Home is where the rice is

Ah, Monterey at last. A taxi ride, two long-haul flights, and a shuttle journey were what it took to get to this city on the northern side of the Monterey Peninsula. As soon as I set my feet upon terra firma, I was without ado whisked away to my new dwelling: a two-bedroom apartment near Downtown Monterey.

I crash-landed on my bed as soon as I saw it, and passed out for Heaven knows how long. I lost my sense of time, and had a headache of a mother when I woke up. My flight from Jakarta was not the longest flight I had ever taken, but somehow it was the most tiring.

My new apartment mate advised me to fight the grogginess by going out to enjoy the sun. I obliged and strolled around the neighborhood, taking in the local scene and getting my bearing. The native were sure to welcome the newest member of the community, as an overeager pigeon unloaded its dump on my shaven head. Talking about Californian charm!

At first glance, Monterey was a small city with warm weather and pleasant ambiance. Due to the number of educational institutions in the city, there were many young students hovering around. Despite the size, it boasted itself as "The Language Capital of the World”, a statement that I’d be sure to verify during my sojourn here.

As my headache receded, my stomach growled and I realized that I had not eaten properly for hours. I went to do my grocery shopping and – being a compulsive shopper as always – ended up buying ingredients I didn’t really know how to concoct. Cooking was never really my talent, and I always managed to stay out of the kitchen.

Fortunately, people back at home had already foreseen this and had thus packed a box of truly Indonesian delight in my suitcase:


Now, it strongly occurred to me that there were one or two vital ingredients lacking on the box. I rummaged through the kitchen set of my apartment and voila! It’s Christmas on September:


A majestic, heaven-sent rice cooker! Hook it up with a sack of good old rice from the local grocery, and there you have it: the true and staple meaning of self-sustainment – Indonesian style! It felt like home already.

A Quarter of Non-Proliferation

Well…how is THIS for a getaway?

Monterey, a city with a population of 30,000 people or so in California, will be my stomping ground for the next three months.

Hmm, it does seem like a perfect place for someone who plans to spend his one-week holiday watching whales and dolphins. But me, I am sent here to rack my brain and hone my skills in non-proliferation issues. That's right Rambo, move aside. I'm taking over your place as an expert in weapons of mass

Actually, come to think of it, the term ‘a quarter of non-proliferation’ does not exactly exude excitement or a spirit of adventure. Quite the opposite, it somehow insinuates a bleak period of confinement and abstinence. Doesn't it? Or is it just my dirty mind?

At any rate, I always strive for the silver lining. So I’ll be sure to pack my suitcase with a healthy dose of curiosity, a tube of sun-block, and an extra key for my chastity belt. Hey, you never know.

Me and This Confounded Space

Could somebody - anybody - be caring enough as to tell me why I’m still here, all alone in this confounded cubicle, on a fine Friday evening…?

Oh dear, I don't think I even give a damn anymore. I really need to get away…

A Bootylicious Affair with A Paper Wrapper

It’s been exactly three weeks since I had my last cigarette.

No one ever promised anyone that quitting smoking would be easy, but somehow it was easier than I thought. Much to my wonder, all I need hitherto is my willpower. Well, that and a sore throat, reeking shirt, yellow teeth and tiny holes on my pants. Yeah, those should be good enough reasons for me to start chewing blueberry-mint-flavored chewing gum instead.

‘Course, so far I have managed to survive only three consecutive nicotine-free weekends. Negligible, to consider that I have been taking drags for 15 years. Wait, that’s...more than 700 weekends of smoking, and with my one-pack-a-day dose, amounts to...err...cough! cough!...lots of cigarette butts.

Well, it’s been nice knowing your butt, Miss Nicotine. But I hope we won’t cross each other’s path all over again.