My Roots, My Language

I found myself conversing more in Cantonese, my Chinese dialect, with my friends and colleague nowadays. And enjoying every moment of it! It is peculiar because I hardly spoke the dialect at home except with my paternal grandmother who had migrated from Hong Kong with her father when she was very young. And I only met her once in a blue moon when she visited my home. I had no sense of belonging at all to the language and would resist speaking it with my dad who insisted that I should master it because of its usefulness when we are overseas. After all, majority of the Chinatowns in the world are populated by Chinese and Hong Kongers who mouth the language. I always replied him in Mandarin which I felt more comfortable with, thanks to the propaganda and innoculation by our "concerned" paternalistic government.

My parents would be amused every time I returned from overseas, spewing Cantonese with amazing ease and natural flair, only to gradually lose it again when I switched back to Mandarin. "Wah, how come you speak Cantonese now?" they would ask in the language in a teasing manner. Perhaps I sounded rather queer and off-tuned with it.

I have always been enlightened and inspired by MM Lee Kuan Yew's speeches. His contents were accurate, far-sighted and informative. He has never failed to be my one and only idol all my life because of his valuable contributions and decisions as a statesman. Although he spans two generations ahead of me, his policies, especially that of his advocacy of bilingualism in Singapore, had far-reaching effects and benefits which shaped and determined the future of even my X-generation. I beamed with pride and appreciation whenever I was overseas, whether on holiday or at the job.

While tending regularly to my patients at ED one day, a month after I started working in the land of Oz, a senior registrar who was from New Zealand but had stayed here for a good many years, approached me and asked inquisitively: " Liz, why is your English so good? Where did you learn it from? Do you speak English at home? Do you speak other languages as well?" I would not have been more astonished if the pigs were flying then. I had least expected him to pop the question, having been an avid traveller round the globe himself and left his foot prints in Singaland in the 1980s. Surely the whole human population should have known by now that English had been our master language all these years and that we were a multicultural society, not part of China as some closet acquaintances claimed.

"Well, we learned English in school from young, as our first language. But we also have our mother tongue as our second language, depending on our race. By the way I know a bit of Cantonese as well which is my dialect, although I speak Mandarin mostly at home." I hoped I had not confused him with my carefully-worded reply, but nothing could have described my immense pride and sense of nationalism at that moment. As a representative of Singaland in another country, I would consciously ensure that I speak proper eloquent English as much as I could at the workplace, meticulously veering from the 'lahs' and colloquials of our trademark Singlish. I was able to translate Mandarin for the Chinese patients with reasonable standards, and converse with homely familiarity in Cantonese with my HK or Malaysian friends. Studies have concluded that females are stronger language learners than males and I would not refute that based on my personal experience, but I believe all these would not have been possible without the implementation of the bilingual education nationwide.

Being laid back as ever, I never bothered to pick up other more popular and "posh" languages like French or Italian as my friends and cousins did, and had only minimal knowledge of the usual 'Arigato' or 'Sayonara' of the Japanese lingo. It did not matter to me because I am Chinese and I am proud of my language. It is my root and culture. I wanted to learn it well. At the end of the day, I cannot change my skin colour and pretend to be Japanese or Spanish. It would be interesting to understand another culture better through the mastery of its language, but it would have defeated the whole purpose if we could not even ascertain our own identity through our language.

One article in the Straits Times (our national papers) about the nation's struggle with the learning of Mandarin caught my attention: A young father in his early thirties (my contemporary) decided to actively learn and speak Mandarin with his young daughter because she claimed that she was English and therefore refused to speak any other languages. Somehow I suspect that this has been a lurking prevalence for a long while and is now slowly revealing its tail with the exasperating attention brought up in Parliament. I was not utterly surprised since I had close encounters at home with my little brattish cousins who would wildly articulate almost perfectly grammared English and not a breath of Chinese. And their mother, my delusional aunt, who could hardly write her own Chinese name.

It is always a pleasant surprise to hear our 'kan-tang' ( westernised Chinese)friends and classmates singing or strumming Chinese songs during their wedding dinners, and the touching speeches they made in Mandarin for their family and elders. It pulls at our heartstrings even more when we are in a foreign land, away from our hometown and family ties. The language is largely preserved in us despite our working and social language being English. We are one breed who truly benefited from Mr Lee's insightful commitment.

Wait.....

While savouring my usual prepacked muffins and crunching the tasty Vegemite biscuits during dinner yesterday at workplace, I had a frivolous conversation with a nursing colleague which led to juicy gossips about intra-departmental affairs between the doctors and the nurses. This was one of the rarest occasions for me to indulge in such pet talks with the working staff here since my arrival, as I had always maintained the geeky hardworking image that was the trademark of Singaland doctors in this foreign country.

"Oh yes, C (sweet young thing) has been dating Dr K....but K is more than 10 years her senior and he's going back to UK.......no, he's not bringing her along......she's still pining for that moment and crazy over him.......never mind if he's a Muslim........what a stupid girl......"

We were incorrigible. It was an occupational hazard. We had our fair share of gossips in Singaland and there was no sparing here in Oz. We would pounce on it viciously like hungry wolves attacking a piece of fresh meat, and walk away satisfied after savouring the chunk while looking for the next available prey.

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. I admire and wish I have C's courage and determination. She believed in her love for K and fought hard for their future together, although we knew it would most likely be futile. But at least she would have no regrets because she had tried her best.

My friends had been ever encouraging whenever I hinted at the slightest attraction I had for a guy. "Go for it...make the first move...you have nothing to lose in the end...." How many times have I heard these: "No pain, no gain...you can drop hints first...." "You may lose him forever..." "It's easier if the girl makes the first move..."

I can never be like my steely friends, who would dare to write notes or cards for their crushees, or simply ask the guys out for a meal. I am way too conservative and traditionalist for the 20th century. I still hold the view that guys should approach the girls first. I am afraid of rejections. I am afraid that the guy would take me for granted later since I went after him in the first place. Maybe the chemistries are not strong enough to propel me to start the balls rolling. I am a coward and big loser when it comes to dealing with love relationships.

I have lost opportunities for being too reserved in my feelings, even if I did have likings for some. I wish they would have been more persistent in their pursuit, even if I am aware that this would have been unfair for them. Perhaps it would take a huge hammer to knock some sense out of my thick impenetrable skull before I go into desperate despair and my eggs start begging.

As for now, I shall wait....and wait....and wait.....

Identity Crisis

I had discussed this issue with my friends in the emails previously and decide to bring it up again, after an in-depth conversation with my good friends here. It has been an interesting "phenomenon" that I noticed since my arrival here.

Case No 1: A young sweet-looking Chinese colleague from ED, with a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles and pony-tailed hair, speaking immaculate Aussie accent. I asked her one day where she was from. "Germany" was her answer. I refrained from probing further about her ancestry. When I learnt that she holidayed in Vietnam with her Aussie boyfriend (whom she proudly proclaimed to any soul she met) for 3 weeks, I enquired casually if her parents originated there. She gave a quick "no" before scurrying off. I discovered later that she was an Indonesian-Chinese.

Case No 2: I was pleasantly surprised when I met my first Chinese colleague when I started my job here who happened to be a Singaporean. He was an orthopaedic registrar and his father was the HOD of Surgery in a hospital in Singapore. When he was quizzed about his background by a South African patient, he rambled on in his strongly acquired local accent about his medical education at Zimbabwe and his 6 years' job experience at Queensland. Not a mention on his country of origin. I was nevertheless put off by his arrogance during our subsequent encounters at work.

Case No 3: This has got to be the most absurd experience I have ever had. He was a nice friendly and approachable chap working in my department, born in Malaysia and looked distinctly Indian, spewing the affable familiar Singaporean/Malaysian English. His dad was an orthopaedic surgeon in KL and his ITALIAN mum a paediatrician currently in Malaysia as well. Although I was surprised by the lack of Eurasian feature in his looks, I never for once doubted his parentage or challenged his Italian-speaking capability (I wouldn't know if it was Italian after all). Just recently, I discovered by chance from a trusted source that his mother was a PURE Indian who studied in her continent and had been there all her life before marrying a Malaysian. I am still stunned until this very moment. Why would anyone lie about his parentage? Was it a serious inferiority complex or the notion that the whites are always more superior still deeply enprinted? I did not confront him and still consider him my good friend because he had lent his support and helping hand when I most needed it in this foreign land. But I would have doubted anyone subsequently who would tell me about his/her parentage and bearing distinctly different appearances.

Interesting anecdotes which shocked even my 2 Malaysian-Chinese friends who hailed from Melbourne. One of them jokingly commented that if we think hard enough to be what we want, for example Italian, we would eventually turn into one (hahaha). On a serious note, they did notice similar traits among the Australian-born and British-born Chinese who were inculcated traditional Asian values at home but at the same time exposed to the open-minded Western culture in school. It may be difficult for them to attain a fixed identity given their varied exposures and hence the confusion that arises. Similarly, for my friends who were born in Malaysia, educated or migrated to Singapore with their families, and later uprooted themselves to work in Australia, they found it tiring sometimes telling their whole nomadic life stories to strangers or acquaintances who would question their origins. I began to appreciate their predicaments after their explanations. At the end of the day, we were joking about our "Kan-tang" status (Malay for potatoes, yellow-skinned on the outside but white inside, representing the western-educated Asians).

My Indian colleague who was applying for an Australian PRship here put it very simply: He would defend India and call himself an Indian as long as he remains its citizen, but once he holds the Australian passport, he would be an Australian citizen despite his ancestry and would be justified to address himself as an Aussie. Very apt and succinct.

Fairyland

Oink...oink......I felt so terribly sinful because I woke up at 12 noon today. Must have been the cocktail of wines that precipitated the delayed hangover.

Hunter Valley was lovely. It was surprisingly HUGE. It spanned hundreds of hectares with a wide selection of wineries that boasted some of the finest wines in Australia. It would have taken me just another one hour to drive from one end of the road to another. We did not have the time for that though. After an hour's pleasant journey from the city (ME :) as the proud driver of my sturdy 3L Toyota Camry), we reached our destination at approximately lunch time. I was recommended the restaurant called Hungerford Hill and decided to give it a shot there. No regrets at all. The food was succulent with the superb culinary, the ambience was classy, and the scenery beyond was simply mesmerising. I had the best tenderloin steak that I had ever tasted, though it did cost me a bomb. The assortment of ice-cream as my dessert was most unforgetable.

I went with 2 lovely gal friends, one from Sydney who had just arrived in the morning, and my ED colleague who would have beaten any man on earth with her navigation gift. We made a wonderful travelling triosome, bravely sipping the various wines in display and testing our hepatic enzymes tolerance. I bought the Semillon dessert wine at the first go. It was one of the best I had tasted, amongst the few which I had tried at Yarra Valley and Virginia. My friends however were more into white and red wines.

I was disappointed that we did not go to the Hunter Valley Gardens. It was supposed to be the highlight of the place with colourful displays of international flora. We nevertheless snapped some pictures before making an early exit, not before making a silent pact to return some other day.

Newcastle is beginning to fascinate me. After a heavy Chinese dinner at a popular restaurant at Darby Street, we strolled along the quiet beach during the night, leaving dellible footprints on the sand, studying the mystical astrology in the sky, contemplating our lives and decisions. As we tread our bare feet against the softness of the tender land, the waves rolled musically forming an orchestra, and our souls successfully seeking the peace of mind that we earthly creatures had so often yearned for.

As we drove along the long narrow roads which parallelled the beach, stretches of fanciful cars were parked along the side, with their drivers and their friends sprinkled in between. They were mainly youngsters barely in their late teens, dressed fashionably and provocatively, grouped in foursome and above, their eyes roving with each passing vehicle on the road. We wondered what they were doing there. Nothing. A few were sitting on the car roofs, some cliches chatting merrily among themselves, but majority just staring. At nothing. Imagine Hollywood in the 1940s or 50s, like the West Side Story, and you get the picture. We began to sense the (wide) generation gap which we had always imagined to be so subtle.

I never realised that there was a miniature of "The Rocks" (Circular Quay in Sydney) here as well. Or perhaps more like our Boat or Clarke Quay in Singapore. At the Honeysuckle, adjacent to the Wharf Point, there were rows of modern-designed holiday resorts as well as high-end restaurants where we might just catch our consultants dining away in the evenings. Christmas parties were held at the Harbourview, punctuating the silence of the lakes with laughter and merry-making. It was also a popular fishing outlet, with half of the contenders being young (dashing and athletic) chaps. I had the great honour of tasting the very famous Harry's Pies which was unique to New South Wales, since there was one parked along the streets. Hmmm......simply mouth-watering.....

After a warm heart-to-heart conversation by the lake, we bade farewell to the fairyland and retired back to our respective homes. I was amazed how much we had done in a day and realised what a precious commodity time could be. It had indeed been fulfilling for me.

Life Updates

Life has improved tremendously for me. At least for now. I have settled down comfortably in my abode where I was boarding with a Shanghainese family. Though I do feel the itch to shift again to an apartment by myself or with friends, all for the sake of INDEPENDENCE. I guess I should be grateful and contented at this stage.

Work has been pleasurable, especially since I bought my beloved car. No more sweat or braving the rain when walking to work. Colleagues and superiors have been friendlier and more civilised. Patients are more polite and receptive. No tinge of discrimination or racism felt this time. I am beginning to love my job. My friend who was doing psychology said it was a vicious cycle. It could have been the bitterness in me right at the start that triggered these unpleasant counter-reactions from others, and now that I made an effort to flash my radiant smile at every living objects on earth, I received similar responses from them. It was all about transferences. He could not have been more right about it. Psychology is a fascinating arena.

I have made more new friends, both in Newcastle and Sydney. They are mostly Asians, all non-Singaporeans. There are pockets of Singaporeans around. But they have never been sincere. They tend to keep to themselves and mind their own businesses. Why am I not surprised? That was a push factor for my decision to uproot myself in the first place. Singaporeans have always posed negative influences on my life, from having to deal with demanding and ungrateful patients, to societal and peer pressure when considering marriage. My mother would understand best since she had been the faithful listener to all my daily ramblings and complaints before I started this blog. I told her on the phone that I am very happy here, now that I can be myself, my carefree and cheerful self. She gave me all her blessings.

I had a nice meal with my colleague-friends yesterday. One from India and one from Malaysia. They were extremely positive about life. No wallowing in self-pity. They came with enthusiasm and energy, ready to maximise every minute and potential they had. They enjoyed their independence and freedom and held reasonable beliefs about marriages and society. They exerted healthy influences and exuded self-confidence.

They did however comment on my "pathological" relationship with I.L., which surprised me since no one had ever used that word. But there is a sense of truth and logic in it. Another disappointment assailed me when I heard that a colleague whom I faintly admired could have been a gay. Sigh......talk about lack of fate.

My friend asked if I would uproot myself again if my boyfriend or husband wishes to return to his own land and serve the nation (altruistically reasoned). I did give that a thought. My answer: I would follow where he goes, even if it's the North Pole, for I would have given him my heart by then.

I am off-work today, again :) Going down to the famous Hunter Valley wineries today for an expectantly delicious lunch and wine-tasting with my friends. My salivary glands are stimulating with anticipation. Await my next post on it.

Regret.Closure.

I never liked mentioning about my love life. Because I don't think I have one at all. Not in the last boring thirty years of my life. Even my parents were baffled: "What's wrong with you? You are not ugly or stupid. Did you scare the guys off somehow? Or are you too choosy?" I could not give them a satisfactory answer. I conveniently attributed it to FATE (or lack of it).

There is one regret in my life. I did meet The One, or maybe so I think, though my parents and close friends would have disagreed. I found myself sharing more about it with my colleague and new friends recently. Perhaps it is time that I release the bottled vent and seek a final closure to this unattainable relationship.

His name is I.L.. We met in our first year of medical school at the tender age of 19. He never quite stood out among the 120 Y-chromosomes in my class of 150, though he was tall (a towering 1.8m by Asian standard) and bashfully handsome. He studied in RJC and played basketball fervently. He was quiet and humble, both desirable qualities which took me 12 lengthy years to appreciate and now yearn for in my criteria list. He would have been every girl's dream boy at that age.

He had noticed me right from the start. I was not sure if it was love at first sight for him, since there was a fair share of outstandingly beautiful and intelligent girls in my class (including a stunning university beauty queen). But he made the valiant first move and asked me out for a date. I was caught by surprise and truly flattered. It was the first serious date for both of us. I remember we had western meal at Holland Village, looking young and radiant, inviting pleasing smiles from the waitresses serving us. Our first movie was pathetically unromantic (I think it was Jurassic Park) because I had watched Sleepless in Seattle with a gal friend. He was extremely disappointed. He thought I was dating someone else. I would have watched it a hundred times with him now if I could turn back the clock.

Nevertheless we spent much time together for a few months, with lots of blessings from our concerned classmates. He would drive down to my hostel frequently and we would hang out at the very isolated Ginza Plaza near our university. We took long walks at the park next to Alkaff Mansion and shared about our family and friends. He told me about his Peranakan stockbroker father whom he loved dearly, his high-flying half Japanese-half Taiwanese mother who was fear-striking with streaks of violence in her, and his young but very tall 12 year-old sister whom he adored. He did not have a happy childhood despite having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His unloving mother had told him when he was young that she did not like him but would raise him anyway only because he was her son. He was very much affected by her words. He grew up playing with the expatriates' children in his neighbourhood, hence adopting a quaint American accent. He said I was beautiful in his eyes. He would tell me to follow my passion and do what I was good at, not what society expected of me. He believed I would excel in the field of Medicine in whatever specialty I choose later. His faith in me was immeasurable.

He gave me all his heart and sincerity. I was the wilful one. I was too distracted by my other classmates who showered me with much attention as well. I could not find anything in common with him, interests and family background likewise. Our conversation topics ran dry and I had difficulty sharing my innermost feelings with him. There was no romantic glow or fluttering heart. I was looking for a soulmate, someone whom I could connect with, and he was lacking in that. He had become insecured and assumed I was two-timing him. We grew apart with each day.

He had heaps of admirers from other faculties, particularly the Business Administrative. One day, around Christmas time, he decided to bring one of them to the class party. I was down with a flu and could not turn up. My closer friends disclosed it and he called me up. He did not explain himself and I did not probe. Our relationship came to a halt abruptly. I hated Christmas from then on and never celebrated it for a long time.

We met again 5 years later during my internship at TTSH. We were doing a General Medicine night call together one day. He sat me down, treated me to a drink and we chatted. It was amiable and refreshing. He had gone through 3 relationships by then and was newly married for less than a year to another unpopular classmate (his parents had wanted him to marry a doctor) but there were already news of the marriage hitting the rocks. I had just returned from a memorable holiday in New Zealand where I spent my Millenium New Year and spoke fondly of an American-born Chinese whom I met during the trip. He listened attentively and offered his views on maintaining a long-distance relationship, citing an anecdote about his best friend David and his childhood sweetheart. He had grown and become more matured, the way he looked and the manner he talked. There was a tinge of regret in me instantly. I realised that I had not given him the chance to grow and mature with me. I had rejected him right from the start deep down in my heart. I had been young and foolish, too full of myself and over-confident. It was too late.

My gal friend thought he still had feelings for me then, especially when he asked me whether I was in love, in his ever gentle tone. He refused to mention The Wife at any stage and had lent his listening ears faithfully throughout the night. That has been a long while but the memories somehow came flooding back in torrents unconsciously, from the time we started up to the last meeting we had. I have never met another person who would give me his heart the way I.L. did, and thus have not plunged into any subsequent relationship despite my numerous dates. The emotional tussle in me was much too entangled and lingering.

The last time we met was at a friend's wedding dinner downtown last December, before Christmas. He had been divorced after less than a year of marriage. We were both single and without partner, sitting at adjacent tables in sight of each other. We avoided eye contact for some peculiar reason. He left very early after the couple's entry into the hall. That was really the last time, before I uprooted to Australia.

I have always imagined that maybe he would not have divorced if he had married me in the first place. We would have gotten 3 lovely kids by now. I would have blissfully settled down in Singapore with my own GP clinic and he studiously concentrating on his ENT surgical training. He never looked happy with his unpleasant ex-wife anyway. Our paths of life would have been so different, yet predictable. I do wonder what would have happened if we had met again now, whether there would still be a possibility between us. My colleague consoled me by saying that I could have been the one being dumped if we had married, so it was a blessing in disguise. He advised me not to dwell in the past and live with regrets, but should instead live the present and for the future. His words were great consolations and encouragement for me.

We never had a proper closure to this chapter of our lives, but I believe we have moved on and are searching for our Significant Others. I pray that I would eventually meet The One who would give me his wholesome heart like I.L. did, if not more. As for now, it is time to celebrate Christmas lightheartedly with cherished memories and a joyous soul.

Memories

What an eventful week!

Had four nights of crazily busy 10-hour shifts, with the waiting board perpetually filled to the brim up to 6am in the morning, as we dutifully sacrificed our breaks to attend to them. A few were nonsensical cases, what with a usual UTI (urinary tract infection) seeking antibiotics at 2am or anxiety attacks while trying to sleep! Most of the patients, however, did require acute medical attention, like a resuscitation of an acute exacerbation of COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) at the brink of death and pleuritic chest pain in a heavily pregnant lady warranting investigations to exclude the life-threatening pulmonary embolism. There was a fair share of team work and amusement, when SIX of us (doctors and nurses) had to reduce a dislocated prosthetic hip in an elderly man with BRUTE force: 2 stabilising the pelvis, me pulling at the axilla, my 2 more muscular male colleagues tugging at the thigh and leg each with their utmost physical strength (their weight-lifting training at the gyms was finally paying off), and the team leader trying to keep a straight face while supervising us with our pathetic positions. We were deadbeat at the end of each shift and practically slept through the living daylights. By 10pm, we were charged up like the Energizer batteries/bunnies, ready for the unpredictable challenges and excitement ahead.

I was glad when Friday arrived. A colleague phoned at 6pm just as I finished studying my eyelids, inviting me for a last minute outing with other medics. I had 30 minutes to prepare myself (I felt ER spilling into real life) before rushing to the nearest cinema to catch "The Notebook" with them. That was all worth it. It was one of the most beautiful and romantic shows I had ever watched. The setting was in the 1940s and the casts were aesthetically pleasant and endearing. It was a tearjerker no doubt, with our lacrimal glands flooded at the end of the story. I wished I could have watched it with my loved one but was nevertheless grateful to my colleague for organising it.

We had dinner at the Goldberg later. I have always enjoyed group outings and functions, whether with close friends or mere acquaintances. Every interaction reveals a tinge of personality and degree of maturity about the other individual. I was not exactly most comfortable with this group, maybe because we were colleagues and hence tended to be more guarded and careful in our conversations. Being medics, there were also limited scopes of life that we could explore and share, thus adding to the boredom and lack of mystery. Despite these, it was admittedly a more interesting fashion to spend a Friday evening than staying in my coccoon.

I looked so much forward to the weekend. I hitched a ride from a colleague and together we charged down to Sydney where I caught up with my dear friends and spent 3 memorable days with them. We had Korean dinner this time and talked about everything under the sun: our relationships, views of life, jobs......everyone is so unique and special in his or her own way. I was able to be my old self and free of any inhibition I would have had when I was with the medics. I am thankful to God that our paths cross and would relish every minute I spent with them with fondness.

Interestingly, I watched "Bridget Jones' Diary: The Edge of Reason" with a male acquaintance on Sunday. It was a light comedy and the casts exuded great charm and charisma (The ever quaint British Colin Firth never fails to make my heart flutter). The show was entirely distinct from "The Notebook" and being a diehard romantic, I give my thumbs-up for the latter, though I would admit that the Diary was the apt choice with this particular companion. I would have reserved The Notebook for my significant other anytime.

After some Christmas shopping and quality time spent with my good friend, it was with a lingering heart that I boarded the train back to my abode, back to reality, the mundane work. Nothing is eternal but our friendship and memories would last.

Train rides

One aspect that I like about staying in Australia are the train rides. The place where I stay now is two and a half hours away from Sydney, by train and by driving. Before I had my car, I would grab every dear opportunity to take lifts from my tenant or colleagues down to Sydney, so that I could familiarise myself with the route and directions which I will venture in when I drive myself down in future. It never materialise anyway. First of all, I had reservations driving down the 2-hour long stretch of roads all by myself armed with only a map or street directory. I can do that in Singapore because eventually I would return in a circle one hour later to where I had started. After all, it takes probably less than half a day to travel from one end of the island to another. But here, I could have been lost in the bewilderness of nowhere on the isolated highway, given my horrendous (nil-) sense of direction. Or what if my car stalls or decides to give up on me halfway? These thoughts suffice to deter me from any daring attempts to take up the challenge, at least not at this time.

Secondly, I am beginning to enjoy my train rides. It used to be inconvenient for me without the car, since I would have to take a cab to and fro the train station which added up humongously to the costs of travel. The wait for the cabs can be painstaking as well since they are not always easily available unless I call for their services. With my "baby" now, I would drive down to the train station, park next to it (parking is FREE generally across the country except for the city), and take the train, all for $21 with a return ticket. My friends in Sydney used to think that the rides were too long and suggested that I sleep in the train. But that is too much of a waste. There are plenty for me to do and see. Every town or city that I pass, every lake and hills, the lush greeneries by the side.......there is character and life as the train makes an interval stop at every station, simulating every page of our lifebook. Gosford looks sceneric with the yachts parked on the lakes......Chatswood would be a happening outlet to spend the weekend.......hmmm.....Hornsby seems to have a substantial Asian population as well........I am just so tempted to alight at these places each time to satisfy my own curiosity of God's creation.

I find myself a regular in the bookshops here nowadays. I never read a single novel since I graduated and started working in Singapore. My time had been spent dutifully with my family, friends and computer, with lots of fine dining and socialising in between my hectic schedule of hospital work. I used to read crap and women magazines which would not require much brain power from me during leisure times. I finished 3 novels since I am here and am currently halfway through "Nothing is Impossible - Reflections on a new life" by the late Christopher Reeve. Before that, I was glued to The Sounds of the River by Da Chen, Watching the Tree by Adeline Yen Mah and Girl with a Pearl Earring, a jewel of a novel written by Tracy Chevalier. I have rediscovered my old self through serious reading, a hobby which I had cultivated since childhood, under the strong influence of my parents who believed the importance of a good education. Memories of the young me fantasizing with Enid Blyton's vivid descriptions or palpitating with the riveting Nancy Drew's classics return gradually as I spend my hours on the train salvaging every word and page of my novel/biliography, a pastime which I had long forsaken, with my entry into the complexity of the shark-infested working world.

Every train ride would bear a significance for me and my new life.

Garble

I am definitely in a writing mood now. It is a lovely weather out there with the blooming flowers of spring herald and constant breeze in the midst of sunshine rays - great temperature for windsurfing or jogging, no doubt. Yet here I am, holed up in my cosy cocoon, in a pensive mood, snacking and internet-surfing again, my usual boring pastime.

I had a lot reservations initially about setting up a blogsite. I have always been a private person, never a social animal. I have a few good friends, some of whom I had known since I was 13 ( I feel Jurassic sometimes), most of them non-medic. I have met wonderful colleagues as well during my 5 years' tour of duty in the hospitals, who have now become my close confidants, despite having to maintain long-distance contact via email nowadays ( Me, away from Singapore, and them, back to their own states). They are a small number ( it's never easy to make real life-long friendships at our age), but cherished and valued. And of course, how can I not mention my wonderful parents whom I love dearly, and who have walked the journey of life with me, holding my hand and guiding me through my trials and tribulations. I never needed to write, since my loved ones were always by my side, or just a phone call away. I never have to sit down down and think through my path of life because I was always occupied with them and blessed with their presence and warmth. The thought of publishing my innermost feelings sounded somewhat exhibitionist and pompous, and I was definitely not ready for any form of criticism that may come with my amaturish style of writing.

I started serious writing during my trip to United States 3 years ago. I was lodging at a friend's abode which was a stone's throw away from the University of Virginia. I had easy access to the computers and was very keen to share my excitement and trip there with my loved ones in Singapore. Hence the beginning of my onslaught of emails, bearing the details of my 3 -week expedition, my joys and challenges. I did the same for my subsequent trips, savouring every memory I could through my writings. My extensive collections of photos conveyed the smiles and the sceneries, but they were unable to record my train of thoughts and the memorable occurences I had during the journeys. I did not save the writings after emailing them, and thanks to the reminder and encouragement of a close friend, I decided to keep the drafts and share them with the significant others who cross my path later on.

This blog is not meant to be a medical blog. I absolutely believe that there is life out there other than just my work and the patients I meet. I like my career and believe that there is nothing else I would want to do in my next life other than medicine. I love the people contact despite the occasional crankiness I get, and bask in the triumph of having dealt with my difficulties in the course of my work. I would not say that I am capable of everything but I feel comforted about having made a good difference to someone else's life. It emcompasses not only my skills or knowledge or excelling in stressed situations, but it is about communication and empathy as well. And of course humility, which is sadly lacking in our modern society.

I would very much love to share my humble experiences, from my previous trips to China, US or Europe, as well as my new chapter of life in Australia. I hope the day would come when I can proudly proclaim that I have found my ocean and my purpose in life.