fair.

I get up at 3pm, and like the good little academic that I am – I go into work. I need to move office, which is a lonely experience especially when everyone has already gone home. I am feeling disorientated and out of sync with everything around me, which is partially attributable to being dehydrated and only having eaten an apple today. But emails and text messages friends pick me up, for which I am eternally grateful. I go to sleep, listening to Carla Bruni – a French singer whose CD I picked up in Paris (many thanks Nico) – and dreaming of far-off places and faces that make this cold night seem that little bit warmer.

Leaving for Planet Normal

Goodbye East End Cottage. Goodbye Pinner tube station. Goodbye living out of a backpack. Goodbye London. I’m leaving for normal again.

Emirates Flight from London to Dubai (en route to Perth) leaves at 2.15pm. I leave early, but unforeseen delays results in me literally rushing for the plane. Fortunately, the flight is also delayed and departing 50 minutes after its scheduled time. Bloody hell, that was a close one. Someone is looking out for me from up there. I think they’ve been doing it since the day I arrived in London a month ago.

I am sitting next to two brunette models on the Dubai-to-Perth leg. One of them keeps yelling out “DIE!” at the screen (clearly she’s not watching Bridge to Terabithia). Then she keeps cheering every time a goal is scored on one of the sports channels. Someone should tell her that it is the soccer highlights, and that there will be a goal scored every half minute.

Some memorable (or rather unmemorable) conversations onboard:

MODEL 1 (when filling out the Entry Into Australia Form): Excuse me, but what is tuberculosis?
CHRISTINA: It’s a disease of the lungs.
MODEL 1: I’ve had a cough. Could I have tuberculosis?
CHRISTINA: Unlikely. You’d probably be half-dead and coughing blood right about now.
MODEL 1: Oh. Okay.
CHRISTINA: Are you visiting Australia for the first time?
MODEL 1: No. I’m from Adelaide.

Huh?

CHRISTINA: So, where did you guys come from?
MODEL 2: Milan. There’s heaps of Australians there.
CHRISTINA: Oh right. What sort of profession are they in?
MODEL 2: All our friends are models.
CHRISTINA: Well, all my friends are intelligent. And fabulous.

Actually, I didn’t say that last bit. I just thought it. Instead, I smile politely at her comment.

The final London hurrah

My final day of sight-seeing, freedom and fun in England. Wouldn’t you know it? After torrential rain and flooding yesterday, the sun is out.

As much as I would like to do the Star Wars Exhibition at County Hall, I opt for some quiet time and reflection at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Second time to London: if I don’t do it, it really will be embarrassing to admit. A bit like going to Paris and never having been up the Eiffel Tower. Outside the cathedral, an elderly woman wearing a stone-coloured trenchcoat with a salmon coloured dress stops to smell the roses hanging over the gates. It makes me smile. While I’ve seen many a church, St. Paul’s Cathedral really does take the breath away with its grandeur and sheer size. The magnificent views of London from the Stone Gallery (thankfully no portraits of stuffy old men with frilly neckpieces) are worth the +400 stairs up to the apex. I pick out identifiable landmarks from the ant-sized hive of activity below. Clear skies gives good visibility. Oh yeah – for anyone who thought my ‘visually enhanced’ student ID wouldn’t work for concession entry, I’ve been flaunting it all over London and Paris. Never underestimate the power of being 4’11. Pfff. I rule. 8P

Mid-afternoon, I rendezvous with Sergio at Patisserie Valerie in Soho. I am embarrassingly late (apologies yet again!). I owe him an ice-cream. I trade in food. We’re at this café because I’ve requested tea and scones – which I’ll bet only the tourists do in the city, and local geriatrics do in the country. We talk academia, PhD dissertations, kooky supervisors, living in London, living in Australia, the future, the past, and ultimately how life should be lived – without fear and regret, and with great passion. And Sergio is still feeling like a disgruntled member of Fitness First – a number among many numbers (I will have to convince him otherwise). It doesn’t matter that we have 1.5 PhDs between us (he’s halfway done), we still have problems figuring out the hot pot of tea and hot pot of water arrangement. If we’ve embarrassed ourselves (a certainty on many occasions), we’ll just pretend we’re from out of town.

We need to pick up Sergio’s friend-from-Italy-who-speaks-not-one-lick-of-English from the British Museum late afternoon. When I am left alone with Luka when Sergio is off and about doing errands at Birkbeck Library, we attempt a conversation with the use of
he-who-speaks-not-one-lick-of-English’s Lonely Planet phrasebook. I try to describe the weather over the last few days, but keep coming to the ‘Gastronomic’ section. Can I call the weather ‘spicy’? When all else fails, we revert to charades and the universal language of man-perving: specifically Elijah Wood. When Luka shows me a clip of Elwood on his camera phone from the film Bobby, it borders precariously on funny, endearing and slightly creepy. It’s all good.

Sergio appears 20 minutes later, in time to chat to Caroline on my mobile to give her completely bogus directions to get from Russell Square station to our destination (the lawn in front of Birkbeck Library).

SERGIO: Head for the northwestern corner of the park. See that big white building, we’re behind that. You’ll see trees.

As it turns out, there are several white buildings in the vicinity (never mind that the white building the boy is referring to can’t actually be seen from the station as it’s hidden behind a big brown building), and it’s Russell Square. There are trees everywhere. Never get a man to give directions. We forgive you. 8P

It’s the final farewell. I could get used to this whole "kiss on the cheek hello-and-goodbye ritual"! Ciao Luka (who actually speaks some English and who has fabulous shoes), and ciao to the sweetest bloke I have met in a very long time. And I realise that the sun has come out every time I have gone out to see Sergio. Everyday was beautiful, my friend.

In the evening, Caroline and I take out our hosts – Ann and Peter – to dinner at a Thai restaurant in Pinner. I am touched by their open invitation to stay with them when I come back to London. The other night, they presented me with a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows the other night (hmmm, how on earth did they know I liked Harry Potter?!). London – the weather, the people, the experiences – everything about her today is beckoning me back. It is a most wonderful finale to my growing affection for this city.

And I get to thinking about all the people on this trip – those I met at the Glasgow conference, friends (old and new) in Paris, friends (old and new) in London – and a glow and smile spreads over my face that I could not get rid of even if I wanted to. I miss them all already. Big love to you all. Au revoir. Ciao. See ya later. Because there will be a next time.

Where there’s no sun, there’s no fun: A day in Bath

9.10am: I am at Paddington Station. All trains to Oxford are cancelled. The tracks are flooded. Just my luck. I come to England for summer, and they are experiencing their wettest one in many years (quite possibly, ever).

CHRISTINA: Are the trains to Oxford just cancelled for the morning?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: No. All day.
CHRISTINA: What about buses?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: No buses.
CHRISTINA: So how can I get to Oxford?
TICKET-COUNTER LADY: You can’t. Stay here.

Lady, if I have to wander Piccadilly Road again, I will throttle some homeless person on my way out.

What else is available on the train timetable? Looks like it’s a day-trip to Bath Spa.

The length of this entry indicates how much fun I had in Bath.

It’s pissing down. I take pictures outside the Abbey, visit the Roman Baths (pretty, but when you’ve seen one ruin you’ve seen them all), go to the Jane Austen Centre, wander around The Circle and Royal Crescent, pop my head into the Assembly Rooms just before close of business, shop up at Ted Baker and eat way too many vegetarian pasties.

The End.