Beijing Olympics @ Federation Sqaure

I know this entry is VERY, VERY backdated. When I reached there, I was ten minutes late, and the national anthem was being telecasted on the big screen at Federation Square.

Thousands of Chinese people had congregated together in celebration of their country's proud achievement. They stood up, hands on their chests, eyes fixated to the big screen, and sang along to the national anthem. Their voices were loud and clear, their pride clearly evident in their serious demeanour.

To be honest, even though I am not from China, the Chinese's people's pride for their country shone through so brightly, that even I felt my heart swelled with pride together with them.





Anyway, when I reached there, I saw my China friends carrying a red flag like this:









Pardon me, but I had a minor culture shock at the outward displays of national patriotism. Simply because I cannot imagine that during Singapore's NDP, a Singaporean would pocket a big red and white flag from home, and bring it to the stadium to wave it in front of everyone and declare his or her dedication and love for Singapore.

After I got over my initial shock, I asked them why they were carrying their national flag. They didn't have an answer for that. Instead, they were surprised at my question. Perhaps, what seemed like a perplexing scenario to me, to another, it was the most obvious thing to do.

hunters in the city

The past few weeks have been crazy. University life has been hectic, hectic, hectic. I am amazed I even found time out of all that pandemonium to breathe. The common phrase I hear among Asian students is that the academic curriculum here is very relaxed. One even described it as a 'holiday'.

This is not true at all.

So, last week, we were sent out on a journalistic assignment, where we had to scour the city for story ideas. According to the tutor, stories are everywhere and you can find hundreds just by walking down the streets alone. Well, according to the students, some spent hours scouring the city and came back with zero ideas and zero inspiration.

Finally, my groupmates and I reached an exasperation point and we decided to look for story ideas in a...police station. So, we walked in and introduced ourselves as journalism students and said we were hard-up for story ideas, and would the police so kindly assist us by providing us with something interesting that was happening in the city?

Well, the police recommended the halt of the 2am lockout, which was the Victorian government's initiative to curb alcohol-fuelled violence and crimes. It was to end its run very soon, and the police officer suggested that we do a story on the likely death sentence to be passed on the highly-controversial lockout.

Meanwhile, while we were busy hunting for stories to submit to City Journal, we had to do another individual assignment hard news story.

And, hence, I embarked upon another brainstorming trip again, which frankly is consuming all my brain juices. I'm not a fan of walking around the city scouring for ideas on blind faith, and I decide to conduct my research in the same fashion as most new-age journalists today: research on the net.

So, I goggled the latest events happening in Melbourne, and came across Melbourne Citymission's Homelessness Campaign 2008. Held in conjunction with National Homeless Person's Week, they feature activities such as Winter Sleepout and PJ Day. As the names suggest, Winter Sleep-out is held on a particular day where Melburnians organize their own sleepout, just so they experience what homeless people have to endure having to go by without a roof over their heads. Whereas PJ Day is where companies and schools wear their pyjamas to work, a smart PR tactic to highlight the desperate plight of homeless people.

So, I reported back to my 'newsroom' with two story ideas in mind. First, I informed my tutor that I was doing my hard news story on homeless people, knowing very well that my tutor would have concerns over whether it was more of a feature piece. True enough, with furrowed eyebrows, the tutor expressed that she thought it was a tad too featurish. I replied that it wasn't a problem, and I would find a way to make it more of a hard-news piece. Blame it on my lack of concern on insipid stuff that involves city councils, meetings, transport issues, blah blah blah.

So, on the day of the Winter Sleepout itself, I was supposed to be scouring the streets looking for people who had organized their sleepouts in the city, but I ended up at Federation Square watching the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics 2008 together with thousands of China people on that Friday night. (More on that in another blog entry, and also, not you get a rough idea of how backdated my blog entries are, given that Olympics has already ended!)

My second story (individual assignment) was similar to the story ideas of two other groups in the 'newsroom'. We all had the same idea of doing the same story. Which is, the exploitation of international students as 'cash cows' by Victorian universities. While a local student only has to pay $2,500 a semester for his or her school fees, international students have to pay $9,000 a semester. A petition was filed by the student union to the Federal Government, protesting on the unfair treatment of international students. The petition urged the government to abolish full fees and to give international students access to student concession cards.

So, when I proposed this story idea to the tutor, I choose to do it from a different angle from the other two groups. I remembered my tutor telling me that the most important thing was for me to talk to people. Which I did, friends, strangers, events coordinator, media and PR people. Because she said that is the origin of story ideas. Talking to people is your tap flow of story ideas. And, sometimes, even though you set out to do the story in a way, someone might tell you something interesting that makes you go, 'Hey, wait, that is something interesting. Maybe I shall do on that instead,' and end up switching the angle of your story altogether.

I would find out very quickly that very same afternoon that what my tutor said was right. After deciding to narrow the focus of my hard news story down to my university's student union who was holding its very own petition, I decided to pop down to the student union for a chat for the first time ever. While I was poking my head around, I came across a room, where there were two guys inside. I introduced myself as a journalism student, and then started asking them questions about the petition. They were very nice and polite, and one of the guys from Africa said that he had visited Singapore and liked it very much. Then he offered me drinks and donuts, which I politely declined. And, he said it was part of the Middle Eastern culture to offer their guests food, and he wasn't sure if it was Singapore's culture as well.

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Sidenote:

Why do everyone I meet tell me that...
1. They have visited Singapore before.
2. They like Singapore very, very much.
3. Singapore is very clean.
4. They would like to visit again.

A Spanish girl even told me that she loved Sentosa so much she was planning to apply for PR status in Singapore! And, then halfway when the conversation drifted towards what languages she was hoping to study, she rattled off, 'Erm...French...Italian....and, of course, Singlish! I plan to learn Singlish one day!"

My jaws immediately dropped to the ground. I had no idea Singlish could even be considered a language of its own. And, even more so, that someone would be interested in learning the language made (in)famous by the Phua Chu Kang series.

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So, back to my story. And, the trip down to the Student Union was where I got my second idea from. Noticing a sign pasted on the front door, I queried about it, and found out that there was a Soup Kitchen held every Wednesday in my university! Soup Kitchen is where the volunteers of the student union gather together to cook for students who are in financial difficulties. I ask about the response. One guy said it was very good.

"Would there happen to be any homeless university students among the queue?" I asked, seeing a glaring interview opportunity for my second hard news story on homeless people in Victoria.

One guy looked at the other and started talking about this guy and before I knew it, he was telling me all about this homeless university student whose conversations rotated around the orbit of his homelessness situation.

I expressed my interest in interviewing him, but they told me that since he was homeless, he couldn't afford a phone and didn't have a number. So, they suggested for me to come down the next day instead to look for him. I agreed.

To be continued...

in a foreign land

I was having this long chat with one of my friend, David, and halfway through the conversation, he commented on his bad impression of Singaporeans. He then went on to accuse Singaporeans studying in Australia of being a cliquey bunch, unwilling to mix with locals and sticking to their own kind.

So, I asked him, "Why only Singaporeans? Aren't all Asians the same?"

"Yes."

"Aren't all Aussies the same?"

"Yes."

He then went on to argue his point. His rationale is that foreigners should take the responsibility of assimilating into the culture of the country that they are staying in. The onus is on Asians to take the first step to bridging the gap, and making friends with the Aussies.

"Let's say I visit Singapore, so I'm a visitor to your country, therefore it is my responsibility to extend the first hand of greeting. But, now, you guys are the ones coming into our country, and it is your responsibility to make that first step and try to blend in with our culture."

I commented that he made it sound all very easy, when in practice, most Aussies aren't willing to talk to Asians. And, there is always that fear of the unknown, that fear of talking to someone with a nationality that is alien from yours.

Being in a classroom that is filled with Aussies, and being the only Asian, I have to admit that sometimes I get the feeling that I have four eyes, six mouths and eight ears. It doesn't help when Aussies generally adopt a very Westernized perception of beauty, and being the only one in class wearing spectacles sometimes makes me feel like an alien invading Planet Earth.

After 5 months, I can say that Aussies are not a very friendly bunch. And, dare I say it -no, I won't say it, I won't even mention that they are racist - but the way they interact with Asians, that discriminating twinkle in their eyes, their lowering of voices, their changes in tones. DIFFERENT. That is all about I'm going to say. Different.

I did try convincing myself otherwise for a period of time. When my Singaporean friend lamented about the way her Aussie classmates treated her - "Yeah, it's okay if they don't talk to us Asians, because why should they, when we don't even try? But, when we try to be friendly, the very least they could do is reciprocate", when my Indonesian friend who tried striking up a conversation with an Aussie who entertained her with a flippant attitude before turning her attention back to her Aussie friends said, "Aussies can't even be bothered to talk to us. I don't even bother, I've given up trying." - still I didn't give up, trying, hoping.

I would even go so far as to say that me and one of my Asian friend has, on so many accounts, been the first to break the ice with our Aussie classmates. But, not ONCE, not ONCE, has a single Aussie classmate ever bothered to talk to us FIRST. Maybe, just like my friend David, they think that we have to do all the work since we are visitors to their country, and so we have to assimilate their culture? Well, how about looking at it from another angle? That they should do their duty as hosts, and invite us with a welcoming smile and an embracing attitude? I know this sounds condescending, but that's not my intention, I just don't know any other way of putting across such a crude concept benignly.

And, mind you, I'm not even talking in terms of individual experiences. I'm talking about Asian students' experiences in general. Yes, Asian students are sticky. Yes, Asian students only speak to their own kind. Yes, Asian students continue to communicate in their own native languages. But, what about Aussies? Aren't Aussies sticky? Don't Aussies only speak to their own kind? Don't Aussies only communicate in their own native language?

I used to feel really awful about the fact that Singaporeans hang out with Singaporeans, Malaysians hang out with Malaysians, Indonesians hang out with Indonesians, Vietnamese hang out with Vietnamese and so on. But, then I stopped to think. Isn't it the same for all Westerners? I see Aussies hanging out with Aussies, Brits hanging out with Brits, Italians hanging out with Italians. So, what right does anyone have to accuse us Asians of being sticky?

And, then, I ask myself a very simple question. Why should these Aussies even bother talking to me? Why should these Aussies even give me a damn? Why should they choose to talk to a Chinese girl from Singapore when there are so many of their kind around? Why should they choose to talk to someone wearing spectacles when there are so many wearing contact lenses around? Why should they talk to a yellow-skinned girl when there are so many white-skinned ones around?

Really, I've given up trying. Why should I even bother?

Alice Pung drove the point straight home in her article "Shunned in a strange land, we should offer them more" published in The Age on 17 August 2008. She wrote:

THEIR big apartment blocks are like pointed middle fingers scraping the Melbourne skyline. Their presence in our city is only tolerated because they bring money into our education system. They are anti-social, rich, young foreigners who "form ghettos and don't assimilate".

This is what is said about our international students, and these perceptions dangerously verge on the kind of racist rhetoric we thought had ended a decade ago. Worse, they are not true.

Orientation week is daunting and international students soon start to become invisible, because they do not go to pubs twice a week. Drinking makes my local students garrulous and extroverted — qualities that seem to earn acceptance and respect in Australia — but many international students come from cultures where drinking is not a social pastime.

There is a misconception that all international students are cashed-up because they pay the exorbitant fees that our government extracts from them. There is also the pointed accusation that international students do not "assimilate", but this is not always a choice they are able to make. They do not "form ghettos" — on the contrary, they are largely and deeply in our community, yet they are also largely ignored. They are the students who serve our meals in Chinatown, the people who drive our taxis. They are the lowest paid and often most exploited workers, unprotected by Australian workplace relations legislation. We refuse to see their toils because it does not accord with our image of how our overseas cash-calves should be.

Eventually, most find company and comfort in the presence of each other. No one seems to begrudge Western students latching on to other Westerners when studying in Asia and forming insular little expatriate communities to observe the locals as if they were sociological studies instead of people who are only separated by a different culture. But somehow, we in Australia seem to demand assimilation from our temporary visitors, instead of offering acceptance and understanding.

Many international students are acutely aware that their parents back home are breaking their backs and bank accounts to send them here. It is not their duty to assimilate: many of them come here, under no uncertain terms, for an education.

It is our duty to deliver that education, but perhaps it is also our obligation to show to our young overseas visitors that we are also a tolerant society — and that we see them.

A childish, immature reaction to this entry that I've tried to write as honestly as possible would be, "Get out of this country, then. If you hate Aussies so much, then get lost, go back to your own country." But, really, I don't blame them. When I was studying in Singapore, and there were exchange students from America (who of course only hung out with other exchange students from America), my Singaporean friend took one look at them and muttered under her breath disparagingly, "Just get lost back to your own country!" I was shocked and asked her, "Why?" And, she fired off a list of reasons, like them not being serious in their studies and drinking and partying hard all day.

So, my point is, if we can't welcome visitors to our country with embracing attitudes, then I prolly can't expect to be treated the same way when I'm visitor to another.

p.s./ I know this entry comes across as a bit ironic, given that David is an Aussie, and also that most Aussies I've met are really, really nice people. Maybe it just has to do with the Aussies studying in the media stream, especially those studying PR, huh? The stereotype that arts students tend to be a tad more bitchier? Or maybe I just have to try harder. Me. Not them.

sappy farewells

I was speaking to Yoo Jung, a South Korean friend, and she was telling me something that really struck a chord in my heart.

'Tears were rolling down my cheeks, it was so embarrassing, especially since I was crying during my tutorial class!'

She was talking about the time when one of her close friends left Melbourne permanently.

I wanted to say something to her. Anything. Anything to comfort her. To soothe her ruffled soul. To tell her to be strong. But, I said nothing. I just sat there and listened to her talk.

I was silent because I realize the pain. The pain of being away from home and seeing one of your best friends leave. And, it's the kind of pain that no words can take away, that no emotional plaster can erase. It's the kind of pain that you have to overcome yourself. All by yourself.

I am beginning to realize that what Han said was right, that no one will, and can ever replace my friend.

hello can be the beginning of a new friendship

I first met Yang on a chilly Friday morning outside Lecture Hall 5.3.1.

It was my first class for Professional Writing.

Remember the time I attended the wrong lecture (Let's call this Class 1)? And, remember the time I begged the lecturer to take me in (Let's call this Class 2)?

Well, after two weeks of attending lectures and tutorials for Class 2, I decided the course which I've so desperately begged the lecturer to take me in wasn't right for me, and choose to drop it, and take the pre-requisite course for the wrong lecture (Class 1) that I have attended. Isn't it funny how fate has its way of twisting through our lives in delightful ways?

Yang was standing all by herself outside the lecture room, looking very very lost. After class, I approached her and introduced myself. We started conversing, but it quickly became evident that Yang had trouble speaking in English. She had difficulty understanding what I was saying, sometimes I had to repeat myself twice, thrice, even. Other times, the meaning of my words just flew right past her head.

Yang is an exchange student from South China Normal University. She arrived in Melbourne the day before yesterday, and admitted that she had trouble acclimating herself to the foreign culture here. She didn't say much, or at least she tried to say as much as she could manage, but it became quite clear that language was a serious barrier in our conversation.

So, finally, I decided to break my silence, and after five long months of not conversing in my Mother Tongue, I spoke my very first sentence of Mandarin since I've arrived in Melbourne. (Well, okay, not really, remember that time I had to interview a China girl for my hard news story?)

Yang's entire face lit up, her eyes immediately shone and she exclaimed in her own native language, "You know how to speak Chinese?!" From that moment on, everything else is history. Yang started leaping around with joy, and clutching my arm several times while speaking to me. She gestured me to the nearest table in the school cafeteria.

A waterfall of words started pouring out of her mouth rapidly, and she confessed that she felt so very very very lost in Melbourne, and how glad she was to meet me. And, when I just offered my simple and polite help by asking, "Do you need help with anything, getting around, etc?" Yang looked as if I've just told her that she had struck the million-dollar lottery. She replied that there was a million things she needed help with, everything, and then she repeated how very lost she felt, how she had trouble adapting to the culture over here and how very thankful she was to bump into me, and also how glad she was to bump into someone who could offer her help and a sense of familiarity by speaking Chinese.

Yang said that Thursday (the day before) was her first day of classes, and she couldn't understand a word the lecturers were saying. I laughed, and said it was normal, even up till this date, I have trouble understanding the Aussie accent. Since she is only required to take four modules, and she has five under her belt, she is obliged to drop one. She said that she was considering dropping one of the Thursday classes, since she couldn't understand a thing the lecturers were saying.

So, I brought Yang to the computer labs and after some checking, her timetable showed that she had a class at that very time, and she was half an hour late. Hurriedly I brought her to the class since she still wasn't familiar with the buildings and all. After class, we met each other up again, and after much administrative sorting out and all, I brought her to my favourite dumplings store, which I introduced to her as the "cheapest and nicest dumplings in Melbourne!"

After that, we went for Professional Writing class together. My tutor approached me in the middle of the tutorial with a very concerned expression and asked, "Cheryl, are you sure you are in the right class?"

And, when I insisted I was, she continued, "I just wanted to make sure because I never ever had any journalism students in my class before."

Well, I just like to write, and so I told her, "I think the reason why is because journalism students do so much writing in their course already (not true at all), and they just want to select a module that has nothing to do with writing." (Entirely quoted from my friend, Amanda)

After class, I brought Yang to the school bookshop to buy all her academic notes. And, then we said our goodbyes.

The next morning, I woke up and checked my handphone. There was an sms waiting for me. It said,

"Dear Cheryl, this is Ying. I really appreciate what you have done for me yesterday, you just can't imagine how much convenience and happiness you have brought to me! What I can do is to say 'thank you' again and again! Hope you have a nice weekend!!! ^-^"

This is something I've learnt ever since I came to Melbourne. I've learnt to take the initiative to get to know more people and make more new friends. I've learnt that either you can keep the silence and the both of you shall remain 'familiar strangers' during the entire course or you take the first step and it might be the beginning of a brand new friendship.

Once, I bumped into an old friend of mine, Deepak, and he took the initiative to say hello to me. I couldn't even remember his name, or what he looked like, and I didn't even recognize him, but he did. And, so he said hello and introduced himself again, after a couple of minutes of me staring blankly at him. Look, I've only met him at an informal gathering once, and I couldn't even remember anything about him, and it wouldn't have been awkward if we've just walked past each other without saying a greeting even. But, because he made the effort to say hello, we ended up chatting for three hours while walking around aimlessly!

And, something he said to me then was, "If I hadn't approached you to say hello, imagine what would have happened? We would both have gone on to our separate ways, you, maybe you would have gone home or somewhere else, and we wouldn't even be standing here talking to each other!"

a day in the (boring) life of a journalism student

I wake up and glance at my alarm clock. Shit. I overslept again. Missed classes. That's not a problem though, I can easily just attend the afternoon tutorial session instead.

This time I'm quite careful to confirm my tutorial location. Earlier this week, I sat in on the wrong tutorial, and was listening to a teacher whose face I had never seen before, among a sea of students whose faces were also unfamiliar to me.

It's one thing to sit in on a wrong lecture, but when you sit in on a wrong tutorial, you start wondering whether there's seriously something wrong with your brain.

Today's tutorial is communication law. It's rather depressing that studying the law is a compulsory module for journalism students this year. It's such a dry and boring subject. I arrive at class, and listen to the tutor drone on and on, not understanding a word. Or rather, catching single phrases here and there, but not understanding the overall meaning of anything. The tutor is mumbling and he speaks with a strong husky Aussie accent. Finally, I give up trying to comprehend whatever he's saying, I just sit back and pretend to be listening. That's not so bad, considering the fact that my tutor looks like Jude Law.

We get into groups. When given our question, all five of us in the group just sat and stared blankly at each other. No one knew how to answer the question, and no one had done their readings, we laughed at ourselves and joked about it.

Towards the end of the tutorial, the tutor informs us that we are supposed to attend a court hearing at any of the Victoria courts, preferably the Magistrate's Court or the County Court. I would love to attend a Children's court case, but most family courts involving children are closed sessions, to protect the privacy of the children.

Amanda is telling me that our tutor is a 'beautiful' guy.

"Are you attracted to him?" I ask.

She was, until that is she got the opportunity to see him up-close and saw a row of black, stained teeth staring back at her. Rather a turn-off, she pointed out. "I think he smokes or something, his teeth are all black, and I like guys with white, clean teeth."

After further analysis the following week, she comes back to me with fresh results: He drinks.

Later on, she complains to me that our tutor couldn't stop staring at her boobs while talking to her. "His eyes kept looking down there," she said, gesturing at her cleavage-baring outfit.

After class, I am talking to Amanda and I notice Morash staring at her. The guy gives me the creeps. I try concentrating on what Amanda is telling me, but my attention keeps diverting to the guy in the black sweater standing behind Amanda and staring at her.

Morash is a pudgy lad from Pakistan and has the longest crush on Amanda. He tried unsuccessfully on many attempts to ask her out for coffee and to get her number. When we walk out of the class, Morash is standing by the door. I know he is waiting for Amanda, and Amanda tries her best to ignore him. I am perfect at pretending to be engaged in deep conversation with her.

When we finally emerge out of the building and into the cold winter air, I tell Amanda that Morash couldn't stop staring at her in class. She tells me that she could feel Morash staring at her during specific brackets of time in class. "Remember when he tried asking me out for coffee, and I said no, and then he went on to ask for my number? Why would someone who doesn't want to have coffee with you give you their number?" She reasoned.

I feel pretty sorry for Morash, though. He attracts a lot of negative attention. Whenever he walks into class or opens his mouth to speak, you can see a random student here and there giggling or sniggering behind his back. Whenever he sits beside someone in class, you can see the person straighten his or her back immediately and silently go, 'Why me?!' The other time when he sat beside me in class, I looked at S and silently went, 'Why me?!' S wasn't being very helpful when she started sniggering at the whole affair.

Amanda points out this incident to me. I am shocked. "You mean it (my reaction) was that obvious?" She nods and tells me, "When you dislike someone, you tend to take notice of other's reactions towards that person. And, I disliked him."

Don't get us wrong, we are not discriminating Morash because he's from Pakistan, and neither are we discriminating him because he can't stop talking about Iraq, Iraq and Iraq. But, because this guy has an ego the size of an elephant. It's okay to be smart, but it's another thing to be boastful in front of everyone. In the way that Amanda puts it, "Little doses of him is fine, but too much is not okay."

I say goodbye to Amanda and go to my favourite bubble tea store and Japanese restaurant for my takeaway dinner. I always go to the same place, because Don Don serves the best and cheapest Japanese food in Melbourne.

I am waiting at the traffic light and there are two Chinese guys in front of me. The taller guy is saying, "You know our teacher, I don't know whether she is from Singapore or Malaysia, but wah, she has this strong Malaysian accent. No one in class could understand a word she was saying!"

I have this perverted pleasure of walking really close to other people and listening to their conversations. Two streets away later, the guy is still complaining to his friend. "I thought Malaysians should be able to speak proper English...I mean, at least be able to communicate properly lah."

The two guys reach their apartments and went in, and I continued my way home in the cold winter evening.

(Update: Studying the law has been nothing but fun, fun and fun. Reading my law textbook is like reading a storybook. An interesting one.)

learning how to eat with chopsticks

I bring Han to my favourite Chinatown dumplings store located in the Melbourne CBD. She actually has the intention of asking for a FORK to eat the dumplings, so I curtly inform her that she is not allowed to use any forks in my presence, and that she must eat dumplings the authentic Asian way, aka with chopsticks.

"Are you trying to tell me how I should eat?" She asks, with a mock-angry expression, to which I reply yes.

The dumplings arrive, piping hot, as usual.

Han picks up a pair of chopsticks and fumbles to hoist a dumpling out of the bamboo basket. The skin of the dumpling breaks loose, and a ball of minced pork comes tumbling out. I try my best not to laugh, but fail miserably.

The Shanghai dumpling is what one International Herald Tribune reporter described as, "an elegant culinary achievement masquerading as a humble snack". I teach Han how to eat this "elegant culinary achievement".

Use a chopstick to take the dumpling out of the container and place it on the spoon. When you take a bite into the juicy dumplings, be sure to keep the spoon underneath at all times, because there is a spoonful of pork soup inside, and you don't want everything to leak out and drip all over.

She asks for a fork again, but I stop her. So, she picks up the chopstick and attempts another try. I try to teach her the correct placing of her thumb, second and middle finger. I tell her to jam the chopstick betwixt her thumb and middle finger, with her index finger placed on the top of the chopstick.

She tries to follow, but she is holding the chopstick the wrong way, even after my numerous attempts to teach her. People are staring at us now, a Chinese girl teaching an Aussie girl how to hold a pair of chopsticks. Han thinks I feel embarrassed because of her. I am embarrassed to tell her that she is right.

I teach her how to use the chopsticks again. Following which, she makes a couple of failed attempts. I'm not being of much help when I'm sitting there laughing my head off.

She is hell-bent on learning how to use the chopsticks and picks it up again, poking at the dumplings. Her chopsticks are unable to fasten a firm hold on the dumpling, and as she lifts it up to the air, the dumpling falls apart and slips onto the dirty table. She wraps up the dumpling in tissue and puts it aside.

Within less than 10 minutes, there are a total of three dumplings being wrapped up and put aside.

Two Aussie girls walks in. They order a bowl of noodles and dumplings. I watch them, as the both of them use chopsticks to navigate through their food effortlessly.

I point them out to Han. My intention is to make her feel embarrassed. She looks at the girls, then back at me with a mock sorrowful expression, following which she attempts to justify her inability to use the chopsticks effortlessly to growing up in a place where there were no Chinese eateries in the vicinity.

She wonders aloud why her nimble fingers that are so acquainted with the violin and the paintbrush, deviate into a complete failure when confronted with an innocuous pair of chopsticks.

When we were getting up to leave, Han turned to me and said,

"Don't you DARE blog about me having trouble eating with chopsticks!"

"How you KNOW?!!!! Hahahahaahahaaa......"