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The good, the bad and the ugly threads that weave Malaysia’s tapestry ….

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Old people hanging around Tirana

Prologue

London

I‘m back from my recent wanderings. Back while I was still on the ship, Tim, a friend of mine that I have only met and travelled with once, emailed me and asked what I was doing for the summer. I remember saying I don’t know and I don’t think I could see that far ahead yet. It was probably somewhere in February 09, and I was still working on the MV CE-the worst ship that I’ve ever been on. I was still in the midst of my depressing existence, not exactly enjoying life onboard. Every time, I would look longingly at the waves and wished it provided answers of some sort. I know I couldn’t be truly happy until I get off the ship. Tim said that he may travel around the Balkans and I said I’d join him once my contract finishes. “Cheap flights from British Airways to Tirana. 104 GBP,” he said. Tirana? Where in world is Tirana? I didn’t even know but the more obscure the names are, the more I like the sound of it. It turned out that Tirana is the capital of Albania.

Flags of Albania

When I told Moreno, Francesca and Roby, my closest Italian colleagues that I’d be embarking on a trip, somewhere around Eastern Europe, with an open-ended itinerary that would start from Tirana, they literally went speechless. I’ve never seen speechless Italians before. Their faces were a combination of horror, fear and disbelief. It was the most comical expression that I’ve ever witnessed. And then, Roby opened his mouth slowly and bellowed the longest ‘No’…. that I’ve ever heard. He went on to give me ten reasons why I shouldn’t visit Albania and it included rationales like: Albanians are thieves and they’re dangerous; they create a lot of problems in Italy for the locals; Albanians will kidnap and rape you… and etc. Moreno wagged his finger and blatantly called me crazy.

However, despite their ignorance and their contentment to not budge from their warped bubble of perspectives, I knew that they were merely concerned. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop me from buying a one-way ticket to Tirana. The flight to Tirana would leave from Gatwick Airport, London, on the 24th of June, 2009.

As I was literally stuck on the ship till June 21st, I didn’t have much time to research about the region or find out whether I need visas for these countries. There was a rough plan about the places we should cover but no just no itinerary at the point of departure. Tim said, wait and see. I said, we play by ear.

I didn’t even have time to worry about how travelling with Tim would be like, after not really staying in touch for these past two years. Tim was a friend of Steve’s. He was introduced to me because of his extensive knowledge about teaching ESL in various parts of the world. I have utmost respect for his decision to quit his high-flying lifestyle in England, to become a professional ESL tutor. We met in Perhentian Islands, Malaysia, two and a half years ago (thinking about it now…) and we travelled from there to Bangkok together. I’d shuddered at some snippets of our time together because I remember him as very judgmental, harsh, critical and brutally honest. But he was also very intelligent, interesting, generous, opinionated, kind but brutally honest.

21.06.2009-27.07.2009 (Together)

• Albania
• Montenegro
• Kosovo
• Macedonia
• Bulgaria
• Romania

27.07.2009-06.08.2009 (Solo)

• Turkey

Somewhere between Bulgaria and Romania, Tim visited Serbia on his own while I went on to Ploiesti, Romania, to visit Valentin for five days. It was difficult to get a Serbian visa while being on the road and I didn’t think it was worth it. Tim stayed back in Sofia, Bulgaria after because he found love. As for me, I plodded on because I was happy to travel solo again. I went on to find my own love in Istanbul, Turkey.

The next few entries would be chapters of each country that I’ve been to and its highlights. I’d try to make it as concise, as interesting and as profound as possible.

Fort in Kotor Bay, Montenegro

Pushing Tim into the freezing lake in Sveti Naum Monastery, Macedonia

Partying it up with my English bodyguards (ex-PARAS) in a bar in Pristina, Kosovo

Sibiu, Romania

Pristina reborn, ten years after the bloody battle with Serbians

Bâlea Lake situated at 2,034 m of altitude in the Făgăraş Mountains, in central Romania, in Sibiu

We watched Palermo Shooting by Wim Wenders in a cinema with communist deco in Sofia, Bulgaria

Riding on a rickety Ferriswheel in a retro themepark in Istanbul with Nick

Acknowledgments

1. Grazie Mille to Tim for being the first to initiate this journey and for being a muse, an inspiration, a critic and a friend. If there’s anything that I learned from you, is the fact that no one can make you feel bad without your consent. Un abbraccio to you for your thick and outdated Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guidebook. Without it, we might find ourselves more lost than we already were.
2. Hugs to the two big boys, Colin and Rick (ex-British Paratroopers) that I met in Pristina, Kosovo. Thank you for making me and treating me like a Malaysian Princess. I wonder if things would be different if I’ve stayed on for another day.
3. A million kisses to Tsveti, my Bulgarian CS host(ess) who commanded us to make ourselves at home while we were in Sofia. Like a sister that I never had, she took care of me without being obliged to. Sofia won’t be the same without her.
4. Cheers to Valentin, his friends(Bogdan and brother, Luiza) and his family, Ovidiu and his family and friends (Tibi and Gabby) for showing us the true Romanian hospitality. I will not forget the day where Ovi and Tibi, drove all the way down to Brasov to pick us up and then took us around Transylvania till 11pm. Or how Ovi’s mum had cooked us meals but we never eat them on time.
5. Thanks to all our CS hosts in Romania (Tia & Frank), Kai and Kemal (Istanbul) and the lovely travelers that I’ve met along the way (Alex, Juliana, July, the Swedish guys, the Australian girl, Giulia & Niccolo, Iacopo, Riccardo, Jacobo, Ivan, Ester, the French couple, Sondes, Melahat, Jet Set Zero crew: Jen, Rob and their CS guests) and whoever that I’ve failed to mention but nonetheless not forgotten.
6. Most of all, tanti bacini to Nick, the treasure that was awarded to me at the end of my travels. His kindness and love have provided me with a shelter over my head in Istanbul, endless interesting conversations, necessary intake of good food and alcohol and a sanctuary to be who I am.

21 June 2009-Disembarking from the ship. Flying back from Copenhagen to London Heathrow.

Quote of the day: “Not gifted with genius but honestly holding his experience deep in his heart, he kept his simplicity and humanity.” Nanao Sakaki’s description of the great Haiku writer, Issa.

As I switched between movies, I return every now and then to the screen that showed flight information.

Destination: Pointe-a-Pitre, Guadeloupe
Ground speed: 536 mph
Distance since departure: 2983 miles
Flying across the Atlantic Ocean
Time to destination: 2.39
Landing Time: 6.10pm local time

I open the window shutter and let some glacial blinding sunlight in. Some iridescent snowflakes had formed a pretty pattern on the pane. Against the lucid blue skies, they look like crystals. Exquisite. Then, I return back to watching Jim Carrey’s latest film, Yes Man, and stretched my legs across the other two seats. Somehow I got lucky at the check-in and had secured three wide seats to myself.

Despite the harrowing morning, I still find, in some recess of my brain, the experience hilarious. It wasn’t hilarious in the comical way but rather the close calls, the running around and experiencing the zenith of frustration, left me with nothing but a strange calm and an edgy sense of humour. I marvelled at how finally things just fell into place. I felt like I should lift my head toward the skies, shake my fists at it and say to the divine, “Must be some kind of game you’re playing here but whatever it is, you’ve got me!”

Back in a nice three star hotel in Naples, at 4.45am, I was rudely interrupted by a call from the reception. “Get your things down now,” a voice barked in rapid Italian. “Your airport transfer’s waiting.” I remembered that it was meant to be at 5am, not 15 minutes earlier. I stared miserably at my things scattered across the room and started to pack.

At the check-in, I was told that my luggage would arrive at its final destination. I remember cocking an eyebrow in skepticism, since I had to transfer, not just from one flight to another, but from one airport to another, in Paris. However, I fought my doubts down and thought that perhaps after AirFrance took over AliItalia, they had some sort of new luggage technology. I forgot that Airfrance is equally as bad in losing and misplacing passengers’ luggage.

I had another transfer in Milan Linate, before Paris. I had only 10 minutes to run from arrivals to departure and worried inconsequently about my luggage not making it on time.

When I arrived in Paris Charles De Gaulle, I enquired about my luggage and whether I should pick it up in CDG itself before going to Paris Orly. There was a nagging thought that I was right and the earlier check-in clerk was wrong. The friendly guy behind the desk confirmed my worst fears but assured me that there’s a free shuttle bus to Paris Orly and it’s only about an hour between the two airports. I have plenty of time to pick my luggage up at the carousel and everything else. He checked in online for me and said, “Good luck, sea girl!”

I waited at the luggage carousel for 15 minutes but saw no sign of my luggage. There was only about 100 people on the flight so it was obvious that something went wrong. Spoke to the receptionist at the Baggage Service and she helped me checked through the systems to see whether it arrived. It didn’t and she told me to come back 30 minutes later. At 12.00 pm, I went there again and she shook her head apologetically. Told me that it was best if I were to lodge a claim and give her an address so that they could deliver it to the spot. I didn’t have an address of the hotel that I was meant to stay at. I rushed up to an international phone booth, paid 20 Euros for a phone card and started calling Costa’s emergency number for travelling crew. They said I should call Guadeloupe’s port agent. Called Guadeloupe’s port agent, got some sort of address and hoped for the best.

It was 12.30 pm when I headed towards the exit. I looked at my boarding tickets and it said boarding time 2pm. That means, if I don’t get to Paris Orly by then, I’ll be screwed. Time was running out. I was breathless and couldn’t think straight. Enquired for the shuttle bus stop but the French couldn’t speak English. Hand gestures took me around in circles. Eventually, found the spot where I should wait. Bus didn’t arrive. A crowd had already gathered and everyone was cursing. The bitter wind didn’t help.

Glanced at my watch-12.50pm. Merda! Ran towards the taxi area and asked the price to Orly. 60 Euros he quoted but he pointed ahead and say that I had to go all the way to the front to be part of the queue. It looked about 1 km away. Turned back and decided to wait for the shuttle bus. My brains were scrambled with thoughts that screamed, “I won’t make it. And the cost involved if I don’t.”

The shuttle bus came at 1.10pm. It was full. At this point, I was glad that I didn’t have my 35kgs worth of luggage to lug onboard. I was small and could fit into any corners. The only belongings I had were my Crumpler camera bag and daypack.

Got there at 2.00pm sharp. Realizing the fact that I was already checked in previously via Internet, I dashed towards the departure gates. After I got there, there was still 5 minutes left to catch my breath. It was then where the bitter sensation of self-pity and wretched misery invaded into the pores of my skin. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself, feel angry at the fact that The Company booked me on such stupid flights and that WHY DO THINGS LIKE THAT HAPPEN TO ME? Why me, I thought, albeit knowing it to be a big cliché.

Then again, why not me. Everyone have a bad day at some point in their lives, everyone must have lost their luggage at some point in their lives-my time is now.
Must be a whole ball of bad karma snowballing down the hill and then triggered an avalanche of shitty events.

As for now, I could do nothing else but wait. So why not just enjoy the waiting moment?

Today, the ship slowed down to a speed of 10 knots to sail through the Suez Canal. The canal is busy as usual with ships in line, waiting to get through. I went out to the open deck for crew on Deck 6 and was greeted by a blast of cold wind and barren shores, with no signs of vegetation.

The sudden drop of temperature reminded me that we finally left the African sun behind and are crashing into the Mediterranean Seas soon…

It was 19th of November when I embarked….and by 15th of April, I’ll be off MV CE. I don’t know whether to heave a sigh of relief or to feel pangs of regret that it’ll all soon be over…

Next port of call: Alexandria, Egypt

From Safaga to Luxor

I had listened to the ancient whispers of the land,
And watched the sun rose and set upon the sands….
The wind had breathed to me the secrets of life..
As I crossed and wandered through the chambers, monuments and tombs,
I imagined the ancient civilisation that was once at its zenith,
Upon the same rocks and alabaster….

…

I unscrewed the large metallic screws that held my cabin’s porthole tight and looked out. The real threat of Somalian pirates has passed-we’re free to enjoy the transient but majestic ocean vistas once again. Looking out from Deck 3, the ocean appears close; occasionally a whiplash of water would graze the surface of the porthole. The night was jet-black, the horizons indistinguishable except for the lash, swash and slosh of the waves against the vessel, illuminated by the neon on the promenade deck. I pressed my face against the porthole, unable to take my eyes off the constant motion of the ocean and thought, “I never want to stop wandering.”

I remembered that particular day when I told my dad nonchalantly that I’m going to Myanmar to volunteer in a local village school. My mind was already made up and I was leaving in two days time. “When are you coming back?” he asked. To his horror, I said I don’t know.

It all started when I met Jeff, the Australian ex-Buddhist monk, now a freelance meditation teacher, who regaled to me how his world tours turned him into a Buddhist monk under the Theravadan tradition for 8 years. I wasn’t sure whether it was the unusual awe commanding presence that screams wisdom or the fact he could speak Thai and Burmese, chant in Pali and surf like a typical Aussie bloke, that made me want to be him. If such an unlikely character could command so much respect from the Buddhist community all over the world, then perhaps this unsuspecting awkward girl-next-door could be a world traveler, a writer on the road, a barista in Sicily, an aid worker in Sudan or a pianist in Harlem. I could switch from skin to skin, savouring every experience that different jobs, romance, lands and circumstances can offer. I was smitten by possibilities.

I broke up with my boyfriend of 5 years right after. I was only 23 years old and I couldn’t see him fitting in anywhere in this new life of mine.

In Yangon, Myanmar, I stood next to the 200 cm tall Dutch backpacker, in a local Pizzeria and allowed the fellow volunteers to hoot with laugher at the amusing contrast. As he turned to look, I flashed my brightest smile at the towering figure. It was then we fell in love with each other. As we spent our remaining time travelling together through Myanmar and then eventually my home country, Malaysia, and Thailand, I had adsorbed everything I needed to know to become a proper ‘Amsterdammer’. I could recite one to ten in Dutch, roll out the strangest and archaic Dutch sayings, memorize names of canals and streets, imagined myself sitting on the ledge of the window, staring out into the canal as the Heineken horse clops by and nursing a glass of white wine as the sun shines. I even had a hankering for raw herring even though I’ve not tasted it at that time. The best cure for hangovers apparently. My heart started to beat for Amsterdam but then my bank account dried up. After Teun left for Amsterdam, we kept in touch briefly. Despite the lack of correspondence, he mentioned that ‘his flat is always open to me’. I was heartbroken, but not completely. A faint hope glimmered in my heart as I returned home for a job. I needed something to get by until I have enough to leave again.

Then, I met Gio, the Italian motorcyclist who was remaking his own version of Motorcycle Diaries. Instead of traversing a good chunk of South America, he wanted the world. By the time he arrived in Kuala Lumpur, he had already crossed 22 countries. Two years later, he crossed 6 more. I completely bought his Italian charm and pizzazz-his bright eyes, alluring voice, devil-may-care spirit were irresistible. After exploring some fringes of the tropical jungles together on his bike, I was ready to transport myself to Italia. I was giddy consuming the Italian energy and wanted more, more, more. I wanted to speak Italian, eat Italian, wear Italian, be Italian. But then he left.

Then, there were other loves, other friends. I was an American, a Kiwi and a Gypsy (Zingaro!). It was a full immersion course on various cultures through the different relationships forged. I was a child of the world without leaving the confines of home.

A few months later, I dumped my cheap RM 50 backpack that I bought from one of the bargain stalls along Petaling Street for a snazzy new dark blue one, with plenty of grey straps to buckle and clasp. Deuter-its German brand, offered a promise of durability and strength. Whatever clothes and books I could fit into the bag, I did. I owned no other possessions. In the morning, I went to the Immigration Department to collect my new passport and by night, I was already on a night bus to Hat Yai, Thailand.

I wandered across the exotic and historical lands of South East Asia for another 6 months before I promptly bought myself a one-way ticket to Amsterdam. I wasn’t hoping to revive the old flame but I was curious to see the land that only exists in my imagination for so long. The prospect of stepping onto another foreign soil, that is so culturally different from the one that I’m brought up on, exhilarated and ignited my lust for the world again.

If there is an exam on how to become a proper Dutch, I would pass it with flying colours. I was the epitome of tourist turned native. The herring seller on Albert Cuyp markets remembered my name, friends of Teun invited me over for dinners, his family doubled with laughter and amusement whenever I surprised them with a Dutch phrase, I knew the difference between koor ballens and the regular guys, I remembered names of local bands and festivals, I followed the Dutch cyclists for Tour de France on TV, and the cute looking bartender never failed to wave to me whenever I pass by Kingfisher Bar. If we had a hangover, we’d treat it with a herring and a beer after. If the weather is good, we’d start drinking at the terraces or on Museumplein from 3pm onwards. If I don’t turn up for a dinner party or a night out in The Kingfisher, people would ask Teun why.

I was in a gig alone in Melkweg when a guy tapped on my shoulders and told me that he recognized me from the Kingfisher Bar. How? “You’re always drinking with the giants,” he said.
However, 3 months later, I was no longer able to support myself. My initial plan to look for an under-the-table job was thwarted as the Dutch authorities are strict with employment policies. I was skint like a church mouse and Teun was beginning to feel cramped in his own studio flat.
It was then when Italy offered to take my hand and kissed it. “Are you still interested in the crew lecturer job that you applied 8 months ago? Can you come to Genova for an interview?” came that fateful e-mail from Costa Cruise Lines.

You’ve gotta be kidding me, I thought.

It was the beginning of autumn. The sky was a dreadful grey as the rain beat down hard on us. Teun had volunteered to send me to the Amstel Bus Station on his bicycle-with me sitting on the rusty backseat and my 15 kg backpack slung across the bar that rests between the handlebars and the saddle. I left Amsterdam, clutching the 50 Euros and a mobile phone that Steff, another close Dutch friend, gave me. Everyone had wished me luck in a farewell drinking party that was held the night before. I had voiced my doubts in securing myself the job but Teun said, “Nonsense. A year ago, you said you wanted to come to Amsterdam, and here you are now. 24 years old and you do whatever you damn please. You’ve got spunk for such a tiny woman, you know that? That’s why you fit in well into my group even though we’re bunch of forty-year olds. You have our respect, Ukkie Pukkie,” he said, using that nickname he gave me since our days in Myanmar. It was an affectionate term for someone so small in size.

After 9 months on the ship, I was a full-fledged English Teacher and a seafarer. I spent the summer after in Genova, riding the back of my ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle. My hair spun in the wind as we snaked through the different coasts of Liguria. My daily routine consisted of baking in the sun, swimming, rowing, riding and eating. I was part of the family; I was turning Italian.
The relationship didn’t last however and I was back to being a Malaysian, living out of a backpack, without a home. After a grueling process, I got a shinny UK Working Holiday visa sticker on my passport. London became my next home and suddenly my reality changed again. This time, I was the bohemian Londoner who harbored aspirations to be a novelist. I was a smiling barista working along Carnaby Street, having weekend coffee rituals in Monmouth and Amano Café, chatting to random strangers in Borders on Oxford St, going for walks in the different parks, going for Writing and Italian language classes, taking CSers around town and working on my novel. Whenever I could, I did weekend trips to Glasgow, Amsterdam, Cork and Paris.

I was perfectly content in London: I had beautiful friends, had little rituals and spots to attach myself to, little weekend treats to look forward to. I had things that I call my own: a Macbook, a digital SLR camera, an Ipod Nano. I thought I never want to leave, I couldn’t foresee another upheaval in life. I thought at 25 years old, I’m finally ready to settle down and yank up the domesticity scale. But I couldn’t live near a few blocks away from London Bridge, in a flat that hovered between Zone 1 and 2 on my meager café earnings. I was burning out fast and I didn’t even have time to write anymore-the whole point of me being a vagabond in the first place. I wanted to experience the romance of life so that I could write about it.

There was a vacancy on the ship again-this time with an Indian Ocean itinerary. North Africa, and the tiny ex-French Islands scattered like jewels just off coast East Africa sounded mighty exotic. Despite my dislike for working for Costa again, I knew I had to do it. Just one more time, I told myself. Just one more contract and I’ll have enough to do whatever I want to do next.

Tears rolled down as I hugged Musty goodbye at the airport. Musty was my partner-in-crime in London ever since we met in a CouchSurfing Rise Festival music event. After I got through immigration checks in Heathrow Airport, I got calls from both Camilla and Olga. I sobbed like a baby, talons of grief tore my heart, thinking of the people that I had to leave behind. If passer bys didn’t know any better, they would think that I had spent 5 years in London. I was only there for 5 months.

Here I am again, approaching to another fork in the road. What happens after this, I don’t know. I know I will despair at the farewell embraces that will inevitably follow when I disembark in two week’s time. Friends wanted me to live with them in many different places but that must wait as I still have another two months to go on another ship. Pesaro, Napoli and Pescara await me. Eastern Europe calls. Istanbul bellows. United States patiently seethes on the other side.
“When you come Ying, I’ll introduce you to my friends and family,” said Roby seriously while sipping a glass of white wine. We were having dinner in the Staff Mess. “You promise to come and stay? You can stay in and write your book whenever I’m out playing in different bars.”

“Sounds good to me.” I replied. “ Maybe I can go also go for Italian lessons in a nearby university.”

“But before that, you must come and live with me. We can work in a bar together. I have a friend who can give you a job. 3 months-va bene?” Francesca offered.

Moreno, Francesca’s boyfriend, narrowed his eyes and said, “Someday you will take over the world, Ying, with that face of yours. All you do is say, I’m Ying, I’m really small and I’m from Malaysia. And then, the world opens up to you.”

What he meant to say is that I’m putting my petite size and Chinese doll, tapering eyes to good use. Yes, but in the first place, I have also opened up my heart and seized the opportunity to throw my soul upon the wind, when the cage door opened.

As Elizabeth said in her article, if you open up yourself to the world, anything can happen.

This article pretty much sums up my feelings and reasons for my nomadic lifestyle…

Wanderlust
Travel Stories: Some struggle to separate love and lust. Elisabeth Eaves has had a harder time distinguishing love from wanderlust.

http://www.worldhum.com/features/travel-stories/wanderlust-20090211/

PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE
Current physical & mental report for Wandering Ying
Health status: Pretty good, been doing some exercises in my cabin. Am drinking loads of water though occasionally, I wouldn’t say no to a Rum & Punch or a Cosmopolitan. Am having white wine for dinner everyday-a mandatory ritual. Got a burnt face and looking as red as a ripe tomato.
Hair: Shoulder length
Height: Still damn short!
Weight: Probably a kilogram or two heavier.
Mental health: Light-hearted and content, riding the waves of life as it comes
Relationship status: SAS (Single as Ever)
Understanding Italian (the language): Still learning but it’s coming along brilliantly. Stashed a good deal of Neapolitano and Romano slang and ‘parolace’ (curse words) under my belt.
Understanding Italians (the people): Gave up on that a long time ago.

***
For the past few months, you’ve been hearing nothing but complaints and lamentations from me. I was a harsh critic, quick to condemn and even quicker to blame. I had high expectations for life onboard and the people around me. I needed to point the finger at something or someone, who or which I felt responsible for my unhappiness. I succeeded of course, finding fault after fault but I paid the price for it: it made me even more depressed. Even though I met people who told me otherwise (that they’re actually having fun onboard), I refused to lighten up and masochistically stayed stuck in my own rut. But as tides of life change, the ebbs and flows of destiny inevitably comes and goes, I slowly began to see that I was personally responsible for my own wretchedness. However, it wasn’t till I gave up trying to perfect my woeful life that life started to flow easier again.

I don’t speak Italian-but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from communicating. I don’t have a penchant to be social butterfly but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from having fun. I don’t enjoy treated like ‘figa’ but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from practicing the art of flirting and putting it to good use. I couldn’t find a like-minded who could indulge me in deep conversations but so what? It shouldn’t stop me from getting to know the various personalities that are onboard.
I started to listen instead of speak; I started to pay attention to whatever that requires my constant awareness. Somehow, I started to get to know more people. Those who didn’t speak to me before, like the African contortionists, the English dancers, the Italian electricians, the Receptionists, the South American shop attendants, the Animators-they all started to engage me in a conversation. My close friends and I suddenly had more things in common. We started to find humour in our language differences. Suddenly they were keener in learning English and found the patience to coach me in my Italian. I became more creative in sharing and learning. I started to draw comics for my close friends-starring ourselves as the main characters, using solely Italian for dialogue. They would laugh (as they actually understood the joke!) and then correct my grammar after.

Somehow word has gotten around that I was a decent teacher. More crew from the Entertainment and Tours department started to take interest and have been coming regularly for classes. As most of them have an upper intermediate level of English, lesson planning became more challenging but also rewarding. I could stimulate more heated discussions and could put my favourite literature to good use.

***
After my disembarkation from MV CA (the other ship that I’ll be going to, from April 18th onwards), I’ll be travelling with Tim through some obscure parts of Eastern Europe. We’ll fly from London Heathrow to Tirania, Albania. The trip will eventually end in Istanbul if goes as planned. Good old Tim has suggested whether I would consider getting an apartment and settling in Istanbul for a while. As I lack of any future plans (other than the US, South America and a MFA scholarship), I thought-why the hell not? I’ve only heard good things about Istanbul. It’s also not too far away, infact, it’s the center between Asia and Europe. Tim’s also a good friend so I don’t foresee any headaches that might occur in the future.

Funnily, just when I’m not desperate to be anywhere or to do anything in particular, other suggestions just pop up, like a multitude of possibilities flooding out of the open dam of Opportunities. I remembered there was a time when I was so ardent in trying to make a living in Italy…striving to find a shortcut to live there without having to marry someone or to be employed by a company… it sounded all so far-fetched then. It wasn’t easy, looking like a Chinese girl, fresh off the plane, clutching tightly to a Malaysian passport. However now, my friends are handing me open invitations to live and work in Italy. They’re more than happy to accommodate me for a while and are equally keen in polishing my Italian so that I could secure myself a decent job. Talk about Life (or God if you’re religious) working in mysterious ways! Anyway, I’m definitely looking forward to taking up the proposal after my Eastern Europe trip. Eventual decisions will be made based on the status of my bank account, relationships with people around me and potential ones that I will have along the way and how much I’d like Istanbul.

I’ll be going back to London, that’s for sure but I don’t know if I’ll stay. We’ll see. Time will tell.

***
I have been reading a lot, ravenously devouring different types of books from the ship’s library. Whenever I can, I would also download stories from the Internet. Yolande, a good friend from Malaysia but whom I knew in London, sent me The Harmony Silk factory, an International bestseller written by a Malaysian. Apparently there’s another equally good book by a Malaysian called An Evening is A Whole Day but I haven’t got a chance to look into that yet. These books serve as a reminder that I should shut up about writing a book and just bloody write one! At the moment, I’m also enjoying Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness-a book that every traveller should read. Man,that dude can sure write!
***