Liverpool
(From top to bottom: Museum of Liverpool, Liverpool Cathedral, Albert Docks and The Beatles Story)
Cardiff
(From top to bottom: Roald Dahl Plass, Wales Millennium Cenre, Cardiff Central Train Station, Doctor Who Experience)
Things We Forget: Class of 2015
If I could get a penny for every picture of my friends' holding shiny gold and silver letter-shaped balloons of the abbreviation of their degrees, which now belong at the end of their names, uploaded in social media, I would be able to buy return tickets to Iceland by now. Those photographs marked the end of another chapter in their lives where everyone celebrates the joyous occasion after the struggle of long hours of studying and all nighters, as well as the culmination of cheap instant food and countless cups of caffeine to get the blood pumping in order to write that fifty-double spaced pages of thesis they love to hate. And now what?
Good question. For the lucky ones, who have got their future sorted out and happy about it, congratulations. For those who are still confused as a headless chicken, I would like to say you are not alone. The great thing about trying to figure it out is to see things in a bigger picture. Some of us are stuck with the idealism of having the right job just as we are looking for a life partner to spend the rest of our lives with. And it's okay. One thing I realised, as obvious as it sounds, the older I get, the more I am aware that I am not getting any younger. None of us are. Not our parents, grandparents, and friends. And at the end of the day, we all are on a ride that only goes to one direction: death. I'm sorry to break this blatant, and arguably ugly and horrifying, truth to you but just in case you forget, the only certain thing in life is that we all are going to die.
Therefore, the more I would like to make sure that none of us is going to spend another second of our times doing what we don't like or being pressured into doing what others deem to be right. If you are not sure yet of what you like, I suggest you to keep looking. Most of the times, you would find yourself finding the things that you don't like before getting to the best part of finding out things you actually cherish. So, I would like to say once again, it's okay. Knowing what you don't like is as good and essential as finding things that you like. Cross that off your list and carry on.
Since the phone call I had with my parents twenty hours flight away two months ago, which followed with an inevitable act of intense crying and sobbing – I was not sure whether it was tears of longing to be held close by them or the desperately confused part of me approaching the future, I have never been more determined in my life to spend every single day making sure I know what I want to do and what I don't like. What I realised soon after is that I tend to daydream that figuring it out is an over-night act. But it isn't, and if I could, I would like to be reminded everyday that it takes hard work and it surely does not happen over night.
Here is a clip of my favourite musician, Dallas Green, explaining it best, not in a condesending but motivational way, as he shared his experience when no one was listening to what he wanted to do in life. With blurred background of green landscape and under his suede caramel-coloured hat, he said, "I realised I had to work harder than I could ever worked at something
in my life, to make it happen. And it was then, that things started
working for me, when I started working for it."
In addition to that, I also read an interesting review of the book I am currently reading called "The Opposite of Loneliness". The book itself is a collection of honest essays and short stories written by twenty-two year old girl named Marina Keegan who sadly passed away five days after her graduation day from Yale University. Nevertheless, I truly believe that her lively and witty spirit lives forever in her great works. In the review I found one paragraph I am eagerly to share to my fellow twenty somethings year old friends out there. And here it goes:
"In the book, Marina mentions a few times that she wants to be a writer. But from what I can tell she already was one. It made me think that perhaps we are already what we want to be, but that in the real, non-university world of 9 to 5 and money and responsibility, we find ourselves forgetting. Re-reading The Opposite of Loneliness will be how I remember, I think." — Lydia Tewkesbury
I could not agree more that Marina
was a great writer. Her voice, or writing, was so smart, subtle yet endearing, almost to
the point of it wakes up your secret thoughts that most of the time you won't likely to admit. What is more, what Lydia wrote in the review nudged me as I heard a soft whispers at the back of my head: It made me think that perhaps we are already
what we want to be, but in the real... world of 9 to 5... we find
ourselves forgetting.
The next chapter of our lives will involve higher, greater responsibilities and demands. I genuinely hope it does not matter whether you are lost or you already have promising jobs lined up, you would still remember this: don't let the 9 to 5 routine buries your aspiration. Because maybe without you realising it, or the world validates it, you already are what you want to be.
This concludes the congratulatory post for the class of 2015. You made it this far. Now go write your future as if it were written in the stars.
Great Scott
Great Scott! refers to an expression of disbelief or a pleasant surprise and popularised by Doc Brown from Back to the Future, according to Urban Dictionary. Which I believe, expresses my trip to two biggest cities in Scotland, Glasgow and Edinburgh (finally after four years living in Britain).
My eyes were half opened when my friends and I dropped our backpacks at the hostel across Glasgow's quiet river at the heart of the city. The weather was quite pleasant the sun shyly made its appearance behind the cloud, occasionally stepped out but every passing wind cast brief shiver, made me think my decision to wear only one layer checkered-print jacket was a little too optimistic for summer in Scotland.
The idea of white sheet-wrapped mattress sounded like a pot of gold then, but the check-in schedule was not due until three more hours. Hungry and exhausted from the early flight from London, we left only with the option to wander around the city, but less than fifty steps away, we found Wetherspoon pub and delighted eith the idea having a quick stop for cheap English breakfast.
The building reminded me of the Great Gatsby era where dozens of grand crystal chandeliers hung high at the wooden ceiling. At the back of the room, there was a presumably no longer used, iron-fenced elevator as I walked towards the bar, that was slightly too high for my height, where a dark haired man with beard and tattoos across his arms ready to serve.
"Can I have an English breakfast, please?" He smiled, and began his sentence with I'm afraid. Even though I had only been craving a set of English breakfast since I walked in, but my tired-self was too grumpy and unprepared for a bad news. "We don't have English breakfast herrre," His accent was Scottish-thick, with slight emphasise on the letter 'r'.
"What do you have then?"
"We do have Scottish breakfast," He handed me over the paper-printed menu with the picture of a plate of toast, beans, bacon, and some other additional on the side. "Basically, instead of fried sausage we have black pudding and flat sausage."
I forgot as I giggled to myself. It felt as if I called someone in front of their face with the wrong name, I'm in Scotland, I thought. Of course, it has to be Scottish! Although to me, those two were basically the same. Relieved and slightly embarrassed for forgetting England and Scotland are two different, well, countries. I apologised and settled with what he recommended.
***
I, myself, am a big fan of museums and art galleries, which is why I would like to recommend you two cultural spots you should visit: Kelvingrove Gallery and Museum and Riverside Museum of Transport and Travel. There was one room in the Riverside museum transformed into a 1920s-themed highstreet. If you walk around, it feels as though you have just time-traveled to the iconic era where carriage and dark horses were cars and it was just less than $1 to go to Canada from New York. As for the Kelvingrove Gallery and Museums, my favourite part was the great big hall with sculpture of heads of historical figures hangs high at the glass-ceiling above the stairs.
We then headed somewhere East to the Cathedral Street. Originally we intended to go to the Cathedral, which stood gracefully around historical buildings made out of grey brick stones, but I found another place that I incredibly infatuated with: Necropolis behind Glasgow's medieval Cathedral. Unfortunately the access gate was closed by the time we got there, thus I only got to admire from afar. With this, bear in mind most of museums and art galleries, even cathedral, close at 5 P.M, and often their last entry is at 4.30 P.M.
Edinburgh, on the other hand, won me at the first glance. The Victorian-like buildings and evergreen garden at the heart of the city were the firsts places in sight before our coach alight at full stop. Our first destination was Edinburgh Castle. The entrance fee was quite pricey but I must say it was worth it to see the history at the top of the hill. Besides, there would be a free half an hour guide tour at certain times scheduled on the day, which could save you few pounds from getting the audio tour (although it was only around £3/£4 for students), where a twenty-five years old ginger Scottish man with the bluest eyes and cutest accent told you the stories about the Stone of Destiny that was stolen from Westminster Abbey by four Scottish law students in 1950, and more of their version of the chamber of secrets within the castle. The tour was almost like a collective waltz through the Kings and Queens of lavish lives – and the pauper, too.
Make sure you go to Calton Hill as well. You can see Edinburgh in a bigger picture from the top of the hill. It is best when the weather is pretty as the sun is out to play, you can lay on the grass for hours and let the sunlight immerse in your skin and you, too, in the utmost peaceful experience Scotland has to offer.
Calton Hill, Edinburgh
Dua Tahun
Dua hari yang lalu tepat dua tahun terakhir kali aku pulang ke Indonesia. Dua tahun. Aku tidak lagi tahu apakah dua tahun itu waktu yang lama atau biasa saja. Dua tahun aku tidak bisa membiarkan diriku untuk merasakan kangen yang berlebihan. Kangen sih kangen, tapi harus secukupnya. Jika tidak, aku akan jatuh, seperti vas bunga kristal milik nenek ku yang pernah tidak sengaja aku senggol dan jatuh ke lantai, pecah berkeping-keping.
Sebenarnya, aku bisa pulang sekarang, atau besok, atau dua bulan lagi. Masalahnya, ketika pilihan terbuka lebar, aku semakin bingung. Tidak ada yang alasan yang mendesak dari kedua sisi. Aku disini, dan aku disana. Terkadang aku berharap kalau ayah atau ibu ku tiba-tiba bilang kamu harus pulang. Namun, aku tahu, aku tidak sepenuhnya ingin kembali. Aku pergi dengan alasan, aku tidak pergi karena aku bisa. Aku menginginkan ini. Aku bermimpi akan ini. Tapi, hangatnya matahari dan bahasa ibu selalu mengusik lirih, dan terkadang rasanya bisikan itu mengikis perih.
Aku juga masih bisa tinggal. Kadang aku juga berharap dia memanggil nama ku dan memintaku untuk tinggal. Karena perbedaan waktu dan dua puluh jam penerbangan itu bukan pilihan untuk hubungan kita. Tapi hubungan kita terlalu sederhana, tidak terikat. Dia membebaskan aku untuk memilih. Aku bilang ini masalah visa. Namun, ada perasaan menggelitik di belakang kepalaku, kalau aku menggunakan itu hanya sebagai alasan. Mungkin, aku memang mau pulang. Adikku sudah terlalu lama ditinggal kakak perempuannya.
Ah, aku bingung.
Tuhan, aku benar-benar bingung.
The Crooked Bookshop: Part I
You told me to come by tomorrow
before noon, find a copy of George Orwell’s 1984, on the top shelf of the crooked bookshop. It’s my favourite, you said. Your tomorrow is today, and
it is a pleasant day, I say. The sun hangs high in the sky, although it is a bit too windy for summer
but perfect to read a book. I listened to you and decided to come round. I
tried to look on the top shelf. The white paint looked worn out, as if too many hands were trying to reach the top. I cannot find the book, but a moment later, I found you
entering the shop. I smiled. You have a bright smile, I noticed. You greeted the man on the counter, telling him what a nice day it was. You must have seen me, but you did not say anything. You sat on the table next to the window, the one with the red chair and cushion. The sun melt on your skin, and on your bronze-lit hair.
I approached you slowly, 'Hi, Tom.' I do not know why my voice sounded shaky.
'Hey.' You replied, it is polite but it sounds too light. Like, you have never seen me before.
'I couldn't find the book.' I said. You looked confused as you left a little pause before answered, 'What book?' It was just yesterday when you told me about the book I should definitely read, on the top shelf, I remember it clearly, '1984.'
I approached you slowly, 'Hi, Tom.' I do not know why my voice sounded shaky.
'Hey.' You replied, it is polite but it sounds too light. Like, you have never seen me before.
'I couldn't find the book.' I said. You looked confused as you left a little pause before answered, 'What book?' It was just yesterday when you told me about the book I should definitely read, on the top shelf, I remember it clearly, '1984.'
'Oh it's my,' I interrupted and said at the same time, 'Favourite.'
We are both standing in silence. You looked at me as if I was a psychic.
'Yes!' You said enthusiastically, but you forgot about me. Not a slightest hint in your face show any recall of me, or anything you said. I wonder, but how could I remember you clearly. Everything about you – your face, your small lips hiding behind your well-shaved beard. The colour of your eyes, lightest shade of caramel-brown. Even your voice, you know when in books they usually describe soothing-like, mysterious kind of voice as husky, I couldn't really put my fingers on until I heard yours. I could listen to it on repeat.
The guy on the counter suddenly interrupted us, 'Is this the book you're looking for?' He flagged up 1984 by George Orwell book on his hand. I nodded. So, I left you alone in your seat, while I can still feel your eyes on me when I walked away,
He has a beach-blonde hair and thinner beard than yours, but just about enough to give him the look of masculinity in his tall posture. He then leaned forward towards me, and said in a low voice, 'He has a funny memory disorder.' Referring it to you. I was shocked, but then listened intently to what he got to say.
He told me, you have a suffered a rare memory syndrome from a car accident happened a year ago. There was a romantic movie about it where a guy had to go through 50 first dates with a girl with this kind of disorder, apparently it was not entirely fictional. You could not remember anything the next day after you fall asleep at night. Traumatic brain injury, he said.
I stared in blankness, well, at you, too. I glanced at you and thought how normal everything looked. The guy on the counter broke the silence, as if he could read my mind.
'You have a funny memory disorder, too.' He said it so casually, I almost forget to react. It is not a shock. I wonder. He carried on explaining. In my case, the disease is more unpredictable, the length of my memory can vary. Three days, two weeks. Three months, the longest. He said I was in a car crash twelve months ago, with you, on our way to Seattle. Apparently, you were someone I held dear. I did not remember. Neither the car crash nor our relationship. But it explained the tingling feeling when I see you, both today and yesterday, and why I remembered you clearly. Everybody has different last memory, and mine is you. The last memory I could remember was when the first time I met you, at the bookshop – but not this one. This crooked bookshop was not a bookshop; it was a rehabilitation centre for those who have funny brain disease, like us. The guy behind the counter is Matt Bowen, staff who works in the rehabilitation. I looked around. The world I thought I know seem so distant and strange now.
'Yes!' You said enthusiastically, but you forgot about me. Not a slightest hint in your face show any recall of me, or anything you said. I wonder, but how could I remember you clearly. Everything about you – your face, your small lips hiding behind your well-shaved beard. The colour of your eyes, lightest shade of caramel-brown. Even your voice, you know when in books they usually describe soothing-like, mysterious kind of voice as husky, I couldn't really put my fingers on until I heard yours. I could listen to it on repeat.
The guy on the counter suddenly interrupted us, 'Is this the book you're looking for?' He flagged up 1984 by George Orwell book on his hand. I nodded. So, I left you alone in your seat, while I can still feel your eyes on me when I walked away,
He has a beach-blonde hair and thinner beard than yours, but just about enough to give him the look of masculinity in his tall posture. He then leaned forward towards me, and said in a low voice, 'He has a funny memory disorder.' Referring it to you. I was shocked, but then listened intently to what he got to say.
He told me, you have a suffered a rare memory syndrome from a car accident happened a year ago. There was a romantic movie about it where a guy had to go through 50 first dates with a girl with this kind of disorder, apparently it was not entirely fictional. You could not remember anything the next day after you fall asleep at night. Traumatic brain injury, he said.
I stared in blankness, well, at you, too. I glanced at you and thought how normal everything looked. The guy on the counter broke the silence, as if he could read my mind.
'You have a funny memory disorder, too.' He said it so casually, I almost forget to react. It is not a shock. I wonder. He carried on explaining. In my case, the disease is more unpredictable, the length of my memory can vary. Three days, two weeks. Three months, the longest. He said I was in a car crash twelve months ago, with you, on our way to Seattle. Apparently, you were someone I held dear. I did not remember. Neither the car crash nor our relationship. But it explained the tingling feeling when I see you, both today and yesterday, and why I remembered you clearly. Everybody has different last memory, and mine is you. The last memory I could remember was when the first time I met you, at the bookshop – but not this one. This crooked bookshop was not a bookshop; it was a rehabilitation centre for those who have funny brain disease, like us. The guy behind the counter is Matt Bowen, staff who works in the rehabilitation. I looked around. The world I thought I know seem so distant and strange now.
---
Je Ne Parle pas Francais
After a long four hours of cramped flight with low-fare airline, Iqbal, Fino and I landed in Marrakech. We arrived midday, and we could hear our stomach growling. Thus after dropping off our luggages at the hotel, or what they called Riyadh, we headed to Jema El-Fna that was two minutes away. Jema El-Fna was the main square of Marrakech where street performers with snakes and flute, fruit stalls, and Moroccan house music CDs stalls were next to one another.
We then settled for a small restaurant by the busy street with grilling hot, saucy meat displayed on the window. Intrigued, or more like hungry and impatient, we looked on the menu and none of the names were in English. Poulet, frittes.
A man, big muscly with tanned skin, who stood nearby holding a pen and small notepad explained briefly before walked off to serve another customer at the terrace. We nodded satisfactorily, having a hint of what it meant. But as we reached the counter to order, the other waitresses responded in French. I probably pronounced the menu wrong, or they wanted to ask whether or not I wanted additional sides, but I had no clue and ended up pointing at the menu and raised my index finger, indicating one portion I wanted. That was the first time in a long while I experienced a language barrier.
Living in England had spoiled me by forgetting the complexity of languages. Foreign language, to be precise. We, human, live in the same world yet we speak different language when we are trying to convey the same meaning of word. It's crazy and beautiful at the same time.
Living in England had spoiled me by forgetting the complexity of languages. Foreign language, to be precise. We, human, live in the same world yet we speak different language when we are trying to convey the same meaning of word. It's crazy and beautiful at the same time.
The restaurant encounter was only the beginning. Our camel guide, an old man with the
whitest teeth, could not speak proper English. He didn't give up though, his free spirit reflected through when he
carried on explaining enthusiastically in French the palm trees and five star hotel around the
faux-dessert we were in. I picked up few basic words, like
hotel, tres bien. Nearing the end of one and a half hour tour, he said the only complete English sentence I ever heard from him, don't forget the tip for the guide,
ended with an ear-to-ear smile across his face. I chuckled. We did end
up giving him a good amount of tip just because he was so kind and
friendly in the strangest way it could have been with language barrier
between us.
On the second day in our three-bed Moroccan hotel room, after mounted frustration pressing the remote control endlessly looking for an English-speaking channel, which after the 100th time pressing the button I found one but it was a white man who talks about bible in the strangest sense I couldn't fathom next to dozen of other channels preaching about something in Arabic, I decided to google French 101. There, in less than half an hour, I learned to say "Je ne parle pas Francais. Anglais?" fluently with the weirdest French accent I could pull as a lifejacket for the next language challenge. So, technically I mastered one sentence in French, for saying that I cannot speak French. Well, of course that, after ca va bien merci et toi and tres bien.
On the second day in our three-bed Moroccan hotel room, after mounted frustration pressing the remote control endlessly looking for an English-speaking channel, which after the 100th time pressing the button I found one but it was a white man who talks about bible in the strangest sense I couldn't fathom next to dozen of other channels preaching about something in Arabic, I decided to google French 101. There, in less than half an hour, I learned to say "Je ne parle pas Francais. Anglais?" fluently with the weirdest French accent I could pull as a lifejacket for the next language challenge. So, technically I mastered one sentence in French, for saying that I cannot speak French. Well, of course that, after ca va bien merci et toi and tres bien.
The following day, I understood from the friendliest hotel staff I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, and I also double checked with other tour guides we had, in Morocco their first two languages are Berber and Arabic, while their second or international language is French, then English. For some people, Spanish could go before English as geographically speaking, the country located in the northern part of Africa, right underneath Spain therefore more Spanish tourists come and visit.
Not that our trip was just a series of decoding foreign language, the culture and nature also fascinate me. The beauty lies in small things that might not seem so pretty but interesting. Like, crossing the main street that looked like an ocean of motorcycles and four-wheeled cars without warning signs. All you needed was confidence and the rests of the vehicles would follow your pace. Don't run or speed up your steps, just walk normally but with confidence. Every time I crossed the street, it got my heart racing.
The food, good God, all the unhealthy, greasy, full-fat ingredients were the best part of them all - Lamb Tajine with potatoes was my favourite. We had the chance to dine with the best kind of view of Ourika waterfall two hours away from Marrakech. It was one of the best lunches I have ever had. And next to the riverbed of Atlas Mountains, where all of us climbed all the way to the top of the rocky valley with a breath-taking view. This, to bear in mind, we weren't wearing proper clothing for climbing - I was using weary pair of faded-red converse I bought five years ago, and a hand bag. Nevertheless, we made it! We also had lunch next to the Essaouria beach, gorgeous city I must say. It looked like mini-greece, where wooden-window painted in blue and the walls were all cloud-white. If you walked further deep into the small alleys, it would led you to the traditional market. Last but not least, Marrakech wasn't less pretty than any other cities with its natural features, the salmon-pink colour that dominated the whole buildings in the city added the authenticity of local culture. It could get frustrating at some point, because almost every single of the corner was in salmon-pink, I swear.
The food, good God, all the unhealthy, greasy, full-fat ingredients were the best part of them all - Lamb Tajine with potatoes was my favourite. We had the chance to dine with the best kind of view of Ourika waterfall two hours away from Marrakech. It was one of the best lunches I have ever had. And next to the riverbed of Atlas Mountains, where all of us climbed all the way to the top of the rocky valley with a breath-taking view. This, to bear in mind, we weren't wearing proper clothing for climbing - I was using weary pair of faded-red converse I bought five years ago, and a hand bag. Nevertheless, we made it! We also had lunch next to the Essaouria beach, gorgeous city I must say. It looked like mini-greece, where wooden-window painted in blue and the walls were all cloud-white. If you walked further deep into the small alleys, it would led you to the traditional market. Last but not least, Marrakech wasn't less pretty than any other cities with its natural features, the salmon-pink colour that dominated the whole buildings in the city added the authenticity of local culture. It could get frustrating at some point, because almost every single of the corner was in salmon-pink, I swear.
Boy, not in a million years I would have thought of visiting Africa, but it was an utmost pleasure and privilege as the trip consisted of little triumphs: learning French, climbing a valley, met one of the kindest strangers, which I was eternally grateful for.
The One With the Bike
They said that every writer has to get in touch with their darkest, and
also happiest, part of them in order to produce a good writing. I found
more fears in me than I anticipated, this time it's ample and louder,
which I couldn't tell whether it was a good thing or the opposite. My
right arm is hurting at the moment, because I tried to cycle with Marta's bike from my
house to university despite the strange fear whispering at the back of
my head that something would go wrong. I
know, cycling. Simple thing, but I never realised how scared I was
cycling in England, even though I have lived here for almost four years.
The idea of the street was still strange and unfamiliar that I thought,
this wasn't where I grew up, what about the cars, the pedal, the break, the saddle is too high. The first half of the way, I was alright
until I got to the road, where I did not realise that it was downhill,
and I tried to pull the break, too soon or too hard, I fell off the bike. It was a great fall, to be honest. I flew off the
bike, landed knees first and then my arms. I could feel the mild burnt, still
now, as soon as I got up. Luckily, my face did not hit the ground.
There was a guy that saw me at the end of the road and asked whether or
not I was okay, and all I could say with the rudest tone of voice, I'm fine,
out of embarrassement and shock. Then he left. You see, all of the
above are the result of me, trying to overcome that whispers, which
eventually happened regardless. Although, I'd like to think that's not
the point -- the point was I rode that bike; the point was I did go and
try. For a good half, I was alright, it was just unfortunate that the
voices were louder than my faith, or luck for that matter, that
eventually I fell anyway.
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