My Date with van Gogh

What can I tell about a city which captured the heart of millions? People, that is. Amsterdam is a cheeky grande dame who still wears her vintage fur, dyed her hair each week in shocking pink and wear Manolo Blahnik. She is old and graceful yet brimming with exuberant youthfulness. It is a ‘she’, because it has eternal flowing juice of canals, mysterious curves and hidden treasure in unexpected corner. ‘She’ feels like a mother and also a cool Carrie Bradshaw-kinda-gal-friend at the same time.

I didn’t know what to expect of Amsterdam when I woke up after a soulful jazz hangover. I went down while my host still sleeping. I found her Mother whom I called Tante (an indissoluble legacy of Dutch colonial past in Indonesia, where young people still call elderly ladies as Tante or ‘Aunt’). She asked questions, I answered, still in pyjama and she in batik sarong. She made me a cup of black coffee while drew in deep breaths of Dji Sam Soe cigarette and told me without censorship what she thinks about our similarity, our beloved Mother Country. I finished my last gulp of cold black coffee when I took a peek at the clock. It was almost mid-day. Time sure did fly generously when she talks.

With three days left for me to inhale Amsterdam, I quickly went to van Gogh Museum in Paulus Potterstraat, closed to the famous Rijksmuseum (spelled ‘recks’ with rolling ‘r’). I calculated my time since most museums in Amsterdam close at six and I want to finish two enourmous museums in just a few hours. I decided it has to be two hours in van Gogh and whatever time left, in Rijksmuseum. It was quite a test even to enter the museum. First, a long queue…

VAN GOGH MUSEUM (www.vangoghmuseum.com)
After what appeared to be a battalion of Chinese tourists, I managed to faced the face of ticketing lady. I asked about the Museumkaart and after a quick scan of my then-hopeful-art-lover-with-pitiable-budget-look as well to my soon-to-be expired student card, she gave me a thick envelope with the card inside (www.museumkaart.nl for €15 only per year, you can roam to 400 museums all over Netherland! The best museum card ever).

The architecture is unmistakenly modern and was built from the design of Gerrit Rietveld in 1973. There was an additional building behind it designed by Kisho Kurokawa which architecturally opposed with the 1973 built brick building since it was made from titanium and brownish-gray stone which I totally missed while I was there (in hurry to go to Rijks). The tight security was understandable since van Gogh’s painting could be the most expensive pieces on this lifetime (which is absolutely ironic since he almost never sold any painting in his suicidal depressive 37 years old life).

The exhibition covers five period of his life from his ‘eureka’ moment on 1880 when he decided to be a painter in Netherland and painted a lot of people eating potatoes that reminded me of Dickensian family in dingy room; Paris Period where he seemed to be in more cheerful mood since he painted with colorful color palette, experimented with pointilism and Japanese artwork; Arles Period filled with sunflowers and the infamous ear mutilation caused by a fight with his then-buddy, Paul Gauguin; Saint-Rémy Period where he was hospitalized and accomplished his awe-inspiring energetic brush strokes with subjects like wheat field, reaper and irises; and ended in Auvers-sur-Oise Period where he created his ‘gothic’ and rumoured to be last masterpiece, Wheatfields with Crows.

He ended his life with harakiri style shot in the chest which was terribly heartbreaking since he died not a quick, unpainful death but a slow-two-days-later death. Perhaps his one and ultimate achievement when he breathed his last breath, was Theo. The perfect brother who stand by him along plethoric unrequited loves, impoverished boho-depressive life and dutifully collected all of Vincent’s paintings (which I bet made all of his children and children’s children and children’s children’s children drown in trust funds).

The death of this genius, like another eternal mortals with tragic ending such as Elvis and John Lennon, is only providing guarantee that their names would be forever remembered. Nietzsche once said, “You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star”, and that quote crossed my mind when I was there, gazing at those masterpieces with dreamy eyes and mouth half-open.

Oh and the interior. It was a standard wooden-parquet-floored-and-light-color- walled. But who cares about interior design when Sunflower was hanged beautifully in front of your very face (with a perfect lighting design and no glare effect, if I may add). The architecture was very well-planned and perfectly en suite for its purpose of show-casing masterpieces. It felt open, light and spacious. You can see the other side, looking up and down from the staircases to any part and I was quite sure there were at least 200 people or more in that building, but it didn’t feel that crowded.

I spent around two-and-a-half hours to gaze adoringly to brushstrokes and textured colors of van Gogh. He is my muse, if ever there is a male muse. I’ve been in love with his works ever since I saw Starry Starry Night poster in my Dad’s room. FYI, I was also in love with The Red Power Rangers around that time. He has period of paintings and I have mine, over him. Now, I am crazy about his Japanese period when he started to imitated Hokusai’s wood-cuts. It’s a beautiful East meet West. I was almost drooling in front of his Almond Blossom (which of course only could be mine in the form of mass-producted postcard).

Another half an hour, I spent unwisely in museum shop. My God, I wanted to buy it all. The books, posters, everything you could think of to print reproductive van Gogh’s paintings, were there. After a fierce battle of common sense and desire, I went out from the museum. I would kill a mouse if I could just taking pictures inside (mouse is my nemesis-ed.). That moment, I understand how so many people seems unable to move away their fingers from camera and try to capture everything. We are afraid to forget. I was afraid I would forget how perfectly van Gogh captured the flight of black crows over swayed wheat grass and exposed his dark side on canvas.

Yet, the memory is still as vivid as ever. As clear as a Starry Starry Night…

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Short Interlude

I would be 22 in half an hour. I don’t feel like one. I thought 22 years old would be the year of me blooming into womanhood and finally find my inner-poise. I am still me. That’s it. I don’t know whether it is something to applaud or loathe. Perhaps something in between. 22 is a difficult age, twisted with uncertainty and fear of not becoming the person I wanted to be…but might as well enjoy it.

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NORTH SEA JAZZ …BEEN THERE, DONE THAT!

I’ve been drawn to illustrious and bloody (literally, not offensively) history of Dutch and Indonesia for the past few months, due to the fact that I had to do some research for my final project. That research lead me into temptation to look with my own eyes what kind of country those ‘londo’ came from (‘londo’ is a Javanese vernacular word to mention Dutch occupiers many years ago. It derived from the word ‘Belanda’ which mean Netherland in Indonesian language). I also lured to Amsterdam by the art and architecture. Vermeer and van Gogh are two of my favorite artists and I could say that I got bitten by 'museum bug' and already planned a lot of museum visit while in Europe.

After some meticulous research in the internet, I found out at the time I would be in Netherland, there was going to be North Sea Jazz Festival! I yelped a bit and excitedly open the website. More yelps while I read the name of artists planned to perform. I must go there, I said to myself back then in Scarlett O’Hara-y pledge, “As God as my witness, I will go to Ahoy Rotterdam and see North Sea Jazz”.

So after four hours in the train, most time spent by watching buildings, fields and plenty of cows in B&W version, I arrived in Amsterdam. My backpack was heavy and loaded, my heart was beating faster. A good sign. I was supposed to meet my couchsurfer host in the Centraal Station. Hang on, rewind a bit. What is a couchsurfer, you might ask.

Before I departed for Europe, I found this website in the internet and still could not believe my luck that I joined it on time (http://www.couchsurfing.com/). The philosophy is simple. You sign up to be a member, fill a profile and if you have a plan to go somewhere, anywhere on earth and there are happen to be a couchsurfing member there, you can ask them to let you stay in their couch or showing you around. It all depends on them and you, whether it works out or not. In favour, you also have to be willing to host or show around fellow couchsurfer when they come to your place. I had a fantastic time in Netherland because of it and urge you, fellow traveler, to join this fantastic website, of course if your destination when you travel is to learn the local culture and meeting people. If you just want to snap pictures in front of famous landmark, shop till drop and finish Europe in two weeks inside a bus, you might as well forget this paragraph.

Back to Amsterdam, I succeed to met my host, Putri. She happens to be an Indonesian but born and raised in Amsterdam. She kindly took me in and let me stay at her home. After a quick tour around the Centraal Station, canals and quick stop in ice cream shop, I went back to the Station and continue my journey to Rotterdam. The trip took about an hour. I was a bit worried about how to get to Ahoy building right on time and I even haven’t got the ticket at that time! What if it sold out? Many ‘what if’ but I stepped down anyway. My fear turned out to be totally unneccessary since “NORTH SEA JAZZ 2007” signs were everywhere! I gladly followed arrows, signs and even the music since a jazz quartet performed in the station. I started to feel ‘all that jazz’ and couldn’t help but smiling all the way.

Along the way I met an American couple (definition: they spoke English in American accent, loud voice and keep glancing at the subway map) named Joe and Nancy. We walked together to Ahoy. Time was 3 p.m and the gate wouldn’t be open until 6pm. I got to buy the insanely expensive daily ticket (one daily pass in North Sea Jazz ticket = three day pass in Java Jazz Festival. That expensive) plus special show for that day, Wynton Marsalis and Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra.

I walked around a bit and Rotterdam was a totally different city from Amsterdam. For one, it was full of beautiful newly-built buildings instead of old houses and canals that surrounded Amsterdam. Unfortunetely I didn’t get to see a lot of the city since my priority at that moment was North Sea Jazz and I didn’t want to miss it even a little bit. After a hearty lunch in a small Surinam restaurant I went back to Ahoy.

And ahoy! People started to come in waves. There was a jazz band performing in the front of the building. I looked at my performance schedule and only recognised a few names. Feeling defeated and ashamed I asked a guy beside me whether he has any recommendation. It turns out he saved my day. He knows everyone in the list! He pointed, I ticked it off. And he gave me the best advice: Stick to show you enjoy instead of moving around and trying to see everything because after that you’re just going to feel exhausted and had no memory recollection of one ultimate show you enjoyed the best. He smiled and said “Trust me, I’ve been doing that for the first few years and always regret that”. Of course I followed his advice. After all he has been to North Sea Jazz since it was begun on 1976. He’s the North Sea Jazz veteran. I picked the right man.

The first show I watched was The Vanguard Jazz Orchestra. I always loved big band and never seen one live on stage so it was really a moving experience. I stayed until the end and couldn’t help but admire how these people really love jazz. They were true jazzophile. They understand jazz, unlike the bunch who comes to Java Jazz Festival back home. Most of them just got nothing better to do on Saturday night and since it was the most happening event in town, they were all flocked there. I started to sounds like a jazz widow who disses at teenagers passing through but oh well, who cares as long as they are going to held it annually.

I paused to look around and finally grabbed a beer (sponsored by Grolsch beer). A young couple from England joined me and we talked a little bit. They told me it used to be held in open-air and this is only the second year where they have it in Ahoy Rotterdam. Much better acoustic sounds but they said they missed the whole relax and laid-back nature of jazz back then. We had a brief discussion on how some people just despise jazz. When I said ‘we’ it meant mostly those couple (Sarah and Wills) because I was lostly enchanted with their melodious British accent. For the most part I only said un-aristocratic words like, “Huh?” and when I told them naïvely what I thought about their accent, they bursted into L.O.L. “We think your accent is the cute one, darling. (pronounced like, ‘dah-ling’. Awww…) Brits accents just down right pompous”.

I spent the rest of the night lullabied by beautiful scat vocalist, Roberta Gambarini (plus special mystery guess that night, Dee Dee Bridgewater herself!); blown up into the sky by Wynton Marsalis and Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra; sneaked and tried to caught a glimpse of India Arie; buoyed by Jason Mraz; and sadly had to end the night given that I would have to catch the train to Amsterdam. I bid goodbye to Ahoy along with my shopping spree of the day. Oops, did I tell you they sold jazz CDs for only 5 euros EACH inside? Even for my pitiable rupiah I could still consider it a delight.

I ended the night in train, watching the dark nothingness from the window and had a chat with a nice Dutch girl named Hilke. Putri generously picked me up in front of then neglected Centraal Station. That night, in my borrowed Amsterdam sanctuary for the next four days, I slept like dead. The jazz somehow still trapped inside my head and I remembered vaguely that I tried to scat before I closed my eyes. It went like this: “syoo-be-doo-doo-para-papa-tee-ya…” and I stopped. Wonder how those scat singer could still singing and rhyming at the same time. Hmm…

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The One with Kölsch and Dom

SETTLING DOWN: COLOGNE
It still looks the same after my last visit eight years ago. The dom, Der Rhein and 4711 cologne billboards scattered all over the city (the cologne from Cologne is that famous until most people actually call the bottled fragrance, cologne). My uncle’s car took us from Dusseldorf to Cologne almost in no time since we were talking merrily along the freeway. Not much to see along the way other than trees and more trees. I began to see why Germany is said to be the most unpolluted country in the world. When you drive in Jakarta’s freeway, you wouldn’t find any tree. The view you’d get are other cars (since it would be very likely you’re going to stuck in traffic. Yes, it was supposed to be a freeway), polluted stream, abang-abang tried to get in to the freeway to sell you bottled waters or peanuts or porn tabloids.

After a delightfully hearty goulash beef and two bottles of Kölsch beer, I passed out inside the comfort of my Onkel and Tante’s house. For the next three days, my morning ritual would involved delicious breakfast menus, hot coffee and a half-mocking-half-laughing greeting, “Guten tag”, from my Uncle. I don’t think it is a crime for waking up on nine a.m, isn’t it? Hell, nine in international world is considered as morning. Of course the rest of international world doesn’t wake up on six, cycling for few kilometres and have started breakfast on seven. Could not complain tou’. The breakfast would beat any five-star restaurant in Germany. Fresh brötchen from bakery (which apparently my Onkel bought on his way cycling), meaty schinken or wurst, any known form of cheeses and for the final encore, fresh fruit and black coffee.

Their house is located in the suburb, deep, deep down in the final tram stop of Sürth. I only need to walk dozens of steps and I found myself gazing at the muddy brown Rhein. At the moment there is a major construction going on to prevent flooding so I didn’t find is as beautiful as it used to be. But I found a way into opposite direction and there you have it, a long countryside walk along the Rhein. It was my second day in Cologne and so far people that I met were neightbors around my Onkel’s house. Most of them are retired and rich. The husbands has big Germany belly and the wives were more-or-less gossipy hausfrau who loves exchanging cake recipe and weekly gossip magazine. They were all look nice although I couldn’t speak beyond ‘guten morgen/tag/abend, danke schön and tchuss’ to them. It was a Wisteria Lane neighboorhood, minus hidden mutilated corpse in a pool, bare-chested gardener and hot mamas wearing hot pants, of course.

So you can imagine my shock when I strolled along the Rhein and in front of me there were gay couple kissing passionately while their dog waiting. The other stroller just went through them like nothing happened. I’m not against G.P.D.A (Gay Public Display of Affection) or gay people in general, but after seeing so many straightness, this fact of life suddenly slapped me hard on the cheek. Cologne is truly the gay capital of Germany. I continued my walk and the Triple L (Loving Lesbian Lovers) gave me a warm 'guten abend'.

I spent my third day (I would be leaving for Amsterdam the day after) in the city. The domplatz were mobbed by tourists from God-knows-where and I even caught glimpse of some Indonesian between the crowds. How do I know, you might ask. I think you just knew when you met your countrymen, isn’t it? Indonesian could be found in any major tourist attraction, usually with shopping bag(s) in hand and habitually have their picture taken in front of the mentioned tourist attraction. I could spot an Indonesian from 500 metres. Really.

I have visited the dom once and I decided it was sufficient to last a lifetime. I stand in front of the dom for a few moment, gazing at the twin towers in which years ago I climbed under the torture of my Onkel. This dom was the only building fully intact from the bombing in World War II while the whole city was completely destroyed and 95% of the population were gone (either dead or evacuated to another cities).

Since I am a museum freak, I decided to survey the museums in Cologne. To my satisfaction, all major museums in Cologne were located close with each other. I went to Ludwig Museum that day (http://www.museum-ludwig.de/) and faced with few of the best pop art paintings. Marilyn’s Warhol, plenty of Picasso’s sketches, prints and photography collection by Man Ray and many others. I went in when the weather were all cloudy but still, yet I came out with howling wind and madding rain. Wasn’t it supposed to be summer in Europe, I asked myself. But I guess you’ll just never knew with global warming and Ice Age getting near (or so Al Gore said).

At the evening (which still felt like noon because the sun was shinning even if shamefully until around nine p.m), my Onkel and Aunt took me to a kirmis in Bruhl, a small town in Cologne now famous throughout Germany because of Phantasialand, the German counter attack of Disneyland). What is a kirmis? It turned out to be an amusement market with merry-go-round, ferris wheel and other adrenaline fuelled ride. Considering myself of non-adrenaline junkie, I tried to find my own amusement while my Onkel and Aunt took the kids for a ride. And *hallelujah chorus as soundtrack* I found it. Stall and more stall along the street selling food. Yes, FOOD. So began my culinary experiment with a wicked ‘reibekuchen mit apfelmoes’ (translated: a deep-fried vegetable cake with apple mousse). A pause for Kölsch. My next object of culinary experiment was bratwurst (of course!) with a lot of yellow mustard or senf. It was one of the best wurst I ever ate. A pause for more Kölsch. At that time, my stomach has started to send ‘I’m full’ signal which unfortunetely translated into my food-damaged brain as ‘one more while you are here’. After taking a walked to ease the pressing fullness in belly, I tried a grilled beef steak with brötchen and fried onions. It was heaven. I’m not exaggerating because after my Onkel tasted mine, he decided to bought one for himself. He is German, so it was that good. I threw few bites worth of brötchen into bin (after trying very hard to found the right bin. They had four type of bins for God’s sake. What if I threw it in a wrong hole? I could see all Germans around me threwing conscientious look) and walked very slowly, nearly crawled, into the car.

I closed my first days in Germany with art, abundance of food and Kölsch flooding into my cells and killing them one by one (but hey, Germans consumed so many beers per capita and German turns out to be one of the richest country in the world. Technically, I should be fine). I doubted my Onkel would take care of me after he saw me that day but to his credit, he kindly took me to the Hauptbahhof the next early morning. He taught me how to read the train schedule, went up with me to the platform and showed me how to find out where I should wait. Among my foggy early morning brain, I was amazed on how developed Germany really is. They even told you where to stand and wait for the right wagon. Super. I bid him farewell and waited for the zug to arrive.

While I stepped on the right wagon I can’t help but saying to myself cheesily, “This is one small step for moi, but a giant leap of faith in life”. It was the first backpacking trip I ever had in Europe. If I can handle this, I can handle anything that comes to life. It turns out to be hmm…not so true, you’ll find out later. But at the time, when I finally able to found my seat beside a curteous German man who muttered, 'guten morgen' while reading newspaper (an automatically programmed manner, perhaps?), I felt timid yet more alive than ever.

NEXT BLOG: THE LONDO & JAZZ

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The Much Dreaded Part of Travel

FLYING PART
I used to love flying. I was around eight years old when my parents introduced me to aeroplane. I remember how I kept looking to the window and kept asking my papa about the clouds. Eight years old didn’t quite realize how dangerous it was to fight gravitation. Look what happened to Icarus or Amelia Earhardt. Human does not meant to fly or else God would bestowed upon us mortals, a pair of wings (preferably the folded one since I don’t think it would be possible walking around with a pair of wings on your back).

I even enjoyed flying after the teacher taught me about Newton and his apple back then in elementary school. I had a blast while flew with Lufthansa eight years ago. But now…now is a different time. Not just the millenia, it is also something to do with the fact that ALL of Indonesian airline companies are not following the standard safety of international flight. Even Garuda (the only one allegedly safe airline in Indonesia) was banned to fly to Europe. Do I need to say more about “the others”? Slipping plane, crashing plane, miss-landed plane, burning plane. Hundred of cases and still they are allowed to fly in that orange-painted-should-be-a-carcass-by-now planes. Yet Indonesians (or middle class Indonesian, that is) don’t have much option. Either “the others” or Garuda which has a relatively expensive rates. I feel like playing poker with Death everytime I enter a plane (which is quite often since I have to go back and forth from one island to another one).

This time I flew with Emirates. I found my plebeian seat decorated with in flight entertainment screen and couldn’t help but beaming cheerfully from then on. The plane was full with one of the good thing Indonesia actually can export to another country, women workers. Most faces looked anxious. Most women perhaps never even fly before. While I touched my petit screen to tried out everything, they were still fumbling with the safety belt like two twenty-something ladies beside me . I showed them how to did it and I couldn’t help but thinking to myself, asking them in silent. What kind of courage you must have inside you to work in a country so far from home, daunted with paranoia that you could be hurted, raped or murdered. Even worse is the hard truth that your government perhaps couldn’t (wouldn’t?) help you. You are on your own, my brave country women.

One and a half hour later I landed safely (phew) on Changi. One hour transit then a seven hour flight to Dubai. I hardly had time to say “Singapore” when they called us back to boarding the plane. Oh I almost failed to mention the long queue to check boarding pass and privacy violation. Thanks to terrorist attempt of using liquid bomb, I couldn’t practice my beauty ritual for the next twenty hours. Seven hours to Dubai was spent in half-awake, half dreaming state of mind. I remembered vaguely about Sandra Bullock tried hard to safe her husband in a movie.

I was woken up by a light touch from my neighbor. “Almost landed”, she said. I bid them good night, and good luck when we arrived in Dubai. They would need a lot of luck. And so… Dubai. Five hours transit. My backpack started to made me feel like Atlas and so after found out where should I be for the next flight to Dusseldorf, I tried to find some place where this poor legs could rest. I smelled coffee and there was Costa Café which at that time seemed like an oasis for caffeine thirst traveler like me.

I tried to look back and what popped up in my caffeine poisoned brain about Dubai International Airport was how cosmopolitan it was. So many faces, so many culture, so many destination. The computerized flight schedule screens kept shifting every few second. I read so many city names until I gave up about in which country were it accurately located. I looked at the huge clock and decided I could continue my gazing people activity in the waiting room.

After picked up few magazines, I went standing in the linear escalator. Suddenly it was occurred to me how bizarre was Dubai International Airport. I never seen so many people from I don’t know which country, slept so carelessly. When I said many, it means not few but hundreds along the way. It was morning and I saw some of them started to stirred up. A couple was sleeping peacefully inside their own sleeping bag, hugging each other. A businessman in suit spent three chairs to laid down his worn out body. An Arab with Yasser Arafat head scarf snored and nodded accordingly. It was surreal. They didn’t seem to care.

All along the way I couldn’t help but noticed how extravagant the décor was. There was an enormous mural painting on wall, depicting few Arabian and their rested camels. There was gold pleated (or was it merely gold painted?) décor on top of the columns along the way. I knew Burj Al Arab was quite something but the airport? Hmmm…

The meals was almost delicious. It was warm and smelled good. I washed them down with wine and so close to forgot that it was in a box instead of on a plate. I arrived in Dusseldorf seven hours later. I did not let myself to even took a peek on the reflection of the mirror. Better not. Who would look good after almost a day trip across the globe?

I arrived safely, no worth mentioning tremors in the plane. My Aunt and Uncle kindly picked me up in the airport. I thought I saw her winced a bit when I gave her cheek kisses. But then again it could also just me imagining things. Self-conciousness, get lost!

Next blog: COLOGNE.

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The European Epic Journey of My Dream

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. After so many dreaming which each took a different form and place; after so many pleas, threat and disturbing annoyance to those member of my family (pretty pretty please with ice cream and whipped cream on top of it?????? *battling hardly long and uncurled eyelashes*) capable of funding this “It” trip, I made it. The European Epic Journey of My Dream.

Epic? Well, it is. This is by far a GRAND scale trip for me. Where I come from (Indonesia), euro is way up in the sky and rupiah (yes, that is what we call our currency) is scraping somewhere in the lowest level of Dante’s version of economic hell. I haven’t mention the HOURS in the plane. Or the ticket price. Or the inconvenient truth that July means summer (whatever summer means these days) and summer means Europe are hijacked by mob of tourists. It is some sort of miracle that I could gather enough money and time to go there.

SCHENGEN PART
So I arranged the trip. First, the Schengen request to enter Europe via Germany which fortunetely not as insane and horrendous process as what Indonesian (or people from the rest of the world, for that matter) has to face to enter the soil of U.S.A. Bugger. Like seeing the white rock formation of Hollywood worth waking up at 3 a.m and standing in a long line all day without conviction that Uncle Sam’s Little Helper would grant your wish to see the Land of Hope and Glory. The Deutsche Botschaft gave us one month in Europe (with of course letter of invitation from a family of mine in Germany. I wonder what people should do if they don’t have any invitation OR if they have “familiar household” names like Ahmad, Amir and some sort OR they wear veil? Hmmm…). One month to live up the European Epic Journey of My Dream which I have been planning for (almost) my whole life.

PLANNING PART
If you happen to be a tourist, you can skip this part. Do go on if you are a traveler, which I think is what I am. Hours of back-breaking research on internet and skimming the Holy Bible of limited fund traveler (Lonely Planet Europe on Shoestring: Stay longer, pay less) later, I feel ready. Not. The whole world seems to utter my deepest concerns (starting with “what if” and the list goes on and on about what could go wrong) which I tried to bury inside. Yes, there is always a chance that I would be kidnapped by a group of terrorist for ransom (although I’m quite sure they are after the blonde-blue-eyed-tourists rather than oriental backpacker from Third World Country. Like my country could pay their ransom. Duh!). And yes, there could be terrorist attack, someone could spike my martini and rape me, I could get lost and blah blah. I replied simply with this beautiful quote I “stole” from someone, somewhere in a long forgotten website (Thank you stranger!)

“People who have never travelled and tell you it's difficult or dangerous are like nuns who tell you that sex is not enjoyable."

Anyway, one of the website I accidentaly found, told me about one main event which took place in Netherland (which of course I must visit. I wanted to see with my own eyes what kind of repulsive land that pushed their folks to crossed few oceans just so they could drink coffee in which lead to three and a half centuries of colonialization). The North Sea Jazz. I let out a squeal of excitement, enough to made my dog stared at me in amazement. Yes, ladies and gentleman. The one event every jazzophile around the world dying to see. More shriek came out after I found out Chick Corea would be there with Dee Dee Bridgewater, Steely Dan, Amy Winehouse, Wynton Marshallis, The Ornette Coleman, Elvis Costello and… I wouldn’t want to make you jealous by continuing the list so I better stop. What could be more sweet than that? Perfect timing, perfect setting. So Netherland was ticked.

Paris also ticked. The museums, the cafes, the chic Parisian. The je ne sais quoi. I was robbed (my uncle, to tell the fact) in the metro years ago in Paris. It sure was not romantic. I also happened to be young and everything back then was not illuminated. I received my cultural enlightment while studying in university and this time I would not blink while in Paris. Not even in the metro. Not especially in the metro.

Germany.Ticked. I have an uncle and aunt in Cologne who has kindly gave me the invitation so of course I must visit them. More reason: beers (plenty of beers. Woohoo!), bratwurst, Berlin (the architectures!) and meeting up with friends.

Switzerland. Hmmm…we’ll see. Applied for the Visa tou’ since I was afraid if comes the time where I pass the border with Eurail train, my Schengen wouldn’t be enough to keep me out of jail.

Italy. So very ticked. The pasta and pizza only would be enough to lure me there. Tuscany was on the sub-ticked. Rome, for sure.

My wanderlust made me wrote Portugese, Spain and Greek.
My accumulated saving made me wonder and shudder.
And so came the day on June where I would be leaving the familiar Soekarno-Hatta “International” Airport to my first transit stop, Changi.

Next blog: FLYING PART

More about → The European Epic Journey of My Dream

The Essence of "sapimalas"

To quote Sartre's, "existance precedes essence", would sounds like I am being a pompous

philosophical ass who hang out in a cafe all day, wearing all black from head to toe and puffing smoke everytime I talks. Believe me, I'm not. I am also not an atheist either for having a belief upon those existentialism jargon. I only adore the thought that claims human being create the meanings of their life, by their choices. As opposed to the belief that human was created in a pre-destined way and so they only can be that way.

Blogging, for me, is one way to exist. To choose something and let the world know about it. Proving existance that in our mundane daily life would not have been noticed except if you are an imprissoned skanky heiress. sapimalas means "lazy cow" in Indonesian. Why? It is who I am :-)

From now on, I promise myself to type and to think more, to let all the voices in my head find their way out through my tapping fingers so it wouldn't get lost or blow up in my chaotic cabinet of curiosities. sapimalas will be about what I think, choices that I made, what I see in places that I live and visit and anything in between.

Cheers!

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