Detours of a south east asian prairie girl

I sorta speak 3 dialects: Mandarin, Cantonese and Hakka. Can’t read nor write much Chinese. But when I was little, I did teach myself how to read a few words here and there by listening to Cantopop and matching the words to the lyrics. Now imagine me, years later, as a certifiable adult, trying to do the same with Mandarin. It’s freaking hard! The same word, sung differently or sung the same but with a different tone. Same same but different, yah?

As if it’s not enough that I think and dream in English, I have to come up with some words in Hakka, say them out loud in Mandarin to certain members of the family, and converse in Cantonese with one massage therapist and Mandarin with another. Why? Because one is from Tianjin and the other from Kwongtung.

Moreover, my Mandarin is South East Asian Pu-tung-hua, which is sooooo rough. Here in Canada, I have to speak my Mandarin with a Taiwanese or Mainland China accent or people don’t understand me. Great, now my brain has to translate the accent as well.

When I go home to my extended family in Edmonton, it’s all the dialects plus Malay thrown in. We switch back and forth amongst each other, not even thinking. Usually, after a week or so of this, I get adjusted.

But here in Vancouver, all by my little selfy self self, the language skills get rusty (talking to the cat doesn’t count). So now, my head hurts. I’m trying to reconcile Chinese words with Mandopop and Cantopop and maybe, just maybe, that’s not such a good idea. 我死 lah.

Fuel tank empty. Utterly wasted, head swimming. And what do I think of? Eating spicy chilli crab in Singapore. Pungent rojak by the inky river in Kuala Belait. Colorful sweet desserts sold by the Muslim women during Ramadan. Coconut shavings wrapped in steamed pandan crepes. Hell, I want to have dim sum at the Peninsula Hotel in Hongkong. And sweet lord, while I’m there, I might as well have a classy cocktail and meet a movie star or two.

Need a good tennis game or a stiff hike up a mountain to get some energy back. This is ridiculous how I’m feeling. On the other hand, could it just be PMS?

I did it! I worked 33 days with only 1 day off! And a 12 to 9 pm shift tonight finished it nicely. I biked home in the cool fall night, thinking joyfully about what to do with my day off Sunday. Came home to a bunch of flowers left on the table with a very sweet note from E. What more could a girl want?

In other news, I have started a photography course – first night, instructor says “automatic shooting is illegal in this class, thou shalt use manual for the next 10 weeks”. Oh, okay, well yes sir, we will. Watch this space for updates. I shall post any interesting pictures on Flickr soon.

The Vancouver International Film Fest begins next week and I’ve got tickets! Highly anticipated: Island Etude from Taiwan and Lust, Caution from director Ang Lee. Oh, and Mr. Cinema from Hongkong. Should be good, should be good.

Sunday update: suffering from ADHD. Laundry half-done. Camera and knick-knacky accessories all over floor. Procastinating by viewing youTube videos. Again. Apartment still messy. Boiled water 3 times and tea not yet made kind of day. Perhaps brain finally decided to stop processing.

My niece, 2 years old, a little before the terrible-twos really kicks in. Trying to figure out her hand-eye coordination.

I didn’t know how good cookies can be till I went to Baking school and ate them fresh from the oven. They were mostly made with shortening at the time. Then I went to work at my first bakery. There, we made almost everything with butter. The piped shortbreads were the best, especially when out of the oven. There were vanilla ones and pecan ones and I adored them.

Then I went to work at my second pastry shop and we made everything only with sweet butter. Sandy cookies, lemon curd, sweet tart dough, almond financiers, biscottis, all cakes and sponges. Oh, what a place to be spoiled.

Now, as soon as I bite into a cookie that isn’t made with all butter, my princessy little palate screams. I pass trays of cookies and pastries made with shortening in other places and I don’t even bother. Yah, have I become quite the little snob. Hmmmph.

You, who took me to the beach party when I wasn’t even a teen. You, displaced yourself, you took care of me and swore that we would be sisters. I promised that I would write to you and I did. But promises have nothing on youth and distance. I miss you.

You, who knew me only as the little sister of my brother and even then, you knew me barely. I followed you around like a happy little puppy but you wouldn’t have known. You were too busy holding hands with your own first love. I followed him too, just so I could run into you. I wonder how you are doing and where you are.

You, the handsome boy of my dreams, you who I see every single day as we hung out after school. You probably thought I was just the tomboy hanging out with all the boys, playing sports and acting tough. And though I wouldn’t know it then, now I can see, you were probably right. But you still have the finest racquet swings.

You, who out of fear that I actually liked you, who I treated so badly and you deserved so much better. You, who started out as such a good friend, and my own fear sent us crashing. I am forever sorry.

You, I thought I loved. We were competitive with each other, weren’t we. You were an athlete and so was I. We had some terrific games, didn’t we. But I was misguided. I loved her instead.

You, who I would have married in another life, you are the sweetest boy I have ever known. We drove a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour on snow covered winter roads every weekend and I was glad that you were driving. You flew all the way across the country to see me and I had to break the news to you. You still are the sweetest boy and I do love you.

You, who was married. You crossed the border thinking we would be together. You misjudged me.

You, who liked me at first sight. I thought that you liked me for my car. But you know, I never have been on funner road trips in that car than with you. I love you.

14 years to build up cultural roots. 1 year to assimilate into something else completely foreign. 10 years to run away, fearful of truth. Mere months for truth, once alighted, to win out. And the present to slowly retrace. What a ride. You’ve made me who I am today. Indeed, find me, find me now. I am clawing my way back.

Future Shop, hmm, not so good. Thanks to London Drugs’ 10 times better customer service, I ended up getting the camera plus accessories with a much better shopping experience. Labour Day Sale at futureshop.ca! Doorcrasher Nikon D40 $579 and I reserved the last one at the West Van store! So excited I woke up at 6 am on my only day off in eons. List of things to do today:

Do you see the theme? My fingers are not lifting a single piece of chore today.

Next day off: 20 days from now.
Energy level: Terrific. Why? Because I wear clogs at work. Yup, clogs keep your body straight and supported.
Food last night: Brilliant BBQ at friends’. Grilled fennel, asparagus, rosemary smoked potatoes. Chicken and strawberry and pork and grape kebabs. Rocky road and biscottini gelati on sugar cones.
Food tonight: Best chum cooking. I just open the bottle of wine.