Someday, I will look back at this email and remember this very moment, that my life is about to change. Thank you, Squidman.

Hey Ying, It’s a little unusual to criticise a poem that you wrote just for me — it feels like I’m getting a birthday present and then telling the giver that it’s not what I wanted. I’ll keep this note very abstract and general then, and, again, wherever it veers into direct criticism, it is only because I want to make the point crystal clear. Not at all because I think it is a bad poem. It isn’t. But we can learn things by picking it apart, piece by piece.

My best friend on on old Company ship was a dancer, and she had an attitude I liked. When you’re a serious dancer, she said, you can never be satisfied. You look at a tape of one of your own performances and, no matter how good it was, your only reaction is: I should have done that better, I should have done this instead.

It’s only in this spirit that I’m answering your question about the poem. I liked it and I’m happy with it. But if you wanted to nit-pick, then where would you start? Here are a few points that you might look at again: I personally have no interest in show-offy language, anywhere, unless it’s really superbly done. Very often these kinds of pretentious words have only one purpose: To disguise the fact that the writer is either saying something awfully sappy that he couldn’t otherwise get away with, or he doesn’t have any idea what he wants to say. You may be sure that any experienced reader is on guard against this tactic. Your poem skirted the edge of that abyss but pulled itself back just in time.

A friend of mine wrote his CV and cover letters like this, with language that he would never use in real life — and it showed, because he was actually using these fancy words incorrectly. I had to tell him over and over again that it was so easy to picture him sitting at his desk, agonizing about whether he ought to use simple words or complicated words … without it ever once occurring to him to just try to use the best words. Language is meant to be communication anyway, and so (of course) is art. If the focus ever strays away from communication, then it is probably straying towards masturbation. I would normally say something like this to a writer: Get the nuts and bolts right before you start painting the house. In your poem, the ‘house’ is centered around a metaphor. But it’s a house that’s only half-built. We’ve got a staircase and a lone figure drawn in silhouette, but why not develop it further? Is this staircase a straight path to the top, or are there other tempting ‘distractions’ along the way — distractions which we can give names to? Is it possible to lose your balance? While climbing, are you using muscles that you’ve never used before? How is the feeling? And is there an audience watching you climb the stairs? What is their role in all this — support, or distraction, or something else? We use metaphors like staircases because they help us give insight into situations. So what other insight can the staircase metaphor give? I think you could integrate the a more lifelike staircase into the body of text very easily without sacrificing the flow of the poem, or without making it overly long. Imagine a stanza like this: With each dizzy step my muscles cry out for relief / While just a few yards away my friends lounge / Sipping beers, agonizingly at ease / And an empty spot on the couch set aside for me. The word ‘couch’ here is a nice wink to the reader who knows you, and ‘agonizingly at ease’ is a pun that also adds some illumination to the civil war going on inside your head. What, in fact, will our narratress do when a moment like this comes? Do we have any right to assume that she’ll walk the straight & narrow path? To me, it seems like cheating to start playing the triumphant violins so soon in the story. It may just be my personal taste, but I tend to growl at happy endings, gift-wrapped morals and simple lessons. They tend to taste a little bit like a lollipop. Yes, sugar is good once in a while, but you can’t make a meal of it. Of course, you wanted to write a thank-you to me and it must have seemed the right thing to do to end on a high note. So it depends how we look at the poem. If it’s meant for the inside of a Hallmark card, then it does the job well. But as a stand-alone poem, it doesn’t quite ring true. In fact, you admit this yourself very clearly. You just wrote to me something like, “I don’t even know why you have faith in me anymore. Whenever I review my life, I feel like a fake.” If this is the truth, then why doesn’t it show up in the poem? Your poem’s ending would lead me to believe almost the opposite — that you are, at long last, at peace with yourself, that you have killed your inner demons and are finally and irreversibly on the path towards the light. I shouldn’t need to say that I’d rather read a clumsy email containing the truth than a polished poem containing a lie. So how did this happen? How can we account for the difference? Where did this poem actually come from?

I think it came from the same place my friend’s CV came from. He spent his time trying to decide what his audience wanted to hear, rather than spending his time trying to get at the truth. The latter is what an artist does; the former is what a hack does. Hollywood, lamentably, is filled with formula screenwriters and directors who see what’s trendy and safe, and try to mimic that. The technical word for this is ‘fluff’; in cases where the fluff isn’t even carried out competently, the word is ‘cheese’. For an example of the difference between cheese and art, I can think of nothing better than to take a long look at the lyrics of Eminem’s brilliant “Lose Yourself”, which is much too smart to fall into the Disney trap. It takes a subject that most people imagine to be glorious — being a superstar — and describes it as 95% misery. That, to me, does ring true, and that is why it is art. The extremely elaborate construction of the rhyme scheme is why it is great art … but that’s for another conversation. Going back to form and specifics, and what can be done with a poem about a staircase, look how the black author Langston Hughes puts some texture in his poem, “Mother to Son”, which is very similar in concept to yours:

* Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor — Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ‘Cause you finds it’s kinda hard. Don’t you fall now — For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. *

I copy this one for you now because your poem reminded me of it. Other things – I didn’t notice any grammar mistakes in your note, not that it would really matter if I had. As long as there is no violence done to the meaning of the words, who cares? There are a couple of typos in your poem (you write ‘feet’ where you should write ‘foot’; I corrected this already when I re-sent it to you the other day) but I make this kind of mistake all the time anyway. It’s nice to get the details right, but it’s better by far to address the elephant in the room.

The elephant that I can see most clearly is that I believe you bring to each conversation a lot of intellectual baggage and preconceptions which actively prevent you from listening to other points of view. I believe that you are wrong about a great many things, but that is no sin; we are all wrong from time to time, especially when we are young and just starting out. The sin is in reaching conclusions without hearing all the evidence, without even allowing yourself to acknowledge that you haven’t heard all the evidence. It struck me a long time ago that wherever logic is in conflict with wishful thinking, wishful thinking will tend to win the battle in your mind. And moreover, once the wishful thinking does win, it will quickly solidify into an unshakeable certainty, and all notions to the contrary will become literally unthinkable. This is a shame. When I hear someone make a claim that I believe is incorrect, the first thing I do is to ask what led them to that conclusion. If they’ve made some insight that I never thought of, I’ll see if this new insight is strong enough to change my opinion. If they cite information that I don’t know to be true, then I’ll ask where they got the information, and check it out for myself the first chance I get. If they turn out to be correct, I am always quick to thank them. It’s not every day, after all, that I am lucky enough to have my mind changed about something. If on the other hand their argument doesn’t seem to hold water, I’ll challenge it with my own argument, citing my own evidence. (I already have evidence to cite, of course, because otherwise, by definition, I wouldn’t have had the right to suspect something mistaken about the other person’s claim.) Again, if they are able to answer my argument, then I am in their debt because they have removed one mistake that had embedded itself in my view of the world. Only if my argument trumps theirs does it live to see another day. The previous two paragraphs are nothing original. They are the exact definition of science. They are the one and only way that knowledge can grow. They are the sole reason why airplanes built with respect to the principles of science tend to work, while airplanes built on principles of faith or wishful thinking always fail. One path leads to progress; the other path goes only to delusion and self-indulgence. One of the things I love most about you is that you are fresh and spontaneous and exciting and enthusiastic. (Okay, so that’s four things.) I wouldn’t want you to lose all that. I wouldn’t want you to become so careful about every word you say that you become too pensive like I am, or that you get too bogged down in what is proper and correct that you forget to let loose and be crazy and have fun. It’s a balance, and the balance is much too difficult for me to keep. I often wish I were much more easygoing and carefree than I am. I wouldn’t want you to think that I am disappointed when I see you make a mistake, or that I wish you were more like me.

Certainly not! But on the other hand I do see a lot of trouble on the horizon if you keep going the way that you are going. A writer who is scared of criticism is no writer at all. A woman who wants to be independent in the world cannot afford to fool herself about what the world is. Someone who voices her views often had better be able to defend them when other people hold them up to the light. She cannot run away forever, because she is only running herself into a corner. She creates a situation for herself where the people she most needs to run away from are the very people she is closest to, because they are the ones who know best that she is indeed an intellectual fake. As this situation develops, her stress levels will go through the roof because, as an independent woman who has forsaken the protection of home, she has no one else to lean on, and nowhere else to go.
cr
Except back to the staircase, which is where we are now anyway. Climb if you’re ready, but know what you are climbing. The first step is will. This is where you’re standing, but just barely. Hopefully by the end of this note, you’ll be able to decide whether you deserve to be on that step. The next is humility. Understand that you know nothing, and that you have to learn everything again if you are going to get anywhere. This then becomes the third step: Learning. I’m talking about serious nonfiction books. You haven’t read them, and you need to. Learn your crafts also. Practice your teaching by sitting in on other people’s classes, xeroxing more and more materials, asking questions about how to deal with these situations. Practice reading and then, much later, practice real writing. Make some money in the meantime at these jobs so you can support yourself, but whenever you have free time, you ought to be taking apart the houses that other writers have built, and seeing how the nuts and bolts fit into place. Somewhere in the future, you have a fourth step to look forward to, which is hard work. No getting around it. By now you know what good writing is, but knowing is not the same as doing. This is, I think, the step that has thus far defeated me. I have gone out very much on my own path, started everything fresh, revised every single one of my old views, and since then I have learned very much indeed. But I still haven’t produced anything at all that I would be proud to publish. That ought to bring about a moment’s pause for you, if you are still dreaming of a swift climb to the mountaintop. I have several years’ more experience out in the world than you do, and in terms of high-quality books, I’ve certainly read at least 250 more than you have. And still I have produced nothing. It’s not because I’ve been following the wrong path; it’s because I let myself become intimidated by the ‘hard work’ step, to the point where I dragged out the ‘learning’ step longer than was necessary. Your personality might put you in danger of making the opposite mistake, and trying to skip a step. Try it though, and you will certainly fall to the ground. But you have at least one advantage over me. You have a guy who will most definitely continue to kick you in the butt to keep you moving forward. I never had that, and I desperately need it. That is precisely why I suggested we write each other stories 6 months ago. The plan fizzled out, and I wish it hadn’t, because I really need something like this.

You asked why I still had faith in you. Maybe it’s because you need me to have faith in you. Or maybe because I need some company on this staircase, and for reasons of my own, I like your company more than anyone else’s. Maybe because I know that what you’ve got inside of your messed-up head is so interesting that I am willing to spend however long it takes to help you bring it out. So: Care to climb this staircase with me? Have you got the will at least?

Are you shit-scared? If so, then that fact had better be in your next poem. =)

From GoBudgetTravel

Links to the articles that I mentioned earlier. Read Iyer’s article your own risk because he’s known for verbosity!

WHY WE TRAVEL : http://www.goliards.net/Why%20We%20Travel.htm

Damn! There ain’t a proper link to William Sutcliffe’s : Everyone loves to love backpackers, so here’s the copy and paste version.

EVERYONE LOVES TO HATE BACKPACKERS (by William Sutcliffe)

EVERYONE loves to hate backpackers. Even people like me, who have spent months of their lives backpacking, hate backpackers. Why should this be? Let’s start with the uniform.
However wealthy a backpacker is (and let’s face it, this is hardly a rickshaw fare. Then we come to guide books. The Lonely Planet and Rough Guide series are treated with reverence by most backpackers, not just as a source of information but as a talisman representing the holiday they intend to have. No one has helped them choose what to do. No one has organised their trip for them. They are independent.

Few backpackers see the irony in these constant professions of independence, while they tour around huge countries following the same minutely selective routes picked out by the author of one (or perhaps two) guide books used by every single traveller in their area.

This is the real purpose served by the Lonely Planet series: not to allow you to find your way to unique and undiscovered places, but rather the opposite – to give you security in the knowledge that, wherever you go, you can take a book out of your backpack and look up where all the other travellers are hanging out.

This, to me, is the most disturbing aspect of backpacking. The desperation with which most “independent travellers” cling to one another, aided by their guide books, sums up the spirit of contemporary travel. Distant strongholds of the western leisure industry are being set up in spectacular locations, catering specifically to the tastes of western backpackers: in particular drug-taking, white-water rafting, bungee jumping and trekking. Most backpackers, it seems, are less interested in new experiences than in familiar experiences in exotic places.

The authors of these guide books create a travellers’ circuit of approved hotels which conform to rigid demands. Incense in the lobby, scruffy sofas in a courtyard and banana pancakes on the breakfast menu are compulsory. In a bizarre form of apartheid, most travellers stay in these hotels, which cater exclusively for westerners, and often specifically exclude locals (other than servants).

While business travellers in the East stay in up-market hotels used by people of all races, backpackers insist on staying in this style of pseudo-down-at-heel hostel used only by whites under a certain age on a certain kind of trip. A London banker staying at the Holiday Inn in Delhi is more likely to mix with Indians than a backpacker at the Yogi Lodge in Varanasi.

Such is the power of the guide book writers that if the Lonely Planet’s top recommendation in a particular town is say, the Rainbow Lodge, backpackers will be greeted at the railway station by hordes of rickshaw men who already know where they want to go. These drivers will often then take them to unpleasant, badly located hostels which have been renamed the Rainbow Lodge and offer a commission to enterprising rickshaw men.

Long arguments ensue, and it is not uncommon to be driven to several Rainbow Lodges before you are eventually taken to the perpetually full, non-commission-offering original. You can tell it is the right one by the scruffy sofa in the courtyard, the incense in the lobby and the banana pancakes on the menu. Moreover, all the guests will be white westerners.

Ask backpackers why they are happy in hotels with such glaring racial exclusivity, and they will all give the same answer: “It’s cool here. You don’t get hassled.” Which leads me to “hassle”. Backpackers are obsessed with the idea that, wherever they go, they get unfairly hassled. This “hassle” usually takes the form of local shopkeepers trying to make them buy things. Given that all contact with locals, other than the purely commercial, has as good as been wiped out by the traveller lifestyle, this seems a bizarre complaint – as if even outside the confines of their exclusive hotels they expect the locals to steer clear – as if any intrusion on their western privacy is an offence.

For those travellers who simply can’t bear the attentions of big-city salesmen, there are always the backpackers’ retreats: places like Manali, Ajmer, Goa and Kovalam, where entire towns are devoted to servicing the whims of these fearless adventurers. These resorts are proliferating throughout the Third World, and will turn up every few pages in most guide books as places for “a little R&R from the rigours of travel”. In some of these resorts, such as Goa, backpackers might have to suffer the intrusion of package tourists on two-week beach holidays. Of course, backpackers can’t be expected to mix with these “holiday-makers”, and will do everything they can to steer clear of anyone who might have to spend the rest of the year working for a living.

Travel has become a compulsory hoop for middle-class youths to jump through. Many British universities now explicitly prefer students who have had a year off for their “extra maturity”, and Gap Year travel plans feature on most university applications. Completed trips subsequently appear on many graduates’ CVs.

Travel is thought to demonstrate initiative, independence, strength of character and numerous other attributes desirable to universities and employers. As a result, backpacking through Asia or Africa has transformed itself from an act of rebellion into an act of conformity. Society as a whole seems adamant that Travel Is Good For You – that you somehow are not a real person unless you have suffered from diarrhoea on a Turkish bus or been mugged in a Bangkok backstreet. Travel is popularly perceived as an inevitable stage of personal growth for the middle classes. Although many of us have backpacked, and have enjoyed it, few can look back on the experience without a twinge of shame. I myself was a culprit of every one of the classic backpacker sins (yes, including the clothes) as a middle-class 19-year-old on a Year Off in India. Although I am pleased that I did the trip, I feel deeply sorry for the people who had to put up with me, not to mention nauseous embarrassment. If I could go back and give a tip to all the rickshaw drivers I haggled with, I would.

© The Sunday Telegraph Are You Experienced?, William Sutcliffe’s novel about backpackers, is published by Penguin

Something very interesting happened over an exchange of emails between me and Squidman. The lesson learnt aftermath is invaluable and I’d love to share it with everyone.

Last night, I sent out two articles (which I will provide in my next entry) written by Pico Iyer and William Sutcliffe. Iyer wrote about what happens to us when we travel while Sutcliffe wrote about Why Everyone Hates Backpackers. While I thought the two articles to be extremely interesting and informative, Squidman wrote back:

Ying, I hope to Christ you don’t write crap like this for the travel magazines! This is an encyclopedia of all the unforgivable mistakes a writer can possibly make in a single article — and you’ve given me two of them. Mercy! If I wrote like this in my college workshops, I would have been laughed out of the room. Hope all is well, and that while you’re in Thailand you take advantage of the bookstores, which actually do have gems in them.

A shake of the head and a shrug, Squidman

I was shocked because I thought the articles were well-written. But Squidman’s years of experience as a certified English Teacher (a very good one too!) made him see otherwise, I believe. But instead of inquiring Squidman’s point of view and perhaps attempt to find out what made the articles so flawed, I wrote back:

Hmm. I didn’t know world reknowned authors could write so badly.

Sorry, Ying.

So, who would have thought, that the very short reply I sent, would garner such a very long email in return:

Hi Ying,

Hmm. I didn’t know world reknowned authors could write so badly. Sorry.

I have just spent a few dreamy moments imagining how lovely it would be to live under this impression. For starters, book-buying would be so easy, as everyone knows that John Grisham and Danielle Steel must be the best authors to read, since they are the most popular — or that Toni Morrison and Gao Xingjian are necessarily good writers, because they have both won Nobel Prizes. U2 and Britney Spears, we would automatically know, cannot produce a bad song because they are world-reknowned. When Steven Spielberg directed Jurassic Park 2 and Amistad, all of his critics must have been fools because, after all, Spielberg, certainly, is a Great Director. I have read (and enjoyed) Sutcliffe’s book “Are You Experienced?”, and I recommend the book for you also, not least because it takes an appropriately sarcastic position towards exactly the view that you seem to be suggesting.

That is, in fact, the entire point of the book. It succeeds because it aims at an easy target, and hits a bull’s eye. His new article, like Iyer’s, aims higher and misses completely. It has to be said that, as a writer yourself, it would be unwise for you to brush away criticism you don’t like without first making sure you understand it well enough to make an informed disagreement. If you honestly cannot see what is so objectionable about these articles, then you might benefit by asking exactly how I decided they were worthless. But I would be genuinely surprised if you could not see it yourself. Short of that, you might also ask other people what their definition of bad writing is. I would certainly be very curious to know how you would define it. If you cannot come up with a definition yourself, then that in itself should be a warning sign and cause for concern.

Regardless, if I am reading your short reply correctly, then it is meant to tell me: 1) Gee Steve, you’ve really got a bug up your butt; 2) You’re wrong because everyone else is right; and 3) I shall pretend to take the high ground by saying ’sorry’, but what I am actually telling you is that blind applause is more welcome than honest opinion. This is probably what your message is meant to say, but I don’t read it like this. Instead, what I see is that you are very careful to avoid the danger of learning something new; there is no hint that you care to see where I am coming from.

You may have heard the saying, “Tell someone something they already know and they will thank you; tell them something they don’t know and they will hate you for it.” If this is is really how you want to approach things, then you will find safety and comfort by living your life within the confines of this e-mail message’s first paragraph. But any fool can do this, and I would have thought you wanted to aim higher.
Wasn’t there something you once wrote about self-improvement vs. the comfort of following the herd?

Ah yes, here it is:

*I stumbled slightly
Screaming internally for the violation of my will.
I wanted to rush down,
And hide under the blanket of indiscriminate reality.
But I realised,Now, what did I realise? *

Yes, this is the question. It’s understandable, and very human, to lash out momentarily, to stumble, and to want to rush back down and hide. But in the end, where will this really get you? And what, at the end of the day, will you allow yourself to realise? Sooner or later — and I hope sooner — you will realise that there is nothing to be afraid of, and that if you are indeed as right as you say you are, then you certainly have nothing to fear from critics. The only danger is that you will modify your point of view, and that is no danger at all, but rather a blessing. There is nothing shameful about changing your mind about something. Changing your mind is the only way you can be sure that you even have a mind. I

think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to copy and paste your entire poem again. It certainly fits here. The best thing about it is how it starts: A lot of flowery language which is quickly (and properly) dismissed as ‘distrations’. As the poem moves ahead and finds its footing, it becomes clearer that these airy distractions function as an excuse to avoid making concrete progress; how conventional traveling gets in the way of actual movement. Your poem doesn’t have a title, but I think I’ve got the perfect suggestion, based on these emails we’re having right now. Let’s call it “Why We Travel”, but taking care to use the title ironically, cynically. Now, you see, it begins to make more sense. Can you see what I am seeing when I read this now? Looking at it through this lens, certain words really start to jump out, don’t they? * Why We Travel

Sultry air and pouring rain,
Curious smiles and potential tears,
A thousand faces; unforgettable expressions,
A plethora of memories; Kaleidoscope of moments.
Motorbike, pedestrians and speed
Deafening noise and the roar of the restless,
I live-be and then cease to be.
The days wear on I continually choose to be blind-
Amusing myself with distractions.

Dreams conceptualised but never actualised
Perfect tunes composed but unsung,
Lines of reality drawn but devoid of colour,
Haphazard paths cross and uncross
And the roads unknown, unexplored, unseen-I dare not take them.
—————————————————————–
The towering beacon radiates brightly into the night,
Amongst the darkest vacuum, the light beckons
The bold and the faithful to climb it.
The stairs spiral upwards into the heavens,
A promise of eternity to those who dare.
I don’t.
Like a coward, I could only stare,
Hoping that someone could come down the stairs,
To hold my hands, to take me up and brave with me the unknown.

The day never came, the person doesn’t exist.
And I’m still staring, sitting, wishing and waiting.

Then one stormy night,
As I lay beneath the tower as usual,
Seeking refuge under the intimidating tower of promise,
A lone figure appeared,
Silently he points upward.
He forcefully takes my right foot
And plants it on the first step.
My left foot,He pulls it across and places it on the second step.
I stumbled slightly
Screaming internally for the violation of my will.
I wanted to rush down,
And hide under the blanket of indiscriminate reality.

But I realised,Now, what did I realise?
I realise this poem won’t have an ending-simply because I’m now climbing
One step after another..
And when I get there
I’ll let you know where. *


The ending is still a bit wishful and optimistic for my taste — a bit Disney — but at least the sentiment is right. It might be worth re-reading this poem again from time to time, so you can remind yourself that the path to the top is, after all, a staircase rather than an escalator. And that there are people who can help you climb it. If these people kick you in the pants from time to time, it is because they see you getting lazy, not because they enjoy kicking you. When I start to see you kicking yourself — and kicking yourself upwards, not downwards into various forms of fatalism — then I will believe you are actually climbing the stairs, rather than just standing on the first step and yawning.

I hope things are otherwise going well for you, and that I’ll soon be hearing more goings-on from your corner of the world. I have plenty more to say about life onboard here, which never ceases to amaze me, but I’ll save it for a different day.

Your comrade in poop, Squidman

I wrote Squidman the poem when I was in Vietnam. I remember feeling depressed for a while and then feel much better after a few weeks. I started on the poem when I was feeling a little lost, but I finished the poem when I felt tonnes better. The poem accurately expresses my constrasting feelings then.

After that, I wrote Squidman this reply:

Ah well, in that sense perhaps, my comrade in poop doesn’t enjoy kicking me but rather is trying to kick me up the stairs. Heh. Well, you read too much in my email because I didn’t mean in that way. But re-reading my reply also made me realise that I behaved unconsciously as you predicted. Even though unintentional, I did try to dismiss your criticism instead of examining it. And then as I ruminate about the situation deeper, I realise, I’ve lived my entire life like that! Yes-your cool poop comrade is actully not tres cool after all. I shun criticisms and am afraid of progress. I never really take any roads less taken, unless I’m absolutely sure that it leads somewhere. The irony is, I didn’t realise that this cages my life. It forms invisible boundaries that I’ve automatically set in my mind. Thus, without knowing, I limit myself. After all these while of looking for others and the world to blame, I fail to recognise the fact that it is me who’s complicating things. That’s why I won’t play the piano because I’m not absofuckingly fantastic at it. That’s why I do art because I’m good at it. That’s why I’m afraid of Europe then because I know that I will struggle. And also I don’t know what to expect. While my life is like a process of elimination (since I’m into everything and anything), I realise I eliminate the things I can do or want to do, too fast, just because it doesn’t work out for me initially. It feels good to breeze through things; when I struggle and stumble, I abandon the road. I’m not a fan of math because I’m not good at it. Not just that, perhaps over the years, I also manage to condition and convince my mind that I’m not good at it. Yet at 6th, 7th and 8th grade, I excelled in it. Not because I grew smarter but because I had a merciless teacher who’d drill us with Math exercises. Hmm…come to think of it…

That’s why I have great reverence for people who aspire to be something and become it, even though at first, people tell them that they’re not good at it. One of my dorm mates in Hanoi, Pierrick is one of such person. He’d train and practise juggling and magic tricks regularly. He taught himself play the harmonica, do reiki and a hundred other things. It wasn’t because he was good at anything in the first place, but he did it because he loves it and then became good at it.

Ah. Once again, you’ve illuminated me. A flaw in my seemingly smooth life. Thank you so much. Really. I truly appreciate it. It’s tough to have a paradigm shift suddenly, to learn to love criticisms and learn from it, but alas, I will try. I have to be very conscious of my mind and the way I look at things. Thank you for the reminder. That’s probably why I lack faith in my own dreams, my own desires. It seems like unless people agree to what I think, I will never pursue it. I always let people tell me what I want. Shame. It seems like I have no mind on my own. No wonder, I’m so f#$kin personable-because I nod, smile and agree to everything.

It’s a surprise to see why you still have so much faith in me. When I review myself sometimes, I feel like a fake. I don’t know.

But of course, feeling like a fake is no excuse for acting like one. Hahaha. Anyway, that’s why I travel. Because I meet people like you, who from time to time, kick my ass and tell me that I can do better. And because through travelling, it’s easier to see the journey you’re taking. It’s easy to spot what went wrong from the choices you make. There are, I suppose no right or wrong choices, only how you respond to it. Pardon the cheese, neh?

Anyway, I did see some grammatical errors on the passages…but not enough to see how badly flawed they are. Please advise. Hehe.

Okay, gotta go now. And oh, other than the fancy flowery shit and abrupt Disney ending, how’s the poem?

Choooos!
Yingie pingie-poopy

Thanks for the kick, Squidman! And thanks for remembering that I needed the kick every now and then!!!

Stephane Grenier

Stephane is my favourite moto driver. The night before we went to Bach Ninh for the ‘Jellyfish Festival’, he said, “Cheap-cheap moto. Tomorrow, I drive, you sit behind.” The arrangement continued when we went on a 3 days motobiking adventure to Mai Chau.

On our way to Bach Ninh for the “Jellyfish Festival”

He’s also the one who lifted me from the toilet and put me safely back to bed, when I got too drunk again. He became my partner in crime for food. Every morning, unknowingly, we’d wait for each other in the reception and when we see each other, either one of us will say, “Breakfast?” (Even after he moved to another hotel with his mum).

We’d sneak out for a pizza simply because people would laugh at us for doing it in Vietnam. He agrees to go for a pasta buffet with me simply because I craved for it. He’d finish up my food all the time because he knows I got a small stomach. We’d tease each other relentlessly. He’d push me into the pool,trip me, make me touch ice-cream to my nose, and then sticks out his tongue at me. When I avenged for my humiliation (I tugged the rubberband that held hislong, blond hair) he said nothing. When I gave him back the band, he said, keep it-it has some strands of my hair on it. It’s true. The black band is still on mywrist till this day, and of course, with some strands of his hair tangled on it.

Sharing sticky rice with coconut by the lake

We played bubble bubble at Bach Ninh

I must admit that I did have a crush on Stephane. Who wouldn’t-he’s too beautiful to behold! His features, a combination of his French and German genes, is exquisite. A heart-shaped face, a strong jaw, and perfect well-shaped lips. He usually keeps a slight hint of beard, macho without being scruffy looking. And you have to see his eyes! You’d get lost in his huge Dom Perignon coloured irises and those very long eyelashes that gently flutter whenever he blinks. Long blond hair tied in black bands, he tried to grow them into dreadlocks but unsuccessful-his hair’s too silky.

Apart from that, Stephane is a quiet man, an enigma. It could be the language barrier but we both got along great all the same. He shared with me his dreams to become a photojournalist while showing me some black and white images that he took in New York, his travelling adventures in Australia, his life in Paris when he was a driver for a VIP and some childhood tales. He’s the only son and the baby of the family, but behaves like a man who takes care of his two elder sisters and his mother well. He’s a man of strong will as he started to stop smoking in Vietnam (not an easy place to do so) and a man of moderation-when he’s tipsy and stoned, he’d stop.

By the spring at Mai Chau-Stephane and Guillaume

So we traded lessons of life and in philosophy, we both watched the river flow just like how Siddharta in Herman Hesse’s best-selling book did, and man, did we share an amazing friendship that grew through the little day-to-day events that we always take for granted.

The philosophical Stephane

“If you’re in Paris, call on me. If you’re in Germany, stay with me and I’d show you Blackforest-the smell of the forest-ahhhh, so good!”

Pip’s apartment

In a very cool cafe called Shades of Retro, Thong Lor

And as we suckle and chew the bits and pieces of seafood, she’d say suddenly, “Do you know wintermelon in Thai is called Fuck? And oh, when I was in London’s boarding school, I make sure I have a tub of seafood sauce with me. Screw cheese and farang food-all I need is spicy and sour seafood sauce!”

Mike had the opportunity to couchsurf with Pip too. I asked Pip if Mike could stay over when he gets back from Koh Samui and Pip responded with a: “If your friend doesn’t mind the floor, I’m alright with it.” Well, even I don’t mind the floor, so I doubt Mike will. Besides, Pip gave him a very comfortable pillow and had him sleep on a thick duvet. He even got a stuff dog for company-how’s that for trying to make you feel at home?

Mike and his puffy pillow

Anyway, I think I’ve got enough of ice-creams and watching DVDs. Heather (also I met her in Hanoi!) lent me 200 pounds so that I can get by in Europe. I got my tickets reconfirmed. This time, there should be no mistake.

Amsterdam, 4 July 2007, 1.30 am.
Flying on Egypt Air.

Wish me luck. And yes, I’d probably just have only 200-300 pounds with me for the journey.

US on a biking adventure to Mai Chau village (Week 3 in Hanoi)

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 2: SOUL MATES, GREAT MATES AND LOVERS

Like every other tourist, I had a love-hate relationship with Hanoi. But what I disliked about Hanoi, I made it up by liking the people that I met there. Sadly, it wasn’t the locals that I’ve come to love. It was my dorm mates and the people whom I bonded with in Hanoi Spirit House.

HANOI SPIRIT HOUSE

“Ying, I can’t believe you’re finally leaving this Friday. You’ve been here for close to a month and you never show signs of detaching yourself from this place, ” Mike said, shaking his head in disbelief. ” I really think you won’t be able to leave. We’d make you miss your bus anyway.” I gave the 34 year old Austrian architect a playful jab in his ribs, clinked our cold beer glasses together and then grinned. I felt secretly touched by his words. I knew my presence had made a difference just like how theirs had.

I knew Hanoi had been good to me, and at that time, I knew I would leave with a heavy heart.
I did. As the mini-van slowly drove away from Hang Be street, the image of my friends waving faded into the setting sun. Kathrin kissed me on my cheeks and held me for the longest time. Pete, Van and Niccola took turns to hug me before. Pierrick kissed my cheeks and muttered some words about how happy he was to see me go but didn’t mean it. Mike hugged me hard and reminded me that we’d be meeting up again in Bangkok. Some of these people were with me for the entire time, while some just got to know me over the last two weeks, but I didn’t want to say goodbye to either. I wasn’t good at saying goodbyes. When Rob, Sam, Ezequiel and Heather left 2 weeks ago, I almost cried. Then, Stephane. Then, Guillaume. Then, Ed.

The ones who were left… It was my last goodbye to them
L-R: Niccola, Van, Ying, Pete, Pierrick, Kathrin and Mike

WHO, WHAT, WHERE
It all started with Ed, who persuaded me to stay in the dorms with him at Hanoi Spirit House. At that time, there were 2 dorm rooms. Each room had 3 beds: a double-decker and a single. It was rudimentary but for USD 3, we couldn’t complain. Through the legendary dorm room 203, the one I stayed in for at least 2 weeks, I met the greatest people ever: Hakan from Sweden and Sam from England.

ROOM 203

The greatest dorm mates ever: Hakan and Sam

The first few parties we had on the top bunk

After that, we were moved to a bigger and newer dorm. It has 12 bunk beds; each bed as an individual wall fan. 6 on one side, 6 on the other: girls and guys were seperated into two sides. There were two bathrooms but no windows. At that time, we were very excited to be sharing one huge room together. Some came and went, while some lingered on. Some of these people made it to the deepest chambers of my memories while some didn’t. Those who did are: Stephane from France, Kirk from US, Heather from England, Kathrin from Germany, Michael from Austria, Pierrick from Quebec, and Freddie from England. Through Ed and Guillaume, we also got to know Van from Canada and Niccolas from France.

The new big dorm

The crazy ass boozing parties we had in the big dorm

However, during my final week in Hanoi, Freddie had a huge row with the staff in Hanoi Spirit House. The staff was undeniably rude and when he couldn’t us to do what he wanted, he turned violent. He smacked Freddie, punched her lightly and eventually pushed her down the stairs. What a scandal! The entire denizen of Hang Be street gathered around to watch us screaming and threatening him. There were a lot of screams and shouts. Everyone just gaped. No one took us seriously however. The police came, questioned the staff in Vietnamese and then left. We checked out immediately, shook the staff off when he demanded us to pay (what the hell-you smacked us and asked us to check out and now you want us to pay?) and moved over next door. Turned out that the dorm next door was better. We had a 4 room dorm that fits all of us perfectly. Pete and Kathrin shared a room instead. In the end, it all worked out. We paid USD 2.5 per bed, enjoyed one of the most amazing views from the top and even the room even had free wi-fi!

ZAED AZNAM: Always smiling and cheerful

Do you still remember Ed? I wrote about him in one of my very first few entries. He was to be my travelling partner, but in the end, we parted ways because we both wanted to see other things. Nonetheless, parting ways doesn’t mean putting an end to our friendship. Instead, it further inspires us to stay in touch so that we consistently know what each other is doing. And so when I arrive in Hanoi, Ed gave me the biggest hug ever! It felt so good to see a familiar face! Someone who understands you in depth, without having to communicate through words. While Hanoi may be one of the best times in my life, it’s also one of the hardest. Again, I was faced with crossroads and am forced to choose one fork. I remember the both of us taking long walks by the river and to the one and only second-hand English bookshop in Hanoi. He relentlessly try to drill into my head some sense-what travelling is all about. I remember him telling me that I shouldn’t allow money to govern my plans. Again and again, he instilled confidence in me and made me believe in myself. There are times when I floundered in the dark, but Ed’s always there to shine the torch. Even though there are days when we hung out with different people, it was just soothing, knowing that he’s around. I remember one day, when he was so very down, and he doesn’t know where to go-home? China? Thailand? He didn’t have much money and he had to work at the Malaysian restaurant every night just so that he can buy a ticket to move on. Eventually, we both decided that he should push on to China and he did. Now he’s having a dandy time in China, despite having only RM50! Thanks to Ed, I changed my perception on cheap travel. You can truly travel-travel in ways to lose and find yourself, through hardships and the lessons you learn on the way-and your only true wealth then, is time and an open mind. Nothing else matters. You still can be happy on the road, without money or many assets. Money can be earned, but perspectives can’t be bought.

We Love Our Vodka!! (Ying, Ed and Guillaume)

I was plain sober while Ed’s bordering on the tipsy meter, near Hoan Kiem Lake.

KATHRIN KLEIN

Kathrin Klein, is definitely not klein (small in German). Yet, she’s very attracted to small people, namely: me. Every morning, when we meet up for breakfast or for a cuppa, she’d tug at me and clasp me tightly to her bosom, murmuring, “Ach Ying-so klein!” Sometimes, she’d plant kisses on my cheeks, sometimes a pinch or two on my cheeks.

A very attractive German lass, she’s one who feeds on life. She’s always on the high regardless how good or bad the situation may turn out. She laughs at the world and at herself, living the good life just the way she wants it to be.

“Remember, if you want to have sex, go ahead. As long as you enjoy yourself and know of the consequences, then go for it. But if your gut feel says no, then don’t do it. But don’t NOT do it, just because you think that the man will find you disposable at whim. Think of it the other way round. Besides, who needs men anyway?”

It’s difficult to resist Kathrin’s charms. She’s so bubbly and lovable, that both men and women love her. Her spirit is beautiful and it shows.

We first met in Hanoi Spirit House’s bar. We were half-way through Ring Of Fire, a drinking card game when Sam, saw Kathrin at the computer. Sam invited her over to the bar counter-the more the merrier, he said. I remember feeling a tinsy winsy bit of jealousy, simply because I didn’t want to have another person in the group. We were good as it is already-Rob, Sam and Prince. Besides, she’s really pretty. Surely, she’d be the centre of attention, I thought.

But she turned out to be really fun. And then when I puked all over the bar (I pulled out the King and was forced to slam down a Tequila + Red Bull + Vodka + Beer) she helped me to the room. Rob came after, looking worried. “Take care of her,” Kathrin said.

The next few days, we became fast friends and then best of friends.

Together, we twirled, swished our skirts, sang, hugged, kissed, laughed, sneered, shouted, ate, drank, swore, whispered, sang again, skipped, jumped and squealed.

I saw her riding on her highs but also remember having to reach out. I remember sitting with her, sponging her hot forehead when she was down with a 40 degree fever. Michael and I hunted for banana porridge for her. I held her hand when she rambles softly in German, in her sleep. I watched her tears fall, when she found out that her lover may be cheating on her.

Ach, Kathrin! I will miss you so much. India will love you as much as we do. See you in Frankfurt next year!

Kathrin and Ying-the best of pals in Hanoi

Kathrin having fun in the rain while we were on our way to Mai Chau village

THE BALCONY FROM ‘THE SECRET CAFE’

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 1: Introduction
A while ago, after an aimless wander around the cities of Indo-China, trekking on without a purpose to breathtaking landscapes where the Mekong River meanders, I succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion. What took the heaviest toll on me was, spiritually, I wasn’t fulfilled-something that I didn’t expect. Travelling was meant to inspire and illuminate. It was supposed to reveal to you the meaning of life. Growing tired of talking to people, enduring indifference to people and places,and having your senses numbed with fatigue as you sit in a rickety old bus that rumbles down the dirt road ain’t part of the plan. For quite some time, I really didn’t know what to do with myself. While I was munching down croissants in an overtly touristic pattisserie in Vang Vieng, one that plays Friends reruns everyday on its 27-inch screen, I thought about Ed. I received an email from him recently and he told me that he has managed to find a job in a Malaysian restaurant in Hanoi. He was being paid USD10 a day, but that’s more than enough for him to survive, he wrote. Dorm beds only cost USD 3 and as he lived off cheap Pho Bo (the infamous Vietnamese beef noodles) and Maggi Instant Noodles, he could actually save up a little before moving on. It then suddenly dawned me that I was tired of warming up to strangers. What I really want to see is a familiar face, and have conversations without having to start with all the backpacker interrogation bullshit. Also, I thought about the chances of securing myself an English Teaching job over there might be a tad easier with the contacts that Mr. Callerame passed to me.

So, without another minute of hesitation, I bought myself a 24-hour bus ticket from Vang Vieng to Hanoi.

The journey was unpleasant and terrifying, made worse by a whining Australian who was also in the same bus as I was. Sure, I wasn’t enjoying myself either, but complaining about it doesn’t help either.

Anyway, after a day, I found myself in the Old Quarters of Hanoi, the 36 streets where tourists hang out. Secret cafes, hidden behind luggage sho facades were waiting to be discovered. Shops spilled souveneir wares and colourful kitsch. Every corner is punctuated with either a coffee shop or a noodle stall. The narrow streets held haphazard buildings together. You’d see a French window open, and underneath that hanging Bougainvillea branches is an old Vietnamese man in a white singlet, cooing animatedly into a birdcage. The architecture is a mixture of French and Vietnamese. The walls are always vibrantly painted with hues of pastel yellow, blue or pink. Nothing speaks of mundane. Fresh bagguettes are sold on the streets. Old ladies sit on very small wooden stools outside the shops, fanning themselves while motorcycles honk and beep as they glide by. Backpackers and friendly locals bond over cheap watered down beers at Bia Hoi Corner, the notorious hangout place for foreigners. Shaded boulevards, accessible public parks and the shimmering Hoan Kiem Lake-every nook and cranny of Hanoi screams a postcard cliche.

It used to be a French colony and maybe that’s why this city still speaks the language of love-or for me at least.

YING AND ED IN HANOI-IN FRONT OF A PROPOGANDA POSTER

For me, life took a very interesting turn in Hanoi. Hanoi changed me in ways that I couldn’t fathom.

30 days later, I’m not the same person again. I felt completely recharged when I left Hanoi. My heart burst wide open and my head filled to brim with ideas. I was no longer tied down by ideas of money and the lack of it. I was no longer tied down with conventions and traditions. I was inspired, and most of all, I was free.

Novice monks in Vang Vieng, Laos

During my hiatus, my travels took me from Vientiane into Vang Vieng, Laos, and then onwards to Hanoi, Vietnam. While working on some post-Hanoi entries, let this little excerpt from my journal amuse you:

“I lie dejectedly at the little shoe box room of mine in Vang Vieng, Laos, while scratching my arms at a rhythmic pace ; it must be the flea-infested blanket or the stained bedsheets. But gratitude I must feel, to have at least a roof over my head as the sovereign sun shines haughtily over the limestone hills and the Nam Song river; it’s after all it’s merely USD 4 for a room with a double bed and an en-suite bathroom with hot shower. It is not that I’m running out of cash but I still can’t put a finger to my crummy mood. The curtains flutter into my face and I hear snatches of conversation, each word spoken with a British accent. I hear laughter, and another voice-a French perhaps? I wish I am an active participant of the conversation but at the same time, I wish I’m not-I’ve ran out of clever things to say. I no longer excel at small talk, at those little initiatives that solo backpackers have to attempt so that we won’t end up sitting in a bar alone, watching Arsenal play Chelsea while the rest of the travellers have an audience to chatter away animatedly to. I try to put faces to the ones currently talking: one’s probably a big-boned surfer dude in a Ripcurl cap, a stripped tank top and a light blue board shorts while the other’s probably a scruffy dread locked hippie who chooses to adorn oneself with tribal ornaments and light, linen attire. I try to conjure an image of myself in the group; I imagine my backpack, my army green flip-flops and my woven anklet around my right heel. That’s me- a solo-female Malaysian backpacker, roughing out in one of the poorest countries in the world. It seemed like an image of my dreams a few months ago yet this time, I recoil at it. I think about my friends spending their time now in a freezing office, hunching their backs in front of computer screens or slapping a 20 Ringgit bill on a Starbucks counter for an undeserving Green Tea frappucino – that is my world, and I miss that. I survey my surroundings now and feel like a fake. My self-induced poverty is laughable, my dreams all of a sudden crumble into worthless pieces. Suddenly everything is so futile and so silly.

Despite all my unbridled enthusiasm about being an intrepid explorer, I’m now exhausted. Almost three months have passed and I’m still on the road, feeling as worthless as a bum, and as aimless as a wanderer. What is it that I hope to find? Will witnessing poverty in Bung Kan, Thailand or Poipet, Cambodia fill me up with insights of life? Will living out of the suitcase truly fulfill me? “

Here’s also a prelude to one of my Hanoi entries. I wrote this email to Matt, in moments of distress. I was already in Hanoi then; it was probably Week 2 in Hanoi when it was written.

On our way to Mai Chau village, Vietnam

Dearest Matt,
I’m so happy that you’re now settled. Moving into a new apartment must be exciting. Taking time to decide what should go on your walls and or your shelves are one of the activities that I wish doing, NOW. I know I looked really happy in the pictures that I sent you and I was, but those sort of fun and laughter doesn’t last very long. My dorm mates were really cool, and I’ve met the nicest people along the way, but after three days of drinking, talking shit and being sociable-I’m now exhausted.
I can’t go on like that everyday. There is no intellectual, spiritual or emotional fulfilment. I was struggling for quite a while, to come to terms with my wanderings and not knowing which path to take. Even Guillome, the French guy, shares similar feelings. We both felt so unproductive; waking up everyday and wait for the day to end.
For the longest period of time, I felt very lost. Again, I am at crossroads. I was deluded to think that I could make something happen in Hanoi. I went for one interview and sent in some resumes here and there, but eventually I realised that my lack of motivation wasn’t because of the jobs available but rather, I couldn’t accept the fact that Hanoi would be the place that I’d like to settle for a couple of months. I don’t know what Ed told you, but Ed doesn’t like this place either. Hanoi can be charming with its culture and architecture but the people are aggressive and rude, and the blare of honks just never stop. There is so much noise and activity and pollution. And you understanding me well, knows that the last kind of place that I’d like to settle in!!!!!!! I can’t even bring myself to say thank you in Vietnamese. In so many ways, I feel like a estranged from the culture. I can never feel like a local here-maybe becauseI I dislike them. Remember how it was in Penang, where everyone’s smiling and friendly? Well, it doesn’t happen here.
So Ed and I sat down one day, across the lake, with cheap baguettes in our hands, tried to sort things out together. Even though we’re both different in so many ways, he understood my needs and my dreams. And most importantly, he knew the perimeters within me, that was set up by the culture that we were brought up in. First of all, we discussed what route I should take because I told him, even though I’d get a job in Hanoi, I don’t really fancy seeing myself here. Yet I’m running out of money and I need to do something! But at the same time, I’m so unproductive. I’ve been so unproductive really…it was quite aimless, traversing South East Asia without really having the intention to travel. I want to settle somewhere, but where? Ed said that the reason why I still feel so lost is because my heart was set in Europe all along. My whole SEA travels is pure bullshit, a distraction. I’ve wanted to go to Italy all these while, but because I let the risks deter me. I wanted to go to Europe, safe and secured, knowing that I have wads of fat cash in my pocket. Now I know that if I really want to go for my dreams, I really have to work for it. No one’s just going to hand to me the things I want-be it job, money or accomodation. There’s really no short cut or safe way to go about getting what we want. If I really want to be in Italy that badly, then I just have to roll the dice and take the plunge. And by just being there, it will just open another gate of possibilities. I guess there isn’t any way easy way out of this entire thing.
Also, I lack of faith in myself and my dreams, Ed said. In his wisest voice, he said that the reason why I don’t have a focus is that I’ve always tried to please everyone. He said I should stop thinking and stop asking people for their opinions. I just have to have faith in myself or rather in the things that I want to achieve. Who cares if it’s silly or unrealistic or close to impossible? Who’s to say what’s impossible and what’s not. And I just have to swallow my pride if others are going to laugh or belittle me, because at the end of the day, these are the people that I don’t need.
So after the talk, I sat and listened to the voices that I’ve repressed. It says that I want to be in Italy. I want to live in Italy. I want to be speaking Italian. Then something changes in me. Slowly but surely, I started to believe that that’s what I wanted to do. I wrote to Steve, the guy that initially set me out on this path, but got a reply that wasn’t a positive yes yet not very encouraging either. But funnily, for someone who has always listened to the voices of the others, I started to listen to myself. And that email didn’t bother me that much. I didn’t require that sort of affirmation from him anymore. Also in that email, I was asking whether I could borrow some money just in case I truly run out of it. After all, he offered before. But his reply was not a resounding yes but rather yes, I’d be willing to help, but. It doesn’t sound too promising but somehow, this time round, I didn’t feel that worried either. If Ed can survive in Europe for less than 30 Euros in hand, then maybe I can too.
So I guess my mind is pretty made up now. I don’t know what to expect or what will happen, but I do know that I will run out of money within the first week that I’d get to Europe. I’ve only bout 200 dollars left. That’s all. I’ve to rely on my faith and my desperation to get myself a job. I know that I’ll have a bloody tough time but I know I’d be able to rough it out. I sound crazy don’t I?
Yes, if only I can turn back time and go back to those times when you were in Malaysia. You know what, the explore the school thing was also the highlight for me!!!! It was one of the moments where we connected at such a level that even saving frogs and exploring ruins could amuse us.
And oh, Matt-recently I wrote to the editor of Bangkok Trader and proposed some stories of my recent travels to him. He responded with such enthusiasm that I feel almost faint reading his email. He said “don’t tease us with such leads, just give us the stories!” Anyway, I’d be hearing from him a few days time (he’s probably still on his way back to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.) Anyway, if I could write up at least one or two of those stories, I’d be able to earn a couple more dollars. Isn’t that just amazing! Things are falling into place, I think.

Matt, if only I don’t have the one-way ticket to Europe, I’d have flew to US. Really. I’m bent on seeing you again, so yes, I can promise you that eventually I’d be there. I have been thinking bout doing graduate school in US. We’ll see how things work out in Europe. If I do manage to settle down in Europe for a while, please visit me will you? And meanwhile, your name has always escape my lips when I regale my tales of travels to the people I meet along the way. It’s always Matt this and that….hehehe!! Same goes for Ed too I think!
Matt, we’ve really missed you. We really want to see you again. I promise, we’d meet soon.
I really hope to hear from you soon. I want you to tell me what you think of my crazy Europe plan this time. Any advice or tips will be appreciated-but even if you ask me not to, I’d still go.

Much much love,
Ying