Eid Mubarak and a Happy New Year!

Today is Eid-ul-Adha or as it is commonly known in Malaysia, by different names - Hari Raya Aidiladha, Hari Raya Korban or Hari Raya Haji.

Celebrated on the 10th of Zulhijjah - the last (12th) month of the Muslim calendar - it marks the end of the haj pilgrimage period in Mecca. Performing the haj is one of the five basic tenets in Islam, which is compulsory for those who are physically- and financially-able. Eid-ul-adha is also the time to reflect on the sacrifices ('korban') done by the Prophet Ibrahim who demonstrated unfaltering faith and dedication when he was put to the test by God.

The test involved the sacrifice of Prophet Ismail, one of the sons of Prophet Ibrahim, following a commandment from God to perform the rite. As the narrative goes, when he was about to strike his son, God stopped him and disclosed that it was merely a test of his faith. God then asked Prophet Ibrahim to sacrifice a ram instead.

Following the footsteps of Prophet Ibrahim and as a symbol of his sacrifice, Muslims the world over partake in sacrificing four-legged animals (which must first meet a number of strict requirements to be slaughtered) - only if they can afford to do so - and thereafter a substantial portion of the slaughtered meats is given to the poor. In a true sense of the word 'Korban', the pilgrimage to Mecca also signals individual sacrifices by solely concentrating on the ritual acts of Haj and the remembrance of God. On another level, Muslims in general take this time to also 'sacrifice' or resolve to shed off certain bad habits, undesirable behaviors and material belongings.

Also, this year, in accordance with the Gregorian calendar, we are blessed with two Hari Raya Haji-s which fell last January and today.

Today is also aptly the last day of 2006.

I would like to wish my fellow Muslims - family, friends and acquaintances - Selamat Hari Raya Haji, and to all, a Very Happy New Year. May all your resolutions, wishes and hopes come true in 2007.

Auld Lang Syne everyone!

Hunt for the Perfect …..

The Paskamer or Dressing Room was full of people trying out a number of tops and bottoms that I had to patiently wait for my turn. By last Thursday, the Post-Christmas sale had gained momentum with holidaymakers inching their way into familiar stores and department stores for the best deals and bargains.

I finally got into the empty stall to try IT on. I slipped IT into my legs and was surprised how softly it brushed against my skin. As I zipped IT up, I was more shocked that IT fitted at the right places and angles – especially the problematic hip area. Even more delightful is how IT stayed put on my derriere, unlike others that jut out at the back or ride dangerously low over my hips, as if worn by some rowdy teenager. I felt relieved and delirious. With only one try, I found IT! Eureka! I hit the jackpot!

This jeans discovery has put to rest a long, arduous, neck-breaking search for MY pair of perfect jeans.

I never actually really like wearing jeans. Yes, this is strange coming from a former self-professed un-girlie girl but it is ironically true. The first pair of jeans I ever bought (or make that my mom bought for me) was before I was due to fly off to the States for my studies. And owing to the frosty, sub-zero weather where I studied, I complied and cherished the warm, seemingly heavily wrought jeans. However, by senior year in college I found chinos – brown and beige ones – and love them immensely. And of course, there were the corduroy pants or cords. I wore these alternatives to death even during arctic winter.

Ever since I came back to Malaysia, I was more than willing to chuck away the jeans. With Malaysia’s humid condition, I find jeans quite hot, not to mention stuffy, to wear and prefer those cool chinos or skirts (yes, I finally weaseled my way into putting on a skirt).

Now that I am back in temperate climate, I have yielded to the call of the elements and willingly agreed to give jeans another try. It will be warm, yes. But will it be cozy?

My reservation in wearing a pair of jeans is also due in part to the overwhelming headache in finding the right one that fits me perfectly. Not just okay or barely-there fit. I hate having to hop from one shop to another just to try on these denim creatures. It’s more unnerving having to look for them in this cold weather.

Another hindrance to these rare-finds concerns the manner in which a pair of jeans is now fashioned. Indeed, the jeans have evolved since my collegiate time that you would probably need a thick leaflet to list and sort through the variety of styles currently available in the market.

Low-rise, short-waisted, high-rise, long-waisted, medium-rise, boot cut, regular cut, boy cut, slim cut, straight cut, tailored, flared, side seams, pockets, no-pockets, dark washed, semi-dark washed, light-washed, stone-washed, sand-blasted, indigo-blue, light-blue, stretch, non-stretch and the list goes on and on. Moreover, there is the question of whether you should go for the branded ones for the so-called stamp of guarantee in both quality and comfort.

My olden days of wearing jeans were inundated, so to speak, with an extra denim fabric jutting out at the back of my buttocks, which I begrudgingly solved by wearing a belt. You know what I’m talking about – it looks as if you are a circus clown with an oversized girth for a pair of pants, save for the relatively good fit over your two legs. And of course, there was the uncomfortable thick denim fabric clinging to my legs. For sure, I didn’t like the ‘heaviness’ of it all.

But now, thanks to the advent of science, which in its own right, revived a creative fervor in the fashion industry. A gamut of inventions greatly benefits the average consumers by way of availing them to more comfortable, breathable fabrics and materials.

Exacto mundo – that was precisely my thought when I wore the soft cotton jeans inside the dressing stall. I love how it does not scald my legs, pardon my exaggeration.

A further incentive to buying these ‘fitted’ jeans was the discount at which it was being sold that made it practically a steal! I was beaming at the cashier as I completed the transaction. It was sheer bliss! Now I am happy to report that I can amble along Delft’s cobblestone roads without a care for a bone-chilling draft.

For more information on finding the perfect jeans, please go here, and here, and perhaps, here. Happy hunting! And always let your legs do the talking – to buy or not to buy, that is!

Achilles Heel

The Rage of Achilles, by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

Be content with your lot; one cannot be first in everything. - Aesop (620 BC-560 BC)

Everyone experiences it at some point in his or her lives, and to some degree or another. Almost everyone I know – whether they want to admit it or not – is susceptible to it. It is part of our sentient, human condition to feel it. In some people, it is latent, waiting for the right catalyst to bring forth such a feeling, whilst in others who are more attuned to their surroundings or reactive sort of person, the effects are immediate. The response in kind can be overt, neutral or underhanded, depending on the personality involved.

Yes, everyone has felt it, unless of course in Muslim-speak, you think you are infallible (or in Arabic – ma’sum) like our beloved Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him).

What is it, you ask? To different cultures and by different people, the name by which it is called varies. Personally, I call it the Achilles Heel syndrome, suitably borrowed from Greek mythology. Achilles was a great and proud Greek warrior whose downfall and death were merely attributed to a heel wound – an insignificant, laughable cause for a man so mighty. By analogy and figuratively speaking, it takes a small matter to bring a person down. To touch a person’s vulnerable spot(s).

You know what I mean - the negative, down-in-the-dumps feeling engendered upon observing, watching or even thinking that someone else is better off than you.

While the feeling is constant, the variables that brought it to the surface differ according to the individuals or circumstances in question.

For instance, in the academic realm, you are downhearted after finding out that someone else, purportedly smarter than you, is more favored by your peers or superiors. Or it can be a popularity contest at the office where the ladies swarm the ‘cool’, charming person whilst you watch, gritting teeth and all, from afar this ridiculous spectacle. Or you lost your bearing upon discovering a colleague who is more knowledgeable in your field of interest and consequently feel small when that person imparts his or her wisdom onto an impressed audience.

Feeling small and unworthy, you dolefully resort to immersing in self-pity over your misfortune. Left unchecked, you can further spiral into bottomless despair. Alternatively, you transmogrify into an insidious green-eyed monster with an evil scheme to bring down your alleged opponent. Else, you plan to put him or her in an isolated corner beyond the reach of any foreseeable help.

In truth however, I believe the propensity to catch the syndrome depends largely on our experience, upbringing, self-esteem and values. It is the resultant mixture of these ingredients that affects our perception of a reality.

Rationally-speaking, in this world you are bound to meet people – whom you PERCEIVE – smarter, prettier, richer, wittier, funnier, thinner, more religious, better looking, cooler, etc than you. It is all relative and subjective. One person’s stallion is another person’s donkey. So why bother being depressed or overly competitive vis-à-vis your station in life when it could be channeled to better, healthier outlets like self-improvement, building close relationship with loved ones (including God) or indulging in hobbies and other meaningful interests.

As such, before we let our Achilles Heel infiltrate our psyche, we better assess the root of such emotions and subsequently mull over the options to fix this character flaw. As the quote – more or less – goes, a person who harbors resentment towards another is likened to someone who takes poison in the hope that the other person will die.

In similar vein, when we sell ourselves short by benchmarking our life (achievements, material wealth, etc) to others, we will never achieve inner peace. I’m not saying we shouldn’t be ambitious or work towards a more comfortable lifestyle or look up to another individual as an idol cum mentor. The problem starts when we make impossible demands on ourselves or wallow in a pitiable state of mind, at the expense of our family or health (physical, mental, emotional) for that matter. Never settle at the two opposite ends of a pole; always remain near the middle of the spectrum.

As the New Year closing in on us, I too must discard any predisposed notion that has at times impaired my judgment and shaken my confidence. I know that only by getting rid of my hang-ups will I be at peace and contented with myself.

So folks, shake off your Achilles Heels for 2007 and enjoy your life to the fullest!

Addendum to Comfort Food...For Thought...Lekker, Lekker

I would like to amend my previous post concerning my sweeping generalization on the perennial availability of Dutch street food. Thanks Tita for informing me that oliebollen is available up to the middle of January. My bad. To think of it, it was only in November we noticed the presence of this wonderful snack. I reckon the best time to consume such a greasy finger food is during the coldest of winter (between November to January) which also coincides with a feast-full atmosphere of Christmas and New Year’s Day. Oh well, hopefully the oliebollen mix is available on the supermarkets’ shelves all year round. No?

Oh by the by, it also occurred to me that oliebollen reminds me a lot of ‘cucur or cekodok pisang’ in preparation, consistency, and aroma. A delicious, scrummy substitute to remember home by!

In replacement for the non-seasonal trait of oliebollen, I offer ‘stroopwafel’ which comprises two thin waffle-type wafers that have a special caramel filling. Easily found both in supermarkets and outdoor markets, this sticky, chewy, molasses-rich snack will leave you asking for more. However, I won’t recommend this other street favorite to those without a sweet tooth.

p.s. Lekker is the Dutch word for delicious or in Malay, sedap. From my observation, the Dutch usually utter it twice – hence, the repetition – probably for emphasis. Go figure.

Picturesque Paris!

Five Things You Don’t Know About Me

The relatively low profile (and if I might boldly add, underrated) nature of my blog postings vanquishes any lofty hopes of being tagged by other bloggers for any noteworthy or fanciful projects.

As such, unabashedly copying one crazy tag I had happily discovered at Daniel Rezner’s blog, I am solely dedicating this entry to these random, frivolous ‘outings’:

1) Throughout most of my teenage years, I was this lumpy, hunched-down, big glasses, angst-ridden girl - not to mention an unsmiling countenance and unkempt hair - who maintained a tough (read: tomboyish) exterior to ward off any spark of interest (as if!) of would-be predators (read: sex-crazed boys)
2) Most of you already know that I have a twin sister, but the world at large is not privy to this particular trivia – my eldest sister is born in the same year as us twins i.e., she was born in January and the twins in December. My mother, after the umpteenth times, gave up explaining to people the circumstances of our birth and resorted to exclaiming that we are triplets!
3) My favorite adolescent snack was a mugful of raw Milo mixed with a liberal, decadent serving of sweetened condensed milk, eaten with a spoon while catching up with tv programs or pop-idol magazines
4) Between the age of nine to (at most) fourteen, I kept a book which recorded the student names, activities, school outfits, architecture and other nitty-gritty of my imaginary life as a school teacher cum founder of a ‘cool’ yet expensive boarding school. The name of my schoolmarmish alter ego was Mariana Lastina (and not the horribly executed Malay motion picture, Maria Mariana, alright?!)
5) The four of us (my sisters and I) were in cahoots with our parents to get us out of school early one day, in order for us to catch the incomparable David Copperfield’s show, live in KL. We told a white lie to the ‘Penyelia Guru Petang’ (Head of Afternoon (school) Session) that we had a family emergency in town that needed immediate attention

I now pass the batons to my steadfast blog-colleagues, Esduren, Rizby, Venny and newbie, Kak Adib. Moreover, readers - avid or occasional - are more than welcome to post their Five Things at the Comment section or by tagging it to their blogsite. Care to enlighten us with some grimy details? ;-)

Comfort Food...For Thought...Lekker, Lekker

By year-end, it will be almost three months we have settled in Delft. This is however not wholly truthful since we had spent a considerable part of that duration (19 days exactly) in Malaysia, in conjunction with the Raya/Eid holidays. In spite of the timeline exaggeration, it does feel as if we have been here for quite long a time.

Notwithstanding Paris, I am now accustomed, with much comfort and zeal, to our routines, schedules and side-trips in the idyllic town of Delft. I cannot say the same about adapting to the weather though, which has advanced to a full-blown winter in recent days. The chilly atmosphere also translates to chapped lips, dried itchy all-over skin, and sallow complexion, to name a few. It also brings about an effect of a different kind – increased appetite! This must be the only plausible explanation for our ravenous eating habits of late. That and coupled with the extended time we lingered outdoors which induces us to fill up our tummies more often than its usual requirement (and what constitutes ‘usual’ also remains to be seen).

The easy access to street (straat) vendors selling food during the weekly afternoon market (Thursdays) and weekend market (Saturdays) is a boon for us, whose limited resources in dishing out Malaysian cuisine, tantalizes our adventurous palate into snapping a few delicious snacks. Also, gourmands like my hubby and I naturally love to sample foreign cooking, even more so the dessert component of such culinary offering. :-)

Hands-down, the most famous and commonplace food item sold at stands (kiosks) is patat frites (literally means potato fries) or (believe it or not) patat for short. However, when you are in Dutch, you eat the fries the Dutchie way – that is, the fries are usually served with a generous dollop of fritessaus (basically mayonnaise – of white or yellow variety). If you are more daring, you can eat yours with pindasaus (peanut sauce) dip, not unlike the peanut sauce we Malaysians (Indonesians or Singaporeans, as a matter of fact) always take with sate, ‘ketupat’ or ‘nasi empit.’

My foray into pindasaus-dipped fries was by accident. I had wanted the fritessaus on my fries but my lack of Dutch vocabulary prompted me to randomly articulate the word which I had presumed meant mayonnaise. Since it was too late to return the gravy-filled patat, I chewed on my fries drizzled with pindasaus with mild apprehension. My initial wariness gave way to a ‘Not bad’ comment, and by the time we reached home, I had finished half of the fries inside the typical patat conical paper! Word to the purists and ketchup/chilli aficionados: pindasaus might be too heavy and strange to munch with fries, but if you want to act like one of the locals, it’s worth a try.

Another stand favourite of mine is oliebollen or ‘Dutch fritter.’ Or some people refer to it as small round doughnut, which is a misnomer because oliebollen is without any hole in the middle. Come in various round sizes, oliebollen often exists and ingests in the plural form and manner respectively. The batter is conceived largely from flour, sugar, water (or milk) and yeast. Other ingredients that might separate one oliebollen from another are the optional raisins, nuts, candied citrusy peels, amongst others.

The traditional albeit greasy method of cooking involves dropping the rolled dough into a large vat of hot cooking oil until it transforms into a crisp, golden ball. Before its final public consumption, the fried brown dough is first dusted with confectionery sugar. My husband was the one who introduced the oliebollen to me, out of a whim, when he bought some at the stand outside of C1000, a Dutch hypermarket. After the first crunch, we were hooked!

Dutchies’ other food peculiarity concerns the king of all meals – breakfast. Therein lies their penchant for sweet-laden fares that culminate in ‘hagelslag’ (or sprinkles). According to the HollandRing website, the Dutch – adults and children – eat about 14 million kilo hagelslag per year on about 850 million slices of bread. It becomes an industry - a lucrative one - unto itself! In fact, the hagelslag comes in a variety of brands and colors, but the most favored by them is the chocolate (but of course!). The Nederlander way of eating hagelslag for breakfast is by sprinkling them on a piece of either buttered or toast bread.

A chocoholic, I was more than inclined to try this particular method of eating a slice of bread. During the fasting month, it became one of my staples during sahoor (pre-dawn meal). However, nowadays the hagelslag box stays untouched in our kitchen shelf in view of other Malaysian foodstuffs inhabiting our kitchen cabinets.

Dutch’s repertoire of easily accessible and ‘fast’ food echoes the perennial quality of their diet. The upside to this non-seasonal availability is our freedom to savor these favorites until the moment we leave the country. Now, isn’t that food for thought!

Sadia's 10 months today! Some pixs to share

The term 'bundle of joy' perfectly fits her now. She is quite heavy to lug around, unlike before. With her acute aversion to the pram, we are inured to bear her weight with the baby carrier. Luckily for her, the carrier can hold up to 12 kg, but unlucky for our backs.....

2006 in Retrospect

A fellow Malaysian and famous blog raconteur, Kak Teh’s touching review of her year so far, inspires me to also take stock of the major events that had taken place in 2006.

The indisputable life-changing event of the year is the joyful birth of our firstborn, Sadia Firjani, who came out from the womb with that big doe-like eyes of hers looking straight at us, as if saying “Where I am?”

Sadia has a bout of jaundice in the first few weeks which contributed to some weight loss, but she has now picked her weight up especially in this chilly climate. It’s jaw-dropping simply looking at her photographs at three-to-four months as opposed to the big lug that stares back at me, with that mischievous grin on her face. Equally unexpected is her transformation and personality development from a quiet, demure ‘girly’ girl to a boisterous, high-pitched, temperamental ‘tiny tot.’ Earlier on, we had thought we’d have easy it raising a timid petite princess. Little we know what we are (physically and mentally) up against!

Sadia’s unpredictable moods also manifest in picky eating habits that when mix with her active crawling mode calls for rapid feet action of her guardian, in order to be able to spoon-feed her efficiently. As for her high chair, it has a low success rate of keeping her tied down in one place, with an outburst of protests winning the day.

Without a doubt, the most important lesson with respect to parenting that I have learnt is PATIENCE. Plenty of it. And what is the most expedient and unavoidable way to attain a respectable level of patience if it is NOT by having a baby shoved to you. For a person who rarely gets stressed – even at work, I often sniggered to myself when Sadia’s antics got the worst of me. Now I know why my mom oftentimes utters her memorable line to us kids, “Please don’t make my blood pressure go up the roof!” I used to wonder what she ACTUALLY meant. Now I can wholly empathize.

Indeed, having your own flesh and blood is a continuous learning experience that will sow the seeds of positive self-development and unconditional love.

The second milestone that occurred in 2006 is bidding my adieu to the corporate world as a result of the third significant event of the year – moving to Delft. The decision was also attributed to Sadia’s indignant refusal of drinking (formula or expressed) milk from the bottle. Having explained my situation to a seemingly callous and heedless superior, I decided to throw in the towel of fighting for an extension of my maternity leave and sent in my resignation letter instead.

It was either coming back to work for a while before quitting the post on the basis of following my husband to study, or inquiring for a one-year unpaid leave from my position which my company had no qualms of considering.

It wasn’t the best challenging job ever that I’ve held but it paid an adequate amount of salary that assisted in paying the bills in our two-person household. I know in Malaysia works are hard to come by in recent times, but I take my chances. So if anyone looking for a quick-learning employee come late 2007, let me know! ;-)

As for the third highlight – residing in the Netherlands – I initially had mixed feelings uprooting from my motherland and more so from my mother who has been on dialysis since the year 2000. I am more at home now in Delft than I’d ever be in Ampang and with regards to Mama, I am grateful for the technological access of sms and phone that make it easier to constantly keep in touch with my loved ones. In some twisted ways, the long distance laid between us compels me to assess my relationship with them and look at things more objectively. I come to appreciate those moments that we’d shared and plowed through together.

With the curtains nearly lowered on 2006, I must say that it has been a roller-coaster year in terms of self-improvement, spiritual growth and physical exertion (in the sense of taking care of Sadia and walking all over the place). Here’s to another beautiful year with my loved ones, safe travels and a long healthy life (God willing)!!!Joie De Vivre Everyone!

Short-takes: Nuptials Q&A, Rocka-bye-baby and Who's Your Daddy

Some interesting, thought-provoking articles I found on the Net. The one on the baby hits home by shedding light on the best options available for putting a baby to sleep independently.

Also, some key questions that are handy to consider before you walk down the aisle (and up the dais - in Malay weddings).

And, a teenage's poignant account of her search for her donor father is a compelling story to read and what sort of moral dilemma entails from such donor conceptions.

have a good read!

Questions to Ask Before Tying the Knot

Teaching Baby to Sleep on His/Her Own

Donor Dad

Tentations Parisiennes (Parisian Temptations)

I most ardently, most unequivocally, most unwittingly, love French patisseries! The French culinary expertise is most evident in its pastries and desserts where each piece is essentially an artform.

In Rueil-Malmaison, weather permitting, my lunch hour excursions were well spent frequenting the corner patisserie cum boulangerie down the road from the hotel. Otherwise, if I'm in a more adventurous spirit or feeling jaunty than usual, I hopped farther away inside the old, French provincial part of this suburb - the town square - with its commonplace cobblestone roads and plantation-style shutters of various shades.

This is where the most ambitious and exquisite array of patisseries reside, much to my gastronomic delight! An assortment of sugared masterpieces and visually-pleasing confections that make me weak at the knees and cause my stomach to churn vigorously.

I had eaten a generous chocolate cream of an eclair, a slice of banana-flavoured tart and some forgettable layered cake but the sweet French creation that left a lasting impression is macaroon! Specifically chocolate macaroon with semi-sweet chocolate filling.....

These macaroons, come in different flavours like chocolate, cafe (coffee), fraise (strawberry) and citroen (lemon).

Fitting the size of my palm, its crunchy meringue-rich texture has the consistency of a brownie and the surprising, harmonious blend of its filling with the chewy round macaroons almost melts inside my mouth. I am in cacao heaven!

So it came as no shock when I wolfed down one at the airport, lest I wouldn't be able to find one in Tulips Land to satiate my craving. However, I must say, the airport's mass-produced version was pale in comparison to the homebaked one in Rueil-Malmaison's lovely patisserie.

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In true holiday tradition, I've succumbed. I finally made a purchase of this wonderful rose concoction, also during one of my outings at the town square in one of the bevy of shops - L'occitane En Provence, the French's yet another successful franchise story.

It's sort of a mini-celebration for the upcoming __ anniversary of my birth (yes, I have to be wordy to get my strong hint across - haha).

I fell in love with this subdued rose bouquet ever since I spritzed some on my person at one of its shops in Kuala Lumpur - KLCC, I think. However, other 'needs' items took priority in my burgeoning shopping list.

My husband's concurring with my selection also swung the decision to a firm buy. Hehe.

L'occitane prides itself in developing its own sensuous range of skincare, beauty and fragrance products for women, men and the home. The high level of prestige and personal touch are reflected in my choice of fragrance - Eau des 4 Reines. As the name suggests, the scent combines the distinctive and quirky elements of 4 different roses.

The muted floral notes complement my preference for flowerful-infused aroma, more so when it originates from my all-time favourite flower!

I like the fact the fragrance is not too pungent or overpowering, dissimilar to a pure essence of rose, which is cloyingly sweet for my taste.

Also, despite being an EDT, I only need to sparingly spray it on since a very small dose of the scent is just what it takes to permeate the air. Too much would be an overkill.....

As such, I deem it a fine, prudent purchase because it will last me for a long, long time. More so now that, with a rambunctious infant around, I use fragrances only for special occasions or whenever I feel like it (which is hardly ever) ;-)

Au Revoir Paris, Welkom Delft

We are back in Day-lefth! Turning the key and plonking straight onto the sisal carpet about 6:30pm.

Can you imagine that we started off our journey at 11:30am from the hotel?

It was tiring and tomorrow will be laundry and couch potato day!

To think of it, until the next session of classes in February, it will be couch potato days for the next two months!

Yippee!!!

Since hubby's classes ended early on the last day (Friday), we went out at night to relish Rueil-Malmaison's beautiful Christmas lightings and tree-decorations. The temperate weather also lent a pleasurable background to our plan of dining out.

It seems each store along the same row competes with one another in decking up their facades with hollies, wreaths and twinkling lights. The relaxing saunter along cobblestone pavements, watching children squealing while skating on the ice rink in front of the town square and savoring the French's sense of aesthetics for the very last time, we imagined how resplendent and enchanting the Champs-Elleyse avenue and the city of Paris as a whole must be at this time of the year.

We then made our way to the halal Pakistani restaurant called 'Bombay Dreams' (a contradiction in terms, I know).

We changed our minds about eating in since Sadia, who has been out of practice after leaving Malaysia, was disagreeable to the restaurant's interior and if I might add, slow service. A jugful of mango lassi that we imbibed as we waited for the 'emporter' (take-away) to be ready, was delicious to the last drop.

The beriyani 'poulet' (chicken) and naan 'fromage' (cheese) really hit the spot, redolent of those wonderful 'mamak' (albeit cheaper) joints in Kuala Lumpur.

In the end, a spread of fine food on the rectangular study table with the hotel tv suspended above it, was just what we needed to unwind before the long day of travelling home tomorrow.

Moreover, Star Academy's Demi-Finale was on! Frivolous and gimmicky, it made a whole lot of difference to pass the hours during packing time!

Come breakfast time this morning, it occured to me this would be my last time handfeeding Sadia the buttery, fluffy croissants and swigging down robust 'cafe' (coffee) with three tiny lumps of sugar, as I accustomed to doing for the last two weeks while hubby was in class.

How odd it feels that just when you're about to get used to a new set of schedules, your routines revert to the ones you familiar with.

Nevertheless, I'm so glad that we leave the crammed room at last and back to the spacious living area in Delft. Sadia's roaming around effortlessly, smiling contentedly and checking back her missed territories are testament to these domesticated thoughts.

Merci Beaucoup Anne-Claire Covain et Jacque!

It came out of nowhere. Kind souls offering relief and aid without preamble or forethought. Good Samaritans, you could say. I’d call them angels on earth.

For some time, I have been deliberating if I should highlight this random act of kindness but to completely obliterate it from my Paris experience would be a disservice to these amazing people. They are just that – amazing, because I don’t know if I’d be able to do the same thing when I’m in their shoes. Also, I’ll be leaving a large, momentous gap in the pages of my trip if I were, for obvious reasons, to sidestep this particular episode.

It happened the first Monday we were in Paris. We met these gentle creatures, close to 2 o’clock.

The reason I’ve reservation on disclosing this matter is mainly due to guilt. What kind of mother have I become? But all things considered, it wasn’t entirely my fault and I should cut myself some slack.

Sadia fell from the bed. *Cringe*

It was almost noon. The chambermaid knocked on the door when I was nursing Sadia in bed. She was already asleep and would habitually rouse from her somnolent state every half an hour. I was trying to make her go back to sleep. This was the first time I had to deal with a chambermaid at this hotel. I didn’t call out to her when she knocked because (a) Sadia was going back to sleep and (b) the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign in French/English was on the knob outside.

Unless she couldn’t read, I was not amused when she sprang open the door with her key. I dashed to the door imploring her to come later, pointing to the half-awake Sadia on the bed. Language became a barrier and she kept pointing to her watch. I guess, she was pressed for time and wanted to finish her work regardless.

I was exasperated by the communication breakdown and was gathering my thoughts on what to say next when it happened. Sadia was excited by the presence of a new person and like a flash of lightning, crawled towards me and into the floor. It was sheer agony!

The side of her left nose bled out. She was crying her heart out. Wailing inconsolably. Out of helplessness, I also shed a few tears. I finally managed to contact my husband via the cellphone and he practically ran to the hotel from his training centre (luckily it was around 10 minutes away by foot). The guilt-ridden chambermaid also called the frontdesk for assistance and the dour-looking lady on duty matter-of-factly suggested a clinic.

Sadia was still crying when my hubby came to the room. Since she didn’t stop crying, we were worried of her condition. It’s better to have her being checked up, we both concurred.

The permanent hotel office staff, Mary, was most useful and told us where the clinic was (up the road), yet another 10 minutes’ walk. We had problem locating the clinic at first but some locals pointed the way. We didn’t understand them, but sign language helped a little. So did our gut instinct. The clinic unfortunately told us that they don’t have a pediatric section. A nurse with passable English was courteous and informed us of the nearest hospital with the proper service. She telephoned the hospital’s rep that we were on our way and even called a taxi for us.

Sadia had quieted down by this time but her face was a picture of misery and sadness. She must be traumatized. In my arms, I could feel her body tightened still.

After reaching the (public) hospital’s ‘Urgence’ (Emergency) section, my husband filled up the relevant forms and thereon we waited for ages. (And I had thought government hospitals in Malaysia were bad). Possibly because we came around lunchtime, but a patient still needs treatment regardless of the hours.

By this time, Sadia had become vocal and babbling away while playing with some giant Legos at the toy corner. Poor Sadia, she must be hungry.

Finally, our turn came and we were ushered into one of the individual check-up rooms to assess Sadia’s condition. Herein, Sadia was still enunciating her vowels. We waited again for a doctor on duty to see her. An intern female doctor entered and asked a series of questions regarding the incident. In the end, she looked at Sadia’s nose much to her noisy protest.

We then sat down in the x-ray waiting area whilst the intern consulted her Chief on the next course of action. We dreaded the thought of putting Sadia under the scan.

It was a sigh of great relief when they decided against the procedure on the grounds that Sadia is so little to be x-rayed and instead gave us a slip for an appointment to see an ear, nose and throat (ENT) specialist the following Monday. The intern also passed us a paper listing the prescribed medication that we must purchase ourselves at any pharmacy (It’s the same system as in the Netherlands – you are given a written prescription to buy on your own medicines).

The waiting room became our domain again as we sat waiting for the next instruction i.e., payment. But after 15-20 minutes of idleness, no one appeared at the front counter. We were peeved and chose to find our way, going out the Urgence door in search of a payment or cashier section, asking a few people who only replied in French. Again, sign language paved the way for an understanding.

At a building across the Urgence section but tucked a little bit further inside the hospital compound, I frantically searched for a semblance of a cashier area and found one lady behind a glass wall with big letters that spelled ‘Caisse.’ Since my husband was holding Sadia who had fallen asleep (during the protracted wait), I passed the slip that the intern had given me to the lady cashier. The cashier gave me a quizzical look and uttered some French.

This was when Anne-Claire entered the scene, accompanied by her father Jacque. She was coming from the other side of the long hallway, walking slowly with the aid of her crutches. She was waiting behind me with her father, for her turn to see the cashier. The cashier queried me earnestly in French. I didn’t know what else to do and out of desperation, I immediately asked Anne-Claire for assistance. Do you speak English? A little, she said.

She then became a translator for us both – the cashier and me. Apparently, the problem lies in the confusion over Sadia’s surname, which the Urgence unit mistook Sadia as THE surname. Problem solved, Money paid, Receipt printed. We thanked Anne-Claire profusely for becoming our language mediator. She then proceeded to take care of her business. We were about to leave in search for a taxi when Anne-Claire walked past us and asked how we were going back. We told her our plan and she offered to give us a lift. Jacque was already in the car with the ignition on. We were touched by the gesture and thoroughly gratified.

As we drove to the hotel, we talked nothing important in particular, just about how lovely Paris is, her two children (showed their photos in her wallet) and what exactly Jacque’s relation to Anne-Claire (didn’t want to make a boo-boo by saying the wrong thing). Of course, my husband flattered him by quipping that Jacque looked young.

The hotel came in view and the car door opened. Our interaction didn’t stop there. Instead, Anne-Claire gave her contact details – phone number and email address – in case we need any more help in translating. She knew that we would have that specialist’s appointment the following week (which we didn’t follow through on) which might be sticky if the doctor/clinic is English-challenged.

Again, we were stumped by her thoughtfulness. We returned the gesture and gave my husband’s business card in turn, mostly for her to remember us by. Before they drove away, we gave our sincere thanks and wished them a Merry Christmas.

I am immensely grateful that we met such a selfless person like Anne-Claire, and by extension, her father, Jacque. And their unstinting help arrived at the most opportune and critical time. It was truly an eye-opener moment for me.

Skeptical and wary from my bad encounters in Malaysia, I wouldn’t have imagined those kinds of people exist anymore. The ones that come to our rescue without a second thought. Without scruple or prejudice attached. It was a humbling experience for me.

I thank Allah that Sadia turns out fine. Alhamdulillah. More pressingly, I thank Allah for bringing these kind individuals our way when we need further reinforcement. They were indeed Godsent!

As for Sadia, she was up and about - back to her normal, cheeky self - the same night of the accident. I now make a habit of carrying her if anyone knocks on the door, sleep or otherwise, to thwart anymore unwanted incidents. God bless her!

Paris: Anecdotes, Observations and Funny Encounters

One of many Yuletide-decorated buildings in Rueil-Malmaison


Things that had thus far transpired and ruminated in Paris, in random order:

1. Sadia loves croissants so much ever since we fed her the first time we had breakfast at the hotel’s charming breakfast room. We just give her the ‘inside’ of the croissant but never the crust. From thereon, she has one or two for brekkie and sometimes a few bites during the weekend outings just to tide her over. Luckily, Bakkerjap – with divine appel-flaps – sells croissants, the plain and cheese variety, just in case she asks for them when we go back to Delft.

2. My husband and I observed that the French – particularly the women – are small in stature. This conclusion came after comparing the general populace’s (read: those that we bumped on the streets during the past eleven days) height with that of mine. I’m not that tall – maybe 5 foot 4 inches (or 5 foot 4-&-3/4 according to optimistic estimate ;) ) – so it was an amusing surprise being able to see them French face-to-face, which is a far cry from those towering Nederlanders back in Delft. Perhaps a nation full of ‘le petite’ is the inspiration behind the best-selling book “French Women Don’t Get Fat: The Secret of Eating For Pleasure” by Mireille Guiliano. That aside, and having enumerated the various reasons in her book (the three-bite-rule, for instance), Ms Guilliano had left out a crucial element which makes most French ladies stay thin – which is…..

3. Smoking! I noticed this alarming trend EVERYWHERE! They smoke while walking in the freezing temperature, on the phone, after breakfast, reading, amongst others. It is indeed a country of smokers. Heh heh. I wonder how they will cope come January 2007 when public areas will be smoke-free…Only time will tell.

4. All the TV shows are in French! Specifically all the known sitcoms, series, soap operas, movies, re-runs, even SpongeBob Squarepants and The Simpsons are dubbed in French! Like my husband said, Homer sounds classic in French! At first, I was miffed by this cultural phenomenon. On the other hand, I must take my hats off to these dubbers for staying faithful to the original voices of The Simpson and SpongeBob's characters. I mean, Homer (Bart, etc) does sound like Homer, but in French! Hehe...It is as if the government doesn’t want to encourage the widespread usage of English by its people. Maybe it’s bad enough that the English language, propagated by its old rival, Great Old Briton, is the lingua franca of the world. But, isn’t it wasting taxpayers’ money dubbing all these tv shows into French as opposed to just displaying French subtitles? Well, it’s been a long tradition, so I guess, if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it?

5. Speaking of tv shows, the French likes game-shows. All day long, sometime seven day a week, there will be all kinds of game-shows on the telly. And the game-shows are always full of pomp and merry-making, with the audience hyped up – clapping, dancing and singing together. This sort of camaraderie on a game-show simply blows me away.

6. Also, the current hit show now is ‘Star Academy’ which closely resembles ‘Akademi Fantasia’ back in Malaysia (I think Indonesia also has the same concept) is in its ‘Demi-Finale’ or Half Finale stage. The programme parts company from the Malaysian-based by having the four final contestants pitted against each other in two groupings. Last Friday, the first two candidates had their ‘grand finale’ show at the end of which one of them was booted out. This week, the other two will get the chance to win the votes. Apart from this big difference, the concept – vocal/acting/dancing coaches – reflects the original show from Mexico. The house in which they have the privilege of staying is quite a beauty! Since we are in France, the opulent fabric for the living room, French provincial wallpapers, plush velvety chairs shout high-class! The show’s host, however, is not as flamboyant as Aznil. Thank goodness!

7. On the note of class, the French do have a sense of style. Even their babies, toddlers and children dress well. I mean, in a fashionable and chic way. Now I know why some great fashion houses get their roots here. And in general, the French smell nice too! A whiff of perfume inordinately wafts past my nose whenever I take to the street, or even in the hotel's breakfast room!

8. Last Saturday, as we were about to walk out the hotel, Ali – the nice gentleman at the frontdesk – suddenly remarked to us, in a deadpan manner, as we passed him at the reception. “You speak English to one another.” He was genuinely curious. His facial expression was serious. I replied something boring to the effect that we could be more descriptive in English but the fact that he actually observed that was hilarious!

9. My husband and I, had been on separate occasions, asked for directions by the French or European tourists speaking in French. In my case, lucky me that she can understand English, and lucky her that I DO know the way to the RER train station.

10. Despite some warnings of the French’s well-known coldness and haughtiness, the people that I have the chance to get acquainted or engage with (buying food, souvenirs, for instance) are warm, friendly and helpful. Speaking of helpful, it happened during one of my sorties with Sadia. We were lining up for bakery goodies at this corner bakery shop when Sadia ate a small piece of the receipt she was holding in her hand (usually she won't bite it), and this French lady peremptorily swooped her long manicured finger into her mouth, without asking my permission, to yank the paper out! Naturally, Sadia cried at this stranger's intrusion of her palate. I think the French are just not used to foreigners, broadly speaking. Fortunately, I have my height to work to my advantage and when all else fails, my secret weapon – Sadia! – who has been a record-success in melting people’s heart. As they endearingly call out to babies in French, Coo-Coo!

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. That first Sunday when we went to town, during the train ride back home, an old French guy entered OUR carriage at one of the underground stops with his bicycle in tow, and suddenly started giving a sermon - at the top of his lungs (in French) - that included some gospel songs! Sadia was scared of the commotion and screamed back! What is the odd of that happening? For him to choose our carriage. Bizarro indeed.....

Quickie: Don’t Trifle with Eiffel/Count Them 55,000 Bulbs at Galeries Lafayette/Busy, busy Boulevard Haussman

GL's twinkling Christmas tree
Frog on an Ornament
Close-up
GL's glittery facade
Au Printemps' swath of lights

The weekend started off on a great note. For one thing, the weather was unusually sunny, after a few days of overcast and windstorm. And another thing was that Sadia’s in better spirits after napping in the morning and following a week of adjustment.

About a quarter to 1 pm, we arrived in town – precisely at Arc De Triomphe – following a long, circuitous walk in the well-lit underpass from Charles De Gaulle train stop that we hopped off. Arc De Triomphe took my breath away. It is bigger than I had imagined from television accounts and cinematography. I was bedazzled by its sheer beauty and anachronistic contrast to the immediate modern surroundings.

The four relief sculptures at the bases of the four supporting pillars popped up at me almost life-like! Only after I viewed at home the photos that we took that I realized there were people enjoying the sight of Paris from on top of the Arc. How much is the price to scale the wall of the Arc, so to speak?

From the Arc, facing eastward, we could see an impressive view of the long undulating stretch of Champs Elysées. The famous Avenue was dotted with people and vehicles, goaded on by the mild weather. Further ahead on the horizon was the Eiffel Tower – our next destination on foot.

The hike to Eiffel was longer than expected that Sadia fell asleep in her cozy and warm baby carrier. Along the way, we took pictures of stunning old buildings as well as the statue of Bonaparte before reaching Palais de Chaillot which houses five different museums and a National theatre, and Pont D’iena, the bridge linking River Seine to the Eiffel Tower.

The grounds surrounding Eiffel were full to the brim with tourists and locals alike. Not to mention, those (mostly Indian) street peddlers selling 'unlicensed' Eiffel mementoes and a group of young women-beggars who, if you looked long enough, are Muslim. What a sad turn-of-event! We saw them convening on the grass, ravenously biting their teeth into some baguettes.

We opted not to stand in the long-winding line forming underneath the Eiffel to get tickets to the top. God willing, we will be back next year to go up the Eiffel before departing for Malaysia. By the way, if you are in a group of 20, you get priority to go up at a discounted price of less than Euro10 (the standard ticket price is Euro11).

After snapping loads of photos, both at the foot of Eiffel and farther away at the Park of Champ de Mars, we trekked down south in search for the nearest Metro subway. Though hungry, we chose to eat at Boulevard Haussman area to take pictures of Galeries Lafayette’s marvellous interiors and to avoid the lunch crowd within the vicinity of Eiffel.

It was 3pm by the time we ate delicious toasted tuna paninis packed with sun-dried tomato and rocket leaves, at this baby-proof-and-friendly eatery called Lina’s on the children/baby floor of GL.

Thereafter, we set out to photograph the Christmas decorations in the centre of GL, only to be surprised with the presence of a huge Christmas tree purportedly with 55,000 bulbs draping its foliage. Hanging from the top of the dome, the resplendent tree hovers over some of the cosmetic/parfumerie counters on the Ground Floor. Giant Christmas ornaments (see-through or solid) – one of which previously mentioned in my last blog - flanked the tree from all sides.

Before it got dark, we made our way through the massive crowd on the pavements of Boulevard Haussman enroute to the RER subway station. Christmas lights dressed up both the Printemps’ and GL’s exteriors to the hilt.

Our plan to go to the Louvre on Sunday was also deferred for our next trip to Paris. The long line to get tickets, on a Sunday AND especially in this crummy climate, deterred us from traipsing into one of the world’s largest collection of arts just to gawk at Monalisa or Venus De Milo.

We went to GL instead on Sunday – quite late around 1pm we were out the hotel’s door – to get Parisian keepsakes as a remembrance of our visit here. In fact, we didn't even go outdoors at all since the train stop led us straight into GL's Homme (Men) Store! We figured those alfresco outings to monuments or museums could wait until the Spring or Summer when strolling along this beautiful, historical city would heighten our sensations and cooperate with our cracked feet and joints!

Paris – An Assault to The Senses Part 2

The View From Ground Floor of GL
GL's spectacular dome
GL during Xmas night
Eating in GL's baby room

I take comfort in knowing that the week is over! It’s the weekend and my husband can take turns baby-sitting Sadia who, I might add, has been extra cranky, jumpy and clingy in her new environment. I also take comfort in digesting this bit of information – by January 2007, all the public areas in France (or is it just Paris?) will be off-limits to smokers. This is an added fillip for a possible repeat visit to Paris next year – that is, as wont, barring any fiscal and time constraints.

Since weekends are the only time we have as a family, we took the opportunity last Sunday to enjoy the sight and sound of Paris. Oh yes, our hotel is in one of the suburbs of Paris, somewhere in the locality of La Defense. Thoughtlessly, we had presumed that Paris wouldn’t have suburbs but just a sprawl of buildings upon buildings not unlike New York or London. How grievously wrong we had been!

Hence, the previous Sunday was purely allocated to spend the day in Paris. After asking directions from the nice gentleman (with good spoken English I might add – that’s another story) at the reception desk, we braved the elements. Strong wind howled and forcefully shook all the trees, hedges, undergrowth, petite people amongst others, in its path. There was only a smattering of raindrops but the wind effect caused them to assail us from every direction.

The alleged 10-minute walk to the RER (suburb elevated rail that turns into a subway in the city) station seemed endless in the ghastly weather. Luckily, we were quick on foot and managed to locate the station across a broad boulevard (not just straight up the road from the hotel as claimed by the hotel staff), which is in dire need of a pedestrian overpass. It was treacherous having to jay-walk to the other side of the road.

The rain had finally let up but it was still blustery as we waited for the train into town. It cost us each Euro2,70 for a one-way. Perhaps if we bought return it might be cheaper, no? The carriage of our choice was relatively empty. Similar to those subways you ride in the States, the train’s exterior is metallic but the seating arrangement differs in that most seats are constructed in a box-like manner with two front-facing seats lying across two opposite seats. We settled into a box already occupied by an old lady reading her dailies. Alas, Sadia became agitated with the noise the subway was making as it sped underground. Thank goodness the lady was a good sport and even shook her finger with Sadia’s cute, tiny digit.

We finally came to our stop Auber, where the Printemps department store stood in all its 43,000 square meter of glory! A massive crowd already flocked on what seems like every conceivable space inside the ground floor from which we came in. It’s nice that this train stop dedicates two exits for the two premier shopping places on Boulevard Haussman – Printemps and the beguilingly exquisite Galeries Lafayette.

Printemps was so big and confusing that we got lost merely trying to find a place to eat lunch! How nerve-racking. This was attributed to the fact that Printemps houses three separately buildings which are adjoined either at the ground floor or via flyovers on selected floors. With our almost non-existent French, we had problem reading the floor layout of these buildings and had to figure out for the longest time that they were in fact color-coded.

Having scurried to the cheapest available eating spot within the vast space, we finally sat down for lunch that consisted of two sucresants (a long, sugary stick – like those cheese sticks but sweet) and two cappuccinos. Long outings from the home always don’t go down so well with Sadia who became vocal and at intervals screaming (a new development, I must add) with the ‘over-stimulation.’ We also tried in vain to find the right time to go into the nursery cum baby room that was always full of people either changing diapers, giving food to their babies or just milling about in the room (I just added that last one as sarcasm, by the way).

I was exasperated and desperate however, that I plonked Sadia in my arms on a stool inside this big changing room reserved for expectant mothers, in the effort to nurse her to sleep. It didn’t happen however so we decided to exit the enormous shopping arena into Parisian streets. We went inside the four-storey building of The Gap, located across two streets from Printemps. Fashion-wise, the clothes don’t evolve much since my college stint, much to my disappointment. In fact, they were uninspiring. No wonder, Zara, Mango and H&M are more favored nowadays.

As we walked down the boulevard looking for familiar or interesting stores, Sadia finally slept inside her baby carrier. Which was so timely since we were drawn by the multitude of Sunday shoppers filling up the space outside of Galeries Lafayette’s Main Store. We entered the Men (Homme) Store first in a bid to outmaneuver the crowd packing the Main Store entrance and to preserve Sadia’s sleeping state. Like its rival Printemps, GL’s Men Store is also connected via an overpass to the Main Store. On the way to the flyover, we discovered a larger-than-life ‘marketplace’ retailing a variety of fresh produce and one-of-a-kind food items as well as selling food (gourmet or otherwise) to be consumed on the spot.

And what a breathtaking view it was when we stepped into to the Main Store! The Christmas decorations thoroughly livened up the place. A gigantic, glittery crystal-clear ball – a typical Christmas tree ornament – was suspended in the center of a magnificent ornate dome from which a series of colorful, kaleidoscopic images (winter motifs, butterflies, fairies, the like) were being projected. GL even devotes a ‘viewing balcony’ on each of the floor that faces the dome for people to take photos, lounge and drink free water from the water dispenser.

In view of the mob hoarding the scenic terraces, I didn’t have time to capture any photos but planned to come back just for that, perhaps today. We did however take some in the much more spacious (and relatively empty – yay!) baby room in GL when we gave Sadia her late afternoon snack.

I later found out GL, which boasts 10 floors of merchandise, is the largest shopping store in Europe! Wow, I was floored! It was also a great coincidence that we went there during the first Sunday in December since stores are closed on Sundays, except for the Christmas season.

I love GL much better than Printemps due to its beautiful façade and even more ravishing interiors. It is truly an architectural gem and a shopping paradise! What a delectable combo! The crowd wandering about outside the ground floor turned out to be looking and cooing at the wondrous Christmas child-like creations of eight window displays. It’s tradition, I’ve been told. We had to literally shove our way out of the imposing, unmoving human barricade.

Paris has been touted as the fashion capital of the world. A lack of traveling experience to Italy notwithstanding, I have to agree. Fashion and what more important is shopping! Here I was bemoaning the dearth of shopping places to visit in the Netherlands to be overwhelmed and assaulted by the extensive (almost infinite) range of selections in Paris. Indeed, I was rendered speechless. And this weekend to the Louvre and Eiffel Tower we go!

Paris – An Assault to The Senses Part 1

Why we woke up in the wee hours of the morning to prepare for a flight that last less than an hour is beside me. With stringent airport security and increasing flying risk, however, one can never be too careful.

Nonetheless, I loathe the fact of rushing from one location to another, especially now that we bring a baby along for the ride. The airport security forces in charge of checking the infamous carry-on transparent plastic bags were also no help in alleviating the burden. Since the EU regulations flyer that we obtained from my husband’s school didn’t actually specify the ‘ideal size’ of those darn transparent bags, we had to part with my daughter’s shampoo and bath gel!

While my husband was still unloading the laptops onto the conveyor belt for scanning, the lady who explained to me, bearing the name tag ‘Team Leader’, was officious and overbearing. My eyes, glazed from lack of sleep, pleaded to her good sense of judgment. It was to no avail. My husband then joined me to hear out the lady-guard’s mechanical explanation at the end of which she threw the beloved things into the heavy plastic trash container without hesitance or remorse.

I was peeved since we had purchased those things in Malaysia as they were cheaper compared to the Netherlands’, only for them to end up in a ruthless garbage disposal. And the reason given was because the two bottles were each 200ml in volume, not the permissible 100ml! What’s the difference? If terrorists were to hijack or do bodily harm, God forbid, to the aircraft, by hook or crook, they will each bring 100ml of ‘something’ separately! My annoyance gave way to pity after I saw a middle-aged lady squirted her Romance perfume one last time and nervously fiddled it with her hands, a gesture similar to someone having to unceremoniously part with a precious heirloom.

Air France was the airline of choice based on the pricing and timing of our trip. As we boarded the musty-smelling plane with chintzy upholstered seats, we were amused by the melancholic genre currently getting airplay (pun intended). You know, the pipe-in music they usually put on before taking off. The lyric, arrangement and rhythm (or lack thereof) of the songs were borderline suicidal! Oh well, at least laughing at its preposterousness soothed my frayed nerves.

Stragglers and rainy condition delayed the take-off but I slept a few winks only to be awakened by hubby who passed me the ‘meal’ on offering. A piece of cake, in plastic wrapper. Despite the measly one cake, I have to give credit that it was actually yummy.

After descending on Charles De Gaulle airport and whilst the airplane was taxing to its assigned gate, we saw, somewhere along the winding runway, a monument on which a gigantic (almost-to-scale) Concorde model was immortalized in a take-off pose.

Since Saturday’s Christmas shopping crowd would cramp the subways, we hailed a cab instead at the airport taxi stand. I could easily see that most people in the taxi queue were puffing away. My suspicion was further confirmed upon arriving at our hotel that boasts a smoking lounge cum lobby area. To make matters worse, our next-room neighbor likes to smoke his stash at night! Welcome to Paris! Bienvenue Vers Paris!

I am Marge?

Bonsoir mesdames et messieurs!

I'm in the city of love - with lucky, plucky Sadia - accompanying my husband for his classes! I will soliloquize about Gay Paree in the next blog entry. For now, do try out this personality test (or check out other tests on this site).....As for the test's results, I'm not sure about the 'good cooking' bit. Perhaps I haven't found my calling yet! ;-)

You Are Marge Simpson

You're a devoted family member who loves unconditionally. Sometimes, though, you dream about living a wild secret life! You will be remembered for: your good cooking and evading the police Your life philosophy: "You should listen to your heart, and not the voices in your head."

The Simpsons Personality Test

Introspection on a Beclouded Day

additions in italics

Grey sky blanketed our provincial backdrop as it would characteristically acquit itself at this time of the year. Save for the yapping siren of an ambulance in the distance, everything else was deafeningly silent.

Sadia just fell asleep for her mid-morning nap. As I gazed at the skylights overhead, knowing quite well of the dismal prospect for a sunny turn-around, I imagined myself on a chaise lounge by the seaside reading a page-turner of a novel taking in the magnificent blue-sky vista in front of me.

Thoughts over the azure horizon harked back to those carefree days in sunshiny California where fragrant sweet-smelling oranges always pervaded the crisp air. My mind then wandered pensively on the series of events that had occurred in the last decade or so.

My husband – the rational and logic-driven half of the equation – is a firm believer that some friendships run its course. On the other hand, being sentimental and histrionic in nature, I had refused to comprehend his reason for uttering such aphorism. In time, however, I understood where he was coming from.

Contemplation over sunny days, friendship and the past decade instantly brought me down the memory lane to a time when I attended a one-year college preparatory program in a quaint town in California. The program involved 30 eighteen-year-old Malaysians from various government, semi-government and private (oil) company sponsorships. I still couldn’t believe we were that young when we embarked on a new chapter in our lives. In reality, we were a bunch of wide-eyed teenagers, still developing our principles, discovering our moral compass and searching for our own place in this world.

With 21 guys and nine girls, the likelihood that some of them winding up as couples were high. At least, that was my deduction for the other girls but not for me. As forecast, I recall there being seven couples, excluding my ‘case’ since we remained ‘just friends’ back then. As for the other girl, she was more into Afro-American dudes ;-). Of the seven mentioned, only three ended up in matrimony while others broke up during college or after college.

Living away from your family for the very first time on a foreign soil has its share of pain, heartaches, joy and triumphs. Clashes of personality and juggling different facets of life with housemates and studies were some of the predicaments which befell me. Some people got territorial while others imposed their value systems on you, whether you like or not. At that age, peer pressures to conform and the desire to be accepted – sometime at any cost - were rife. If you are unfortunate, your self-identity might get swept away under the maelstrom of frustration, misguidance, and worst of all, substance abuse.

On a personal level, the most difficult aspect of adjusting was being alone. Always ensconced in the safety of my family home and inundated by familial truths had its repercussions. I didn’t like having to fend for myself, figuring out my ethical code and far more importantly, trying to suss out the nuances of other people’s chatter and behavior. In the past, I experienced a hard time achieving the right balance in the delicate art of ‘social interaction.’ I attributed it to my awkwardness and lack of tact in dealing with those outside my family circle. In essence, I didn’t want to grow up and assume responsibilities and consequences for my actions. Yet, amid the chaos, acclimatization and inner struggle, a few kind souls offered a helping hand and soothing companionship that were a God-sent! Of these, a small number turned into meaningful friendships with the rest appeared out of happenstance and disappeared thereafter without a single trace.

Now, looking back, the journey to self-discovery is far better when maneuvered on your own. Yes, you will experience the greatest of agony but you will also come out of the shambles stronger and wiser. Also, along the way of attaining personal growth, you are bound to relapse in your judgment and suffer grave consequences. You might lose a friend or two as a result or realize that you are no longer, for a variety of reasons, on the same frequency with old friends. Bearing this evolution in mind, I now know why some (former) friends continue to ‘haunt’ you with what-ifs whereas others simply vanish from your passing fancy.

Of course, at 30-odd years old, it is safe to say many areas are still in great need for improvement and weeding out. With a new maternal role added to the fold, I find myself slowly letting go of certain hang-ups and prioritizing my baby’s welfare, above all others (after hubby gave the greenlight, that is :-) ).

In the interest of preserving their privacy, I’d like to thank these 29 individuals (hubby likewise) for being a crucial part of my post-adolescent life. We may not be in speaking terms anymore, or treading on another’s path anytime soon, but for a fleeting moment – as picturesque and idyllic as the cerulean sky of the sea under which we gathered for a fond farewell – I’d like to think of us all as being the best of friends.

Finally, a Haven

View outside of DeLuca


DeLuca's copacetic interior

Outside the vast double door of our apartment, strong silhouette of an uninterrupted line of barren trees adorns the narrowed streets. Besides the trees, the canal gleams and casts a serene countenance being under the spell of the radiant sun. Ducks squeal as if in rapture of the beautiful day lying ahead! That was precisely my sentiment when we woke up this morning with sunbeams peeking through the two skylights of our loft-like bedroom. A day such as this is unseasonably bright considering that bleak winter is just round the corner.

A clear day like this shouldn’t go to waste, my husband and I concurred. We resolved to venture outside of Delft into Den Haag. In fact, we had tentatively planned to do so after ‘successfully’ spending several hours there yesterday. (Successful in mom-speak means a cooperative tot) Out of a whim and boredom for the lack of fun English-medium TV programs, we scuttled off to American Book Centre’s branch in Den Haag in pursuit of a stimulation of the cerebral kind.

Guided with a dog-eared map, we finally located ABC in Lange Poten, which intersected with Spui, one of the tram stops along the Delft-bound route. Like its big-city counterparts – Amsterdam and Rotterdam, the stores in Den Haag open on Sundays, usually from noon until 5pm. After our book purchases, we found ourselves drawn to the festive atmosphere and growing crowd plainly visible across the other side of Spui. From our vantage point, Christmas lights were serially festooned on top of what seems like an endless shopping avenue. We were instantly hooked! (no pun intended)

Like a skilled animal armed with its killer instinct, we have found our watering hole. At last! A shopping arcade to feast our eyes on and tempt our wallets! Our pupils dilated at the sight of a bevy of noteworthy shops and like a fish out of water, I excitably called out familiar names – Zara! H&M (Hennes&Mauritz)! Hema! Levi’s!

Halfway along the arcade, we bumped into a group of mischievous-looking Zwarte Piets (dress-for-hire teenagers) giving out kruidnoten to passer-bys in front of the ‘entrance’ into the alfresco pedestrian mall simply called ‘The Passage’ with its own share of interesting stores like Benetton, Sisley, Selexyz – a Dutch-language bookstore not dissimilar to Barnes & Noble – and Apple Centre (just what hubby would like). One of the Piet practically ambushed my husband and impishly left some pieces of Kruidnoten inside the hood of his sweater. Now I know how Dhanu feels ;-)

We bought finally the long-postponed sweater for Sadia at H&M which was quite inexpensive, even when compared to Hema. Thereon, lured by the throng of eager shoppers and relatively fine weather, we ambled on and somehow ended up at the corner of Gravenstraat where the super-duper exclusive department store Maison De Bonnaterie proudly stood. Pressed for time, we didn’t trudge inside but advanced further down the lane. We then decided to call it a day after arriving in the middle of heavy pedestrian crossing of luxe department stores Peek & Cloppenburg, and De Bijenkorf. This was where we bumped into Surina, a good friend of my twin and her immediate family, who had settled in The Hague since last July. How nice to see a familiar face from Malaysia!

Today, as a treat for our second anniversary, we indulged in a mini-celebration by having lunch at La Place Mangerie in Vroom & Dreesman (V&D), another department store along the arcade. The open-air, kiosk-style concept is redolent of Café La Marche in The Curve at Mutiara Damansara. The cozy eatery also reminded me fondly of the gourmet food court I chanced upon at Water Tower Shopping Centre in Chicago during the heyday of collegiate life. However, the two entrees and two Frambozen (Raspberry) shakes were a tad bit expensive in comparison to the spread we relished at La Marche!

We then opted to exchange gifts with one another using a system whereby both of us must be in agreement to what one would chose for the other. Yet, in the end each of us wound up picking an item that we like ourselves and then asked the other for an opinion. That seems fairer, doesn’t it? ;-)

The anniversary celeb came to a full circle as we sat down for latte (what else!) at Deli DeLuca, a brasserie located at the corner lot of the Passage. The coffee was too pungent for my taste (caused me a mild headache) but the chocolate truffle tidbit managed to offset its headiness a little.

By the time we reached Delft proper, tiny droplets of rain tapped gently on our winter coats, thus slowly transplanting ourselves back into a Dutch wintry (albeit rainy) existence. Despite the cacophony of people rushing home, the air was surprisingly tranquil, echoing the wistful longing of the deceptively silent canals. Befitting the mood, we whisked Sadia away from the elements into the sanctuary of our home where duties resume and responsibilities await us. Nonetheless, the day’s proceedings buoyed our spirits up for we have, in no doubt, unearthed a shopping haven to call our own.

Soulmate Revisited

It’s our anniversary, as Phoebe Buffay (Hannigan) exclaimed on the final season of Friends when she's all decked out to go to the Knicks game.

Monday marks exactly two years of wedded bliss for me and my husband. In the rainy and chilly climate of Delft, not to mention a high cost of living in Europe, we can be expected to spend ours indoors in the warmth of our apartment and the equally congenial presence of Sadia.

In retrospect, I can hardly believe it has been ONLY two years. It feels, as if, we are already married for five or at most seven years! Okay maybe I am exaggerating on the seven years but I do feel old from the events of the past year.

I largely contribute this indistinct feeling of aging to the birth of my firstborn early this year, which has swiftly relegated me to motherhood and its accompanying obligations. I have to confess I did experience - after the euphoric high of childbirth - some sort of baby blues during the first few weeks following Sadia’s birth.

I was engulfed with the sudden solitary confinement of the physical and emotional kind owing to the presence of a new person in my life. In the back of my mind, I missed the carefree days of traipsing inside malls and lounging at cafes with my husband, never to worry about the welfare of a third person. But when I look at little clueless and forlorn Sadia, I snapped out of my reverie and realized how selfish, insensitive and most of all, immature I could be.

I hope having a baby will make you grow up, Mama said to me once or twice whenever I started yammering about inconsequential or trivial issues that bogged me down. How those words reverberated in my ears every now and then as I tend to Sadia and look at how she has grown over these nine lonngggg months. Of course, like a full-bred mother, she is right. I have taken some personal interests to the backseat, whilst others have to wait until she can walk and talk!

Perhaps I am inflexible (or uptight) when it comes to raising a baby – forgoing some activities (like the movies!) just so that Sadia is contented to have me (and us) at her side, most of the times. However, as a new mother, it is better to be safe than sorry. I still recall the time when I left her in the care of my mother and her maid so as to get a haircut with my twin sister. Disastrous consequences!

While I reflect on this epiphany, I must also acknowledge that my relationship with the hubby has transformed tremendously on several different levels. Some good, some bad. That is inevitable in any ‘dynamic’ and healthy relationships, I gather. We have mutually agreed the kinks that need to be ironed out and tinkered on ideas to ’enhance’ our coupledom.

Another reason which gives the impression that we seem married for longer than two years has to do with our even longer pseudo-friendship during which time we have practically known each other fancies and foibles. Then onwards, after declaring our love, the process of rehashing our attitudes continued, much advantageously if I’d say so myself. :-)

Since having a baby, one interesting aspect of our relationship that underwent change is the widening vocabulary for terms of endearment. Like other married Malay couples I have the privilege of observing, we at times unabashedly call one another Mama and Ayah, asides from the usual spouse-specific affectionate nouns.

My husband supported this practice by arguing that it is outright endearing and symbolizes the appreciation of the wife’s new role as a mother. I begged to differ, pointing out that calling the wife Mama/Mak/Ibu/Umi signifies the end of romantic intimacy and simultaneously pushing the mother role to the forefront, at the expense of the husband-and-wife bond. Perhaps I over-analyze this name usage. Perhaps it’s just for practicality sake. Oh well. Maybe a cigar is just a cigar.

The second anniversary will assuredly be etched into my memory as the year we are outside of Malaysia. The year we had a kid. The teething year, if you please. Like the actual process, you feel uneasy when the tooth begin cutting its way to the surface but you are comforted by the very fact that the means justify the ends (first real tooth). In our case, the obstacles validate and reinforce our unflinching commitment to this beautiful union. Happy Anniversary, YANG! (Hehe)