Gong Xi Fa Cai, readers! I thought it was going to be a quiet weekend but as it turns out, I was lucky enough to be invited to a small CNY gathering where I ate, ate and ate and put a setback on my diet. May the year of the dragon, be as fulfilling, exciting and of course, prosperous for everyone.

For now, on with Day 2.

Day 2: Walking in the City of Joy

I am rather grumpy – but I suspect that my mood is slightly worse for wear because my husband is not with me.

I’m torn. If I am honest with myself, I love traveling and flying. I love the adrenaline I feel when the aircraft takes off and when the plane lands. I love being in foreign lands. But I hate that I cannot bring Eizwan with me all the time.

Sunday is the day opted for the Calcutta tour. As to not make it too tiring for my grandparents, it was a half-day tour by car.

If you can ignore the bajillion wires, the grey haze – Calcutta looks like an amazing city. In the cool January weather, it could feel like Britain. Save for the man showering naked next to me as I walk by. Or the stray pig. If it sounds as though I am mocking India, it is not – it isn’t India without everything combined. The sights, the sounds, the smells – it is everything that makes India, India.

What is it about India, that brings out a kind of madness in their previous rulers? It is as though if you step foot in India, you have an intense crazy desire to build an over the top structure as testament to you being there. The Mughals built the Taj Mahal, the British, the Parliament, Victoria Memorial.

It is probably the same kind of madness that infected the British (along with malaria) to build the kind of palaces they did to govern India from Calcutta. But that was Calcutta then, I suppose. Calcutta today looks tired and I feel rather envious of the other cities in India. You can’t help that it was left behind a few years as the rest of India raced on to be developed. At the same time, there is a kind of pompousness that you can see in Calcutta. The ‘We’re not like them, we are more intellectual than they are’.

If anything, being an intellect defines Calcutta. There are plenty of museums, art exhibits, intellectual discourse in Calcutta. And just like all intellects, they may be smarter and more cultured than everyone else, but they are also worst for wear and well, poorer than their less educated counterparts.

Next time I’m back, I’ll opt for a walking tour. But I can’t help feeling there isn’t much else to Calcutta compared to the rest of India. One day in Calcutta, and the next time, I’ll make sure I get to where I’ve been hoping to go for ages, Darjeeling.

The last time I went on a holiday with my grandparents was in 2005. I had just gotten back from the UK and was itching to go on a holiday. My grandmother had been bugging me to go on a holiday with them so somehow, in my mind anyway it made sense to bring my grandfather of 80 years and my grandmother of 70 years to a holiday in Vietnam.

That was nearly 8 years ago. It is probably the same kind of madness that prompted my mum to take her parents who are now 92 years and 80 year old respectively to go to the City of Joy.

The journey to Calcutta was nothing less than harrowing. I hate the LCCT with a vengeance. If cattle, as in the type that moo as opposed to those who can’t actually afford a decent flight ticket, could fly, this would be the kind of airport they would be comfortable with. There are not enough seats to sit down, the place is hot, dirty and stinking. It’s harrowing enough as an able-bodied person much less when you have two very elderly people in tow.

And every time I go here, I swear I will never fly Air Asia again, knowing full well I’ll probably be breaking that promise next month or something.

I can’t quite explain what I like about it so much – film-making-wise, Bollywood narration can get it quite wrong. It’s long, it says too much. Avoid narration, let the pictures tell the story.

But I love it. I love the way it sounds, the rhythm of the Hindi language, even though I barely know any Hindi (except shaadi and pyaar but those are standard Bollywood words that everyone should know). I imagine that it sounds a lot wiser, a lot more profound as though life is going to change dramatically just because it’s said in Hindi.

So while some people motivate themselves by reading motivational quotes, joining groups. I hear Amitabh Bachan’s voice in my ear. S each time I get into the car or as I wake up in the morning to do work, I hear Amitabh Bachan’s voice. He’s narrating the story of my life in Hindi. Presumably, he is saying, this is the story of Adlina’s life. It begins rather quietly, and slowly. Because that’s how it goes with Adlina. She starts of nice and easy. Steady as she does it. But  watch out, this is Adlina we’re talking about. It never is quiet. It never is easy. It’s always something fantastic. And in 2012 something amazing is going to happen.

Of course, since I know very little Hindi, Amitabh Bachan’s narration is probably a mish-mash of dialogue from all the Hindi movies I’ve seen. So as long as my year doesn’t end up just like a Bollywood movie (see Singham for reference)-I’ll be fine.

2012 started very quietly. Eizwan and I welcomed 2012 at home, hearing the fireworks go off about half an hour early. Not quite sure why anyone would want celebrate New Year’s half an hour earlier – either you made a terrible mistake with your clock, or my neighbours really are a kiasu bunch, that you want to be the first to welcome in the New Year. We didn’t have fireworks – since well, you know they’re technically illegal but we did have The Wire. So we welcomed 2012 by watching another episode of The Wire before going to sleep. Actually come to think of it, the first ten days of 2012 have mostly been about The Wire. The two of us essentially have been incommunicado with the rest of the world because we’ve been watching The Wire. It’s a bit like home – eat dinner – clean up – The Wire. Wake up, wonder if we could squeeze in an episode of The Wire before we get to work. Weekend is canceling on friends – watching more Wire. If friends manage to get us out – we talk about The Wire.

Celebrating the New Year at L.Table in One Utama. We managed to squeeze in a lunch between The Wire of course. 

I would probably do another entry on just The Wire alone, I know, I’m only about 10 years behind the trend – but hey, some things are worth catching up on and babbling about incessantly after.

But I am actually quite busy. I knew that December was my last quiet month and I did treasure the quiet times. Since January had begun, work has been at full steam. Remember my vague ambition of getting one of my businesses up and running? Well, this Saturday I’m off to India again to work on this vague New Year’s resolution of mine. In between I’m squeezing in some more reading, a tiny bit of writing (naughty, naughty I know) and daydreaming about Dominic West. Is it bad to have a crush on Dominic West from The Wire?

Eizwan is a very patient man.

The Wire aside, I’m looking forward to 2012. It has been 10 quiet days but the voice of Amitabh Bachan in my ear may be saying – it is going to be a fantastic one.

It’s not that it’s dry or anything – it’s just that. Well, it provokes too much thinking. And my brain can only take in so much – anymore than that, and then I start stacking the cheese in the fridge into a tower. I would use Legos but I don’t have any.

Anyway.

So I procrastinate. By blogging. Well, at the very least, Vogler sits on my right as a dire reminder to finish him. The intention is to finish him before I start writing again. I could write simultaneously but then I’d be busy switching back and forth. I may be able to multitask on a million things but reading is not one of them. I can only read one thing at a time and I can’t write while I read.

So.

It is now the 30^th of December. Only 2 days away before the new year. When I was much younger, I used to fret about having New Year plans and all that. I don’t anymore because I used to find the New Year’s reveling quite dull and question every year why I did it. It was much better NOT doing anything except watching the fireworks with loved ones. That is always fun.

What I do like about the New Year are resolutions. Resolutions are fun. Probably because they are like lists and I do very much enjoy creating lists. I even like the little dots on the side of my lists although I have now progressed onto numbered lists. I know, look at me! Life of the party, I am.

But I digress. I am pleased to say that 2011 was the year that I actually kept my resolution. I resolved to lose weight last year and I made a huge effort (pardon the pun) in doing so. I am currently a size 10/12 UK – 12 is a little baggy while 10 is a little tight. I’ve come down from a size 14/16 UK. I have lost an approximate 10 kg? I think. I am not so sure because I fear the weighing scale and resolved never to check it for fear that I start binging again when I see the number. All I do know is that I am lighter and slimmer than before I started university so all is good. I am certainly healthier – the frequency of my asthma attacks have decreased and I recover from illnesses faster.

I could stand to lose a few more pounds but for now, I am happy with my weight. Onto newer resolutions.

My brother pointed out that it would be better to have New Year Goals as opposed to the vague Resolutions. Fair enough – vague ‘resolutions’ like to become a Better Person is impossible to attain. Define better person. Say every year, I have a bad habit of knocking old ladies down in an effort to be the first in line at the Isetan sale – that would make me a horrible person. But what if this year I decided to mumble a brusque ‘sorry’ to that old lady as I bulldoze her down – I suppose that makes me a ‘better person’?

I did apologize.

This year is a recycled resolution but an important resolution nonetheless. This year, I want to complete my novel and have them shipped off to publishers in attempts to get it published. That’s all. Of course, I have other little things up my arsenal that I want to happen like you know, play the piano (vague), experiment on my cooking further (vague), get my other business up and running fully (vague) but what is most important for me – is the novel.

So up, up and away 2012! 2011 had been a very good year and here is to a better one in 2012.

                                                            – Ernest Hemmingway, A Farewell to Arms

I woke up on Christmas Eve feeling absolutely miserable. My temporary crown had fallen off the night before and Adlina being Adlina saw it fit to associate the failure of my temporary cement to the end of the world. So I woke up convinced that the world was against me and that whatever I was going to do was going to fail – just like my temporary tooth did.

Eizwan dragged me to the dentist and the rest of the weekend was much better. I assume that the anesthetic had something to do with the weekend being slightly hazy but all in all, I had a very good weekend.

I met up with my old childhood friend, YK. We did what all adults do on their day off. We had lunch. We watched a movie. We went to the arcade. We hung out at the mall. We bought headbands.

It was really strange. We were doing the exact same thing what we used to do back when we were fourteen. I told YK that.

‘The only difference is that at around 7pm, our parents would call us up, asking us where we are and to come home now.’

‘Well, actually my mum called me up.’

‘Is she asking you to come home?!’

‘Nah, she asked me if I wanted dinner, and I did, she’d leave some stuff out for me.’

YK later declared that despite us approaching the big 3-0 and that she did not feel old. Or like an adult.

I don’t though. As of late I do feel like an adult. I had just spent a month with young ‘uns and despite ‘adults’ saying they feel like they’re still a kid – we are nowhere like children.

The awful truth is, as I get older I start to realize how much of being young I forget. I may have lost the silly wide-eyed innocence that had gotten me into a lot of trouble but with that innocence, I have lost the cocky fearlessness that allowed me to do whatever I wanted.

I think the old envy the youth, not for their energy but for their belief that they can do anything. The young believe they can change the world from their presence alone, they believe that they can be the best and that electrifying will and determination alone is enough to make me feel tired.

And very envious.

I love being an adult. I think the number of times I rub that fact into the faces of my young nephews and nieces is testament to that. I keep telling them that being an adult is awesome. I get to do whatever I want. Which is true. If I wake up feeling like I want to eat ice cream for breakfast – I do. If I feel like I’m going to eat only junk food for lunch for the whole week – I can. Never mind that this adult body will rebel and retch an hour later craving ‘healthy’ stuff like whole wheat bread and that the adult body is physically incapable of eating junk for more than 3 days straight without going wonky. Believe me, I tried. The whole point is, I can do it even if I wanted to.

But.

I also notice that as I grow older, I grow more fearful. To paraphrase Ernest Hemmingway, the old are not wiser. They grow careful. When I was a kid, I would be running to the first roller coaster I see. At Hong Kong Disneyland, at one of the big rides, I could feel my heart in my throat. I was fucking terrified. And it occurred to me, somewhat painfully, that if I were to walk away from the roller coaster – it would not bother me. That it’s okay to walk away from things that you are scared of. Because as an adult, you would make plenty of excuses for yourself why you can’t do it. Your back hurts, your body hurts. You’re ill and you’re about to collapse from fever (well, this was actually true but I’m proud to say I managed to do the whole of Disneyland anyway). And you can always go back to Disneyland. When you’re braver. Ish.

Thing is, you’re never braver as you get older. You only get more scared.

It is a tragedy. It is a tragedy to forget your youth, to forget what makes the young so strong and unstoppable. It is a tragedy to become so scared because we have so much to lose. Probably that is the biggest tragedy of growing old.

Although…I can take some evil comfort that knowing that one day, the young that I envy will grow old too. And they too, will one day eventually envy the young.

Argie, I’m definitely approaching that age where it’s inappropriate to have photos of me without make up on

So yesterday, I got a haircut.

It was a spur of the moment thing. No, I lie. It was not a spur of the moment thing – more like a peer pressure kind of thing. My mum got a haircut and so I wanted one. I don’t think I’ve ever outgrown this ‘If you have one, I want one too!’

To be fair though, I’ve been wanting a haircut since before I left the UK and as most people know, I usually take a couple of months or years to decide on anything that requires spending. As a professional tightwad, I finally bought make up brushes about 4 years after deciding I want some. So you know…

This is the resulting haircut. The hairstylist said that it was the most popular cut right now, as inspired my Korean dramas. A full mid-length haircut

I think I look like a particular archetype that you find in K-dramas. You know, the pretty rival to the wide-eyed innocent, the evil bitch who wants our heroine’s love interest, who doesn’t hesitate to scream at the lovely, ‘That man is MINE!’

Which is fine by me. Who wants to be the abused wide-eyed heroine who almost always eventually gets the most good looking, arrogant man who happens to be really sweet deep down inside and who also happens to be the son and sole heir to a rich industrialist?

….Dammit.

My sister, The Psychologist reckons that my lack of interest in romance stems from my relatively tame love life (yes, I have to confess – and despite me approaching the big 3-0, I still find it kinda embarrassing that I married my first boyfriend).

As they say though, you should only write what you know, and the sister suggested that if anything our family knows very well, it would be our family drama. Which is of the failwhale kind.

And for those of you who seem to have a life outside the internet, and is not familiar with the failwhale – let me refer you to this wonderful picture.

Failing – in epic proportions.

The Amiruddin family isn’t quite complete without some sort of failing in epic proportions. For instance, only the Amiruddin family would end up in the most dangerous mall in Atlanta (two shootings in the last month alone) in our efforts to find a cinema in the US.

And when I was with Eizwan’s family in Hong Kong for the holidays, I thought it was rather odd that nothing, like absolutely nothing went wrong during out holidays. Since I’m good pals with fate, and fate tends to respond in kind when I tempt it, of course on the final day, I chipped my crown (sobs!), the fire alarm goes off in the apartment we were staying in AND we had to trek down 17 floors, yes, count’em, 17 floors only to find that the slightly deaf caretaker downstairs had locked the fire escape, leaving about all the tourists to burn to a crisp in the fire escape (the other smart Hong Kong-ers opted to burn to a crisp in their home instead, escaping the bitter cold winds of Hong Kong in December). It turned out to be a false alarm, of course and we all clambered back up around midnight, only to be serenaded by the fire alarm, off and on, every other hour or so. I think the fire alarm wanted us to be reminded of its presence or say goodbye since we had an early flight and we only needed to have as much sleep as we could get.

See?

But imagine what happens when almost the entire family comes together. There were only the four of us when we drove up to Ipoh for a talk on editing on Friday. My father missed the one and only Ipoh exit and the car was running on empty. We had to stop the car by a lookout point whilst the Plus Highway people came to rescue us. We filled up at the nearest exit, did a long ass U-turn (only 30kms long, folks) and to get caught up in the longest jam ever, since some inconsiderate bugger allowed his car to catch fire in the tunnel. Tsk tsk. Some people.

We finally get to the talk which was alright. It was too short to be any good, too wide and shallow to appeal to me when I was hoping for something a lot deeper.

So there you go. Failwhaling is something I’m quite familiar with. It might not be much of a plot but at least it makes good comedy.

Sometimes people ask me if ever get tired or unhappy when things can go spectacularly wrong, the way they do whenever we get together. I rarely feel blue about things that go spectacularly wrong – really, the best thing you can do is just laugh about it (I got food poisoning on my wedding day, beat that) and just shrug it off. I don’t get stressed over the small matters, not when you are in a mall where shootings occur regularly.

And I do know, when times get a little tough, the tough gets going and good things will happen. Eventually. Hopefully.

And so I come back seeing everything a little differently.

I see the world in vivid colours and I know my mood influences how I actually physically see the world. If I am in a fantastic mood, the colours of the world tend to be brighter, more saturated with higer contrast. I see the world in different tones and hues, depending on how I feel at the moment.

It’s the same with the way I write. A tutor asked me how I wrote and I explained to her, and I don’t think she quite understood me – in hues and colours. I would see a scene in my mind, and I would see a colour to that scene and that colour would influence the mood, the tone, the language of what I will write. The world builds from that scene and colour.

When I came home, Malaysia was simultaneously in familiar and yet unfamiliar to me. I realized only recently that hues and tones that I associate home with has changed. I view the world differently. I can’t quite describe the new tone I’m seeing. The world is not as vivid but it certainly was not as grey as I last remembered it…

Of course, I could be romanticizing the entire fallacy. It really could just be that I need glasses OR that Malaysia is less hazy than I remember it to be.

**

Eizwan and I came back from Hong Kong, really, really, really craving Chinese food. I came back home dreaming of dim sum, chicken with cashew nuts and kailans. Lots and lots of kailan.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Chinese food in Hong Kong, I’m sure they are excellent. It’s just that well, being Muslim and all, we’re limited to the halal stuff which brings it down to just three places in the whole of Hong Kong. The two Halal places that we did go, the Islamic Centre Canteen and Wai Kee at Bowringdon Market – is just not enough! Plus, I found the Islamic Centre Canteen just alright, certainly it does not compare to the dim sum that you get in Malaysia but the roast duck at Wai Kee was excellent! I drool just thinking about it.

I had plenty of good food in HK, just not enough good Chinese food. The irony that I have to come home to Malaysia to hunt them.

**

The lovely thing about being a traveller for the past 1 month is that I can pretend that I err…don’t have responsibilities. Which unfortunately, smacked me right in the face when I came home. It’s not that the husband has not been doing a good job, the poor boy worked very hard while I was away so that I would come back to a clean and comfortable home.

But there are all those things. Little things that he could not cope up with, little things that just take two. Things like garden maintenance (ah well, problem solved there though – all the plants died) and well cooking. The fridge is rather bare save for lots of chocolates and chocolate biscuits and my pantry looks rather dismal. Are those eggs more than a month old?

Being a foodie means I should abhor an empty kitchen. And I do. But I’ve been away for more than 5 weeks enjoying my lack of responsibility that the thought of being a motherfucking adult is just tiring.

Which is why I’m sort of justifying The Wire marathon I’ve just started. Am just sayin’.

So…I am currently in bed, with the husband fast asleep next to me. I’m not, my eyes are wide open and I doubt  I can go back to bed anytime soon. I’m coughing slightly – I was already developing a cough on my final few days in London but somehow the sheer excitement had prevented me from falling ill. Of course, now that I’m back in boring old Malaysia, the past one month has finally caught up with me and I feel nearly quite dead.

My brain is still on film-maker mode. Apparently I was mumbling about the various shots that I needed in my sleep and got very confused about where I actually was. I am still very excited about my course, which is a fantastic considering the amount of apprehension that I went through at the beginning.

One of the first things I did when I got home was to upload the movie I directed for the course. Considering we had only 2 hours to shoot this, and about 1.5 days to edit the bugger, I am immensely proud of what I had done. And it is certainly something since it was only one month ago, I had never touched a video camera or an editing suite.

To be fair, I had a fantastic DP who helped me with the shots. I had originally argued with him over the story and the kind of shots I wanted – I prefer framed shots but his arguments were that for such an intense conversation scene, it would be better if it were handheld. We compromised with a still handheld – it gave the dynamism and movement an intense conversation that worked for the scene but not too much that would give me a massive headache.

I worked with really fantastic actors for my shoot. Because the nature of my scene was so dialogue heavy, I needed the actors to be as natural as possible, so I loathed trying to block them. I did try – it did not really work out but in the end, we went with the idea of letting the actors block themselves, as to what felt most normal around them. We rehearsed, positioned the camera where we thought we would get the best angle. It went against a lot of what we were taught (did not quite plan a shot list) but as it turns out it worked for the best.

The scene comes from a story idea that I was hoping to help nurture and develop into a full-fledged screenplay.  It is amazing to see what sparked from an idea to finally be developed into something tangible and can be seen.

For now though, I am going to take a quick break from everything. I’m going to Hong Kong on Wednesday – insane, I know but I’m not going to be thinking of writing or being creative while I’m there. I’m this close to burning out (body is saying bye bye from exhaustion) but once I’m back, it’s time to get creative again. I’ve a few projects on the back burner that needs working on and a kind of hunger to get cracking on this career of mine.

Well, specifically, from Greater London since I am now currently entering Week 2 for my 4 week film directing course. After months of fretting, worrying about the course and agonizing deeply as to whether I’m a writer or a director – well, here I am, on Week 2 on a film directing course, and starting to speak with all the directing lingo. Oh yes, I can speak dirty to you – but what I mean by dirty, I mean, a reverse shot off the shoulder dirty medium close up shot.

Coming back to London to do a course feels very strange. It is the anniversary of the first time I set foot in England to study. Of course, back then I was a wide-eyed, naive and cocky 18 year old, ready to do Economics and ready to become an investment banker. Sometimes I wonder if I were to meet that same 18 year old, would that 18 year old be ashamed to meet the 28 year old that she had become? Would she be disappointed? I would like to think that 18 year old would be kinda pleased that 10 years on, married and all, she is still rebelling and doing things her way.

Ahem.

I am sure some of you are curious as to how the course is going. I had blogged earlier that I had been rather ambivalent about the entire thing. It had taken me ages to accept that I was no longer in finance and despite not quite liking a career in the corporate world, it was difficult to accept myself without a suit. It was only this year I was brave enough to tell people that I am a writer and now to go on a course, where I fully embrace creativity…to be frank, it was terrifying. My parents are not the sort to force any of their kids to do anything that we wouldn’t want to but having said that, I always describe myself as Asian, embracing rather Asian values without my parents forcing me to. Yes, that included wanting to do something mathy, something science-y. But I rebelled. I did not do accounting. I did economics. Aha, see the difference? See the rebellion?

The first few days was very difficult for me. I’m not used to fully accepting myself as a “creative” as they say. Most people find it pretty effin’ weird that I would even give up what I had done i.e. finance to do something well, as some people have cruelly put it, unsubstantial as filmmaking or creative writing. So for the most part, in Malaysia, I find it very difficult to talk about it being creative, always couching the words writer with terms like “business plan” or “consulting” as opposed to “I write fuckin’ screenplays!”

On the first day, I remember, I was actually quite angry and upset with myself. I felt like I was struggling to find my footing, on where I really stood and I envied all these young people who were so sure of themselves. And I envied the confidence they had, years of working and struggling have certainly taken a toll on my confidence.

But as each day went on, as I started to direct and started to learn about film, it suddenly became…addictive. I would go home thinking about movies, thinking about each scene and about editing. I meet David on Wednesdays (despite only being in London for two weeks now, the two of us have quickly established a routine: Cheap and Cheerful Wednesday) – and on the first Wednesday I said that, “You know what? I’m genuinely happy. I’m genuinely happy I looking at scripts, I’m genuinely happy I’m looking at stories. And I’m genuinely happy I am being creative.”

And I am. I watch TV shows with a more critical eye, but at the same time, I feel more humbled on how difficult it is to collaborate and become creative together. The director may pull it all together, but without every single person, like the sound guy, the director of photography, the make up, the costumes, the props, the actors – it is not going to work. And each of these roles are incredibly creative in their own right and so, to coordinate everyone is a difficult task.

I really enjoy the intellectual challenge behind interpreting each script. I remember in some of my writing courses, my tutor used to bang on about subtext, or reading between the lines and despite her hardest to explain, none of us quite got it. I vaguely understood even as I wrote that what I write on paper, is not quite what is being said – but it never crystalized properly until I did this course. Suddenly, good movies like American Beauty become a work of genius and again, I am awe-struck by the depth of Alan Ball’s script and the clarity of the message he was trying to put across.

That is not to say there are not any bad days. While I am very comfortable in interpreting scripts and in writing, I struggled with things like editing and in the first few days, camera positioning. Editing for me was extremely difficult and when I got things wrong – it was rather demoralizing as I’m the sort that strives for perfection. But as I keep telling myself – it can only get better with practice, so I try not to get too upset.

But best of all, being in this course, is of course, being back in the UK. In the first week, I was feeling terribly homesick and awkward and then all of a sudden, it was like I suddenly remembered how much easier it is to be myself here in the UK than back at home. I am free to be me, there is no expectation on how I ought to behave or how I ought to react. I am Adlina here, just plain Adlina. There is no Adlina the Malay girl, Adlina the ex-economist, or the Adlina the-throwing-her education and life away by deciding she wants to be a writer-. Actually, I’m Adlina future Malaysian film director, which isn’t a bad thing to be. My classmates ask me that maybe I would like to come back to the UK to live here and work here – and I start to remember how much I adore this country.

The only thing missing on this course, of course, is the husband. I’ve been away from him for two weeks – and frankly, instead of time soothing the soul, I miss him more and more. I look forward to going home to see him, but frankly, I would rather if he could come here and be with me. Still, on days that are difficult and very cold, I imagine myself at the Qatar airport, waiting to catch the connecting flight back where I will be with him again.

Another two weeks to go, and hopefully, another two weeks of a life changing experience. I am glad I came on this course, I am glad I broke the bank to fund my stay here and I am thankful, very thankful for this opportunity, for my parents to push me into doing this, for my husband for supporting me and encouraging me and my in-laws for helping me find accommodation to stay. And very thankful to God, for somehow, making all the dots connect in the best way possible for me.