I can see that everyone’s already judging me, from the way I look, from my position and from who I talk to. Fortunately, I met a number of colleagues that I used to work with on the other ship like the Master Valet (he basically serves the top 5 officers namely the captain, staff captain, doctor, safety officer and chaplain), some restaurant guys, some musicians and the First Officer. The First Officer and I never really spoke but we’d exchanged some pleasantries. Over here, he seemed like he was really glad to see me. His eyes grew wide when he met me, kissed my cheeks and then pinch it after that. That’s really nice for a change because Officers are usually quite arrogant and sleazy.

His physical stature reminded me of Marco, the previous First Officer for Engines back on the other ship Not too tall but broad shouldered, tanned, and a shock of wavy dark and grey hair would frame his temples. Very distinguished looking. Marco and I got along very well without speaking much English. I met him a month before I disembarked from my previous ship. We could connect at a level where we both shared similar perspectives in life. Those times, we would sit outside the Crew Bar, underneath the stars, and with a beer in our hands, traded stories. He would keep supporting me to write my novel and would tell me stories about his motorbike, his amazing Buddhist sister, his Sicily and his ex-wife. I think he had desired to be with me but I was with Giorgio (even though Gio wasn’t onboard at that time) and wouldn’t imagine of betraying our relationship. Marco knew that and he respected the boundaries; he remained sweet, helpful and attentive, like a good friend. We would keep chatting into the night…. those dreamy talks about our destinies and direction in life. Those were the one of the best times on the other ship.
Will I be able to find someone like that on this ship? A good friend that I could connect with without the complications of romance and physical intimacies? I wouldn’t hold my breath since it’s too vast to make any instant connections but again, time will tell. And there must be reason why I’m here…. Someone that I’ve to meet, someone to teach me a lesson, something that I need to know… hopefully, every day, a new insight will be revealed.

After a night of fitful rest, I woke up to a new day in Genoa. The air was crisply fresh and the sun blessed the city with its rays. It was still chilly but at least the sky was blue. At 9am, I was driven to the port to embark. Along with me was a sullen looking Italian. He helped me with my luggage but didn’t speak much. Through his conversations with the driver, I learned that he was the second cook.
When we arrived, a lot more new embarkees were already waiting. I underestimated the weather. Underneath my thin cardigan, I shivered and cursed the Crew Purser for taking so long to settle our documentations. My backpack was wearing me down and the large suitcase by my side kept toppling over. Like a midget, I kept balancing the weight between my shoulders while making sure that my suitcase doesn’t fall.

Eventually, after surrendering my passport and a copy of my contract, I was admitted into the ship. The Indian security guard who checked my passport, looked at me with a sneer: “What position are you? Animator? Hostess? Housekeeping?” It was the sneer that very much made me want to smack him on the face.

And then, a very young but good looking Italian guy, probably the incoming Crew Purser (meaning, he just embarked on the same day and hasn’t taken up his duties as the official CP) hustled all of us to a side. He tried to help to ease the crowd but to no avail. While the C.Europa is a big ship, it still has very narrow corridors.
I remained silent while everyone chattered away in different tongues. The Indonesians formed a group, the Philliphinos another, Italian another, Spanish and Latin Americans another. Everyone assumed I was either Chinese or a Philipina. I couldn’t be bothered to correct their assumptions.
Then, Luca, the photographer that I previously worked with on the MV CAL, walked by. I was glad to see a familiar face. He was my drinking partner in the crew bar last time. Good times then. We kissed each other on the cheek and chatted for a bit before he had to go off and run some errands.
The usual process of embarkation starts usually with the Crew Purser (the one who’s in charge of Crew members) will gather us in one room and start dispensing information and booklets. After an hour later, we were brought to the staff mess (the canteen for staff)….but not without going through a maze. I was amazed at how old and dirty this ship is. And how utterly confusing the way to get from one place to another. You basically had to meander around, cross ramps, pass some garbage rooms, wielding workshops, carpenter’s workshops, before eventually finding a stairs and then down another stairs..and…
Anyway, when we got there, we filled in some forms. The Cadet Officer came in to gather copies of our Basic Safety Training Certificates. You need to be certified before you’re allowed to embark. It was a young Italian boy, probably no more than 21 years old. Cheeky. Tried to tease me while giving back my certificates. Thank god it’s not my first time on the ship, else I’d have either felt really flattered or frustrated. This time, I just accepted his jest with a smile but kept a distance. These young officers can be trouble.
Then a Phillipino nurse, probably suffering from sore throat and a bad cold, made us declare our medical certificates and sign some forms. Apparently I had to have a yellow fever vaccination, which of course, my previous 100 pounds medical examination did not cover. However, I was told to walk to the other Costa ship to get it done. It was about a km away and I walked, with my backpack and camera pack and I wasn’t allowed in. The security guard said as my name wasn’t on the list, he couldn’t permit the entry. And then I had to walk back all the way, go through the maze again, to see the nurse and tell her the problem. This time, she sent me with a bunch of other people from the group.
In short, everything was all right after that. But evening came and I found myself alone at the dining table. Many others were chattering away in Italian or other European languages-each one had company because they work in teams. As for me, I work alone. I answer to the Director of Services, who happen to be a young man but very supportive but I can’t be hanging out with him, can I?
I want to get started on the classes soon so that I’ll have something to do but setting up is difficult at the moment because everyone’s busy. Even the Radio Officer didn’t really have time to attend to my laptop problems. Bah.

So I stayed awake at night, reading Eckhart Tolle’s new book called A New Earth, tried to listen to soothing music, put my mind to rest and hope to wake up to a new day.

PS-Forgive me if the formatting of this blog is a little off….I’m still trying to figure out the Spanish keyboards….

I am trying to access the Internet as if my life depends on it but the Vodafone wifi access they have in Columbus Hotel is really weak. Nonetheless, it’s not going to stop me from telling this story.

I flew out of Heathrow to Genoa, Italy, via Munich. The transition was smooth and I was really impressed with Munich’s airport. Avant-garde art pieces hung on the walls, the floors were clean and glossy, interesting shops and cafes that ooze chic and aroma of fresh coffee beans. While I was in waiting at the departure gates, I thought I saw some familiar faces but didn’t act on it as I was too exhausted and wasn’t looking for company. In fact, I was too busy missing people in London.

When I arrived in Genoa, one of the company’s cab services picked us up. I realized that I wasn’t the only one embarking on that particular ship tomorrow; there were others too. One dark and tall Eastern European looking man called out to me. I said “Ciao” and immediately he launched into a full-blown Italian conversation that I couldn’t quite keep up with. He spoke rapidly and with deep Romanian accent. However, I tried, but injected some English into it.

There were two classical musicians from Hungary, a casino dealer from country unknown and a bunch of people from the engine department from Romania, including the guy who spoke to me. After that I completely tuned off because they started to speak in Hungrarian/Romanian. Apparently, the Eastern European languages are quite similar hence they can understand each other.

As the cab drove towards the heart of Genoa, my heart sank lower and lower. All of a sudden, I feel impending solitude and lack of peers. I know I will feel claustrophobic on the ship again. The Italian higher management on the ship will again give me a shit and all those sort of things. Am really not looking forward to it. I do pray that my experience on the C. Europa will be different from the MV CAL. Previously, I suffered from anxiety attacks for the first few months simply because I didn’t get the respect I deserved, people were mean and there were a lot of language barrier. Thank god I settled in quite nicely after that.

I’ll just see what tomorrow brings. I won’t be embarking on the MV CE till 2pm. As of now, I’m grateful for the fact that I’ve a nice hotel room, hot shower and snow white towels. The exhaustion from the previous day is starting to take its toll.

Good night from Genoa.

To embark on a new journey, you have a set of rituals to follow. One of such is to start a new blog, a new journal, a fresh blank page because what is past, has gone and you are no longer who you were. Memories remain as vivid thoughts, conjured whenever you need them but has no power to taint the present reality unless you drag it along with you, unable to let go.

I am about to take on another journey, taking on another contract as an English Crew Lecturer on an Italian Cruise Ship.

My home for the next 5.5 months

I have previously done it before and have sailed Northern Europe and East Asia with it, so this is not at all foreign to me, but having settled down cozily in London for the past 5 months, shedding the layers of my wanderlust, unpacking my suitcase and allowing myself to stay, and then to leave it all behind again, pains me greatly. I am quite surprised myself, to find the attachment to my new found friends and lifestyle in London, so strong and overwhelming. I felt pangs of hollowness after Ken (a guest at my shoebox room for a few days who then became a good friend!) and Musty (another London CouchSurfer that I’ve grown close to and am quite fond off) left Heathrow Terminal 2. It felt almost surreal to say goodbye to them, especially to Musty, who had became very much my partner-in-crime and someone that I’d always call for help or to chat shit. But what took the cake was that when Camila called, I was choking back tears. As she wished me well and told me that I’m going to have a wonderful adventure, I blubbered next to the mouthpiece like a sappy idiot. And then as if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, Olga called and my tears continued to roll.

Close friends from CouchSurfing and my Italian classes

Eva-the French hobo that I met in Malaysia

Musty-my partner-in-crime-A Couchsurfer turned close friend

Messages continued to beep on my phone, telling me that I’ll be missed and that I’ll truly enjoy myself. In many ways I was touched but more so, frightened by the fact that I am again removing myself from the familiar and plunging into the foreign. I guess I was caught off-guard; I wasn’t prepared to leave.

There are still coffees to drink, conversations to indulge in, people to meet, sights to take in, books to be read, writing to be done; I wasn’t done with London just yet.

For a moment, I felt ‘homesick’; thank you to the London crew for sharing your lives with me.

Onward and hey-ho!

I didn’t make it to Amsterdam. Everything happened too quickly. I had many things to settle like library books, writing assignments, my novel, people to catch up with before I go and all those sorts. I was also hosting Ken, a CouchSurfer who has dabbled in almost everything from race cars to producing films and things just escalated from there.

Nov 6-9: Cork, Ireland

Musty and I hanging out with other CSers in Box Hill

Who knows when am I going to update this blog again? For the fact that I keep making promises about wanting to keep this virtual portal active has rendered me a liar as you can see, other than an occasional life snippet, there is nothing else. No extensive commentaries about life, no discourses about my current lifestyle or urgent headlines about people and places. It will be interesting if this serves as a column for a certain media publication, and I, the correspondent. That would mean, racking my brains and digging the slush juice from within just to stay within the periphery of deadlines. But the truth is, balancing online existence and living the real life can be a tad bit difficult. More often than not, I just want to live my life and not really, to write about it. It’s like a photographer who’s tired of looking at his surroundings through a lens and decided to put his camera away for a while. Without a black and grey gadget in between him and his present moment, he can breathe the fresh red, ochre, yellow autumn air and smile under the glowering orange sun. He’s now a participant of nature instead of an observer, an outsider.

Also, I rather dream and fantasize, let the thoughts and ideas marinate in my head instead of putting them into words. When those little, nitty, grubby nuts and bolts of my thoughts are put into words, they lose its magic. For me, anyway.

But does mean I’ll stop this blog? No. I guess this is more of a disclaimer. I will write and spin tales whenever my heart takes fancy but if I don’t, it just means that life’s been more than a handful and I’m facing it, head on. And for you blog addicts (bloggers and blog readers alike), don’t let your blog define who you are.

Choose life, live it well.

“All tales of youth involve a large measure of folly…” begins Bill Barich in his essay and I must say, I can easily attest to that.

Last Friday, I found myself out in London’s cold, under a dimly lit bus stop, waiting for N381 to come. After countless of clicking and changing itineraries on the Transport for London homepage, it was prescribed that I should take night bus N381to Parliament Square and then change for bus N44 that would take me directly to Victoria Coach Station. From there, I would be able to board the 3.30 am National Express coach that was supposed to take me to Gatwick Airport. And I was meant to check in at 4.20am and board the plane at 6.20 am for Amsterdam. And as luck would have it, if I don’t catch this 381, the rest of the plan can go to hell.

The clock ticked and minutes passed, still I saw no sign of N381. It was already 2.15 am and I wasn’t alone. Another man hidden under the shadows, stood close to the bus stop but away from the lights. My heart beat a little faster, wishing the bus would come. I started contemplating options. Perhaps I should take a taxi. It shouldn’t cost me more than 10 pounds to get to Victoria Coach Station but first, how do I take one. Should I call for one or should I simply flag one down? Being a foreigner in a country is difficult-you are not bestowed with innate knowledge of a local. Being a foreigner means even to take a mere taxi, you have to learn how to do it the right way. Anyway, whilst I was going through a series of choices, I saw the headlights of a double decker approaching. My near-sighted vision had me asking the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light and told me it was N47. He looked nice but blast the bus services, I needed the bloody N381.

-Where do you have to go?

-Victoria Coach Station.

-Oh no, but that’s C10!

-I know, but C10′s services terminates after 1am. And I’ve got a damn flight to catch.

I got on the bus and asked the bus driver for my predicament. It seemed like N47 would take me to a bus stop near Trafalgar Square and then from there, I could board N44 to Victoria Coach Station. Shivering in the cold, I could only board the bus happily, hoping that N44 would also come in time.

***

Schipol Airport welcomed me with a cafe latte from Starbucks. I was worn out, thoroughly beat, and after being sleep deprived for the last 36 hours, I could only bless the coffee company that stands for American Imperialism with gratitude. As the first shot of caffeine drenched my blood stream, I shrugged my fatigue off and set off to find my way to Teun’s place.

I continue to be amazed at my tenacity to meeting and drinking with him again. Last summer was a glorious period of sunshine, alcohol and drama. Friendships were formed, the heart was lifted, broken and then lifted again. When Teun proudly shared with me his personal anecdotes of his life and in the city that everything took place, I thought it sounded like a kingdom of treausres-only crazy miracles can happen here. I vowed to see it, and I did, last summer. I lived and breathed the city, through Teun and his mates, which now became my mates too. Now, I was back for  30 hours, ready to relive history.

Tram 5 took me right into the heart of Museumplein (Museum Square). The city basked under warm golden rays last summer but now, it looked a little intimidating with ominous clouds hanging in the background. Perhaps it was too early. I walked across the sprawling park, in front of the Rijksmuseum and past the underground Albert Heijn supermarket, tasting the biting cold and admiring the Dutch early birds who were already playing frisbee with their dogs. Despite the greyness, the grass was in tender green, covered with spots of fresh dew.

The way leading to Teun’s place was familiar; it felt like going home. I just had to find the canal, the Ruysdaelkade street, and it would lead me to the green telephone booth outside Marjan’s Tiller Gallerie and Teun’s studio apartment is just two floors above it. As winding through a series of streets that are named after artists like Johannes Vermeerstraat, I arrived at Hobbemakade which is right opposite Ruysdaelkade (yes, Ruysdael is famous for his Dutch light paintings). Amsterdam is a city of details; it’s the little things in the pictures that makes the entire portrait ‘gezellig’, a feeling of cosiness or a sense of belonging. It’s like, if that cat wasn’t sleeping on the window pane, it would have changed the entire picture.

I saw two ducks, walking clumsily along the canal….a dark blue boat…..black and white bicycles leaning against walls that are covered with wild ivy and climbing vines…perfect postcard views, except for the fact that my photographic skills are too meagre to capture that momentary expression.

I crossed the ‘Spronken Bridge’, a bridge in front of Teun’s place that hasn’t been named and he wanted it named after his family and slowly, in great relief and triumph, I rung his doorbell. The white door buzzed open and I climbed up the familiar narrow stairway. The steps were cluttered with newspapers, letters and sales brochures, just like how it always was a year ago.

-HOIIII!!

-Heya!!!

And I jumped into Teun’s arms as we embraced and he held me up high, like how a father holds a child. Teun’s towering figure of 6 ft 6 (200cm) made it difficult for conventional hugging hence such extreme measures of affection must be taken. I pushed open his apartment door and walked into the narrow space that I once shared with him last summer. Everything was the same; everything was in place.

***

Two men in deep conversation, head towards the cafe, swing the glass door open and stride in. One has a dark blue coat and a purple, red and green bow, clung tightly around his neck while the other wears a white shirt with thick pink stripes, and on top of it, an ordinary black coat. The one with a long nose and white hair, glasses perch at the bridge of his protruding breathing organ, looks like a professor from a blockbuster. Because movies have painted portraits of eccentric professors to be such while in reality, he could be a scriptwriter, an interior designer, a librarian or a bank clerk.

The cafe, sterile and cold, dressed in a minimalist design, has an even colder personality behind the counter. Her hellos are crisp and her reluctant smile adds no warmth to the frozen atmosphere. Her eyes does not meet theirs as she asks them for their order. The sleek walls, lighted up by light boxes, gleams in the black, pink and silver interior. Typically, such establishment will thrive in superstar cosmopolitans like Tokyo, Hong Kong or Canary Wharf-where bankers and solicitors congregate and negotiate, where black folders get slapped on the silver steel table tops and then be taken away after a series a firm handshakes. It is a meeting point for people who has no preference of the atmosphere where they dine. The place is merely functional. Who cares whether the waitress smiles at you when the business deal is sealed? They have more important things in mind.

You won’t find the creative, zany, flashers and exhibitors here. You won’t find the nostalgic, the melancholic and the dreamers either. The intense feelers, the compassionate healers and clairvoyants avoid cafes like this like bad karma, because there is no place for passion nor empathy.

Creative kids building a Picasso masterpiece in Hyde Park

I’ve come to enjoy London and its peculiarities. It is an amazingly massive city with much to offer-it has every option available for everyone who seeks it. If you’re a struggling musician, you’ll have no qualms looking up pubs that organizes open mic sessions so that you’ll have 5 minutes of spotlight which could lead to a big break or you could be a Bulgarian musician, hoping to earn that scholarship from Goldsmith’s college while working two jobs to support your tuition fees. Everyone has a story.

Sometimes, I see the patrons of LEON, the café that I work in, and I wonder about their backgrounds, the relationship they have with the ones dining with them (often a clashing difference) and their stories. Their foreign tongues and strange credit cards tell me that are not British-so what are they doing in London? Are they like me, who couldn’t get a working holiday visa for anywhere else but for the UK? Do they harbour dreams to make it big in London? Did they think it’s a city paved in gold, a land of freedom, hope and opportunities? Are they merely on their vacation?

Anyway, I spoke to Ulpu the other day-what brought her to London. It was Muse, apparently. Yes, the band. Ulpu’s a very quiet girl from Finland but she dresses in the loudest and most garish colours. Sometimes she turns up at work in hot pink stockings, sometimes a lime green ones. Her crazy, unruly dyed bright orange is held back by a neon blue headband- a stark difference against her pale, creamy skin. When she was in high school, it wasn’t that good for her. She was a social outcast and she didn’t enjoy mixing with her mainstream classmates. She doesn’t drink and she doesn’t enjoy being with pissed people. And then she got interested in Muse. She enjoyed their music so much that she started stalking the virtual world for any information about them. And in time, as she became a permanent resident in some forums, she made some good friends who loved Muse just as much.

And then they decided to move to London, where they feel that their passion and enthusiasm are more accepted. They’re free to love and worship who they want. Nobody think they’re crazy. In fact, London loves those who are a wee bit kooky.

Ulpu has attended at least six Muse’s concerts-all over Europe. She remembered one of the most significant moments was when her friends and her, held a banner that read, “We wouldn’t have met if not for you”…and as she said that to me, her eyes teared in nostalgia.

She has no ideas for the future but at the moment, she’s content being in London. “People here don’t judge you as much,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be going back to Finland.”