His smile can melt every heart.
He is so gorgeous…
he’s more than beautiful.
(via iamayellowsmartie)
.. the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit ..
That’s what inner beauty is according to the Bible. Yeah I get it, gentle and quiet spirit, but no one has ever said being soft-spoken is a beauty or a quality to be adored.
I sat in the backseat of my car with my mom, my driver driving us and beside him in the passenger seat was my mom’s employee.
I had to continually tilt my head to the front as she asked me questions about my time in Toronto, Canada. Saying “what?” numerous times after each sentence would be a nuisance to the people in the car, including me. (Seriously, I don’t want to sound rude out of the other person’s incapability to speak up. I don’t want to sound rude in general, period.)
So instead, I tried to guess what her questions were by putting together the words I picked up in each phrase. Remember, we were in the same car, less than 5 feet apart.
“How… Canada…” I answered: Yeah, my time in Canada was OK, school’s hard.
“… . like..” I answered: Yeah, pretty much liked it.
“When.. here..” I answered: I arrived last Friday.
“… do.. everyday..” I answered: I work for The Jakarta Post currently
“… do.. everyday..” (second similar question, had to think harder what question could someone possibly ask after the previous question) I answered: Well, I translate articles but I can write for them too if I want to.
She stopped asking questions. I was relieved. It felt like I was in an Korean interview where I could only identify words and keep answering to not look stupid.
Another pet peeve of mine is handshakes.
Do I even need to mention how much I despise handshakes which are not firm?
What’s the meaning of a handshake if I can’t respect you enough to look at you in the eye after you fail to grab my attention with that hand-touch of yours?
The whole point of handshakes is a non-verbal, firm confirmation if verbalized should sound like, “Okay, we’ve both agreed that we’ve met. We shook hands. Your name is so and so my name is Natasha. Glad to be an acquaintance of yours, shall try to remember your name as firm as your handshake.”
My new driver shook my hands this morning, or should I say showed his teeth while holding the edge of my fingers. What the heck?
My mom used to tell me it’s a form of respect. Well I think it’s the dumbest form of respect.
Let me give you an extreme example. I love extreme examples.
Say you meet the president.
I have absolutely no intention to bring myself in the same level as our respected President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Or Obama.
So, say you meet the president. He puts out his right hand gesturing an invite for a handshake. Would you grab his hand with both hands firmly so no one can say you didn’t, in hoping someone takes a picture of you while doing so, or would you grab the edges of his fingers in fear of making him uncomfortable and smile sheepishly?
If you did the latter, he would probably give you the same look I gave my driver this morning.
So, please, be a man (even though you’re a respected lady, no, make that ESPECIALLY if you’re a respected lady.)
No one wants to be taken lightly, to have their fingertips grabbed when they’re expecting a handshake, and no one wants to tilt their head to be able to hear your questions.
Sometimes I don’t know whether I’m enjoying my time as a teenager. I don’t know if it’s still considered good to mature at a younger age than other people. Maybe I’m taking in too much, and it’s dangerous when you can’t tell you’re overwhelmed.
i.e.: crashed my car last night. it was bad.
According to the lady in the taxi that I crashed into, I’m a worthless piece of shit —dog’s shit, excuse you — for *almost* costing her her beautiful face. Costing her her beautiful face. Beautiful face. Face. Face. Scar. Deformed. Costing her her beautiful face. (No this is not an error, I just had to illustrate her fear of being ugly, somehow). And her sight (she was more concerned with her appearance).
I can’t say she was already blind for saying she was beautiful. But she was.
In my defence, she said she only hit the back of the taxi driver’s chair. It was not made out of concrete.
But nevertheless, I’m sorry. I was overwhelmed with work and tomorrow’s schedule and just thinking ahead in general. Too overwhelmed that I shouldn’t drive, or risk your beautiful face. No sarcasm intended.
It’s merely an observation of the different cultures.
But it got me thinking..
Why am I having culture-shock towards my own culture?
During my 14hour flight from T.O. to Hong Kong, almost everyone was Asian. Not saying that this has anything to do with my blog, but I think it’s a funny thing worth sharing.
When I was lining up for my boarding pass, my cousin, who took me to the airport, spotted only 3 caucasians in the crowd of people. He, being Asian, said he felt like he was home and those 3 non-Asians are actually on vacation. Made sense.
Hopping on the plane I silently prayed I don’t sit beside a huge smelly guy. It was SO close. I sat behind one. The only flaw with the girl beside me was that she didn’t know how to operate the remote control for the TV. No big deal, I taught her. Another one was the small plane aisles. I waited for this big elderly lady to walk to my end so I can walk back to my seat. I smiled at her implying that I’m fine with it. Didn’t even return my glance.
Right after the plane stopped and the seatbelt signal was turned off, I stood up to get my luggage in the overhead compartment. I was ready in no time. The guy who sat diagonally in front of me, however, was kind of awake, still, but he wasn’t sleeping. He stretched his right leg forward, as if he was tagging the space in front of me for him.
Same thing happened when I was lining up in the transit line.
A guy who looked so terrified cut me off and stood in front of me. No glance no smile no sorry. Just his ..face. Can’t even describe it nicely. Maybe it was his first time, I told myself.
I used to tick off this kind of people.
I’d usually say something like, “Does standing in front of me make the line go faster?” or if I were in a good mood, “The airport isn’t going anywhere so don’t bother to rush so much.”
AND THEN.. no I’m not done. The lady behind me tried to do the same thing! I just stared her down.. nicely. I let the both of them go in front of me. There’s no point in arguing; they could ask me the same thing, “If it’s not making much difference then why not let us stand in front of you in the line?”
The lack of smiles from these people that I just spent 14 hours with, compared with the people in my building back in T.O whom I only spend a good 5 seconds with, is just astounding. I mean, why not smile? Why not make a conversation? Why answer me rudely or ignore me when I try to make one?
This is my experience coming back to my culture for the first time in 8 months. Not that long, but I could feel the overwhelming difference. Lack of kindness, lack of common courtesy. Maybe some people think they don’t need it. I think I do. Maybe I’m almost Canadian now, or better yet, maybe I’ve been too into the idea of how a journalist is supposed to be like, for the first time.
Boarding now.
I hope Jakarta doesn’t treat me the same. Not when I miss it this much.
25.APR.2012.
T.O, ON, 14:06
I want to go home, but I don’t want to leave. Does this mean this is home?
Leaving home for the first time was so exciting; it was an adventure.
But can people really have an adventure for their entire lives, without going home?
I don’t know what people might say about me, or to me. I’m nervous about going home. I’m fearful more than excited; concerned more than happy.
Maybe going home is a part of the adventure. So can people really have an adventure for their entire lives, without going home? Yes. The adventure never ends as long as home is where your heart is.
I don’t know what I’m feeling.
It felt like sadness isn’t just at arm’s length, but so close it can hug you, and it is„ so tight that once you stop fighting back, it’s ready to crush you.
It brings be back to the days I could “see.” I was washing the dishes and I could feel another presence somewhere near. I could feel it, it was almost as vivid as if it was in sight, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was. So I continued with my dishes. I looked up to the ceramic wall in front of me, and there it was, a long shadow of what looked like two arms with long boney fingers stretched across as wide as the pantry, ready to “hug” me too strongly.
If I look back, I would see and be shocked. If I keep washing the dishes, I might be crushed without knowing what it is. So I looked back. I was in the kitchen by myself.
Still, the shadow was there. I saw it. I didn’t believe it. I didn’t let it crush me.
True story.
My apologies for posting this at 2:30am
