Sydney, where anything can happen in a day

Went shopping today with my Norwegian friend. First stop was Greenwood Plaza which is closest to the school. Then we took the train to the city and looked around QVB. I wanted to look more but I had to consider my companion who was already hungry. Seeing as the best pizza place in QVB had no more tables, we walked to Darling Harbor where the Sydney International Boat Show is being held. I actually packed lunch, but it was too embarrassing not to order at the restaurant. My friend mentioned she felt like having a burger. I ended up having the burger, while she got a pizza. I thought the chicken breast burger was nothing special and very much overpriced. It paid off though, as a job opportunity resulted from our lunch date.

My friend used to work at a restaurant where she met her current boyfriend. As I'm looking for a job, she asked if I wanted her to refer me. I found out enough about the restaurant to know that most waitresses there are Germans and Aussies, and that they only accept pretty applicants. She told me to put bogus waitressing experience in my resume. All that mattered, she said, was I'm bubbly, happy and just... "sparkly". Ah, all the things I'm not.

We went to a store called Supre where we did more shopping, and then to Sydney's Apple store. Impressive glass building of three (or more) floors, full of Apple products. Then we checked out the restaurant, which is so huge it worried me. I met her boyfriend and together they introduced me to the manager. I'm not sure how the interview went, just that I lied pretty well and smiled whenever there was an opportunity. I hope he saw some personality, as the only other thing that could've sparkled were my teeth, and I haven't brushed my teeth since morning.

The manager asked me to send my CV once I get my RSA. There comes the problem. An RSA is a license in the hospitality industry indicating a person's eligibility to serve alcohol to the public. A day of training costs $80. I don't know if it's worth going through all the trouble and the expense since I'm not going to be able to use it when I go back. But I do want a job, and it will be easier to get other jobs with the RSA, even if I don't pursue this one. Admittedly, the restaurant intimidated me. How can I serve businessmen? How can I memorize German beers? How can I even pronounce them? And what about the sausages???

Today's a good day though. I was choosing between going shopping or handling my resume to every cafe and restaurant in the city, or going to my school's pub night, and I did all three. Yep, good day.

Class

We had drawing class today. Some of my classmates were asked to pose in front of the class and we drew their shapes. Our professor roamed around inspecting students' works and when he got to me, he said, "What's your name?" When I told him he said, "Would you like to teach this class instead of me?" and then announced to everyone that I would be teaching the next class. It's amazing how incapable some of my classmates are at hand drawing. Then again, designers aren't always artists.

I just remembered what I hate most about school. It's the getting to know you part at the beginning of the school term. Teachers ask you to introduce yourself and give a bit of background to the class. In my morning class today, somehow the backgrounder was about how we ended up enrolled in the course. When I shared my story, the teacher asked, "Why take this course when you already have all that [experience]?" How could she have seen right through me? That's what I ask myself everyday that I'm here. Thinking back, I should've said, "Well I'm hoping you'd help me find out." But my wit isn't quick enough.

I like my class. We come from so many different countries it makes me think of UN. I was surprised there's only 2 Australians in our group. It's not so much the cultural diversity that interests me, though. I just like the idea that several years from now, I can travel to Norway, Paris, the Netherlands, Mauritius, Latvia, Indonesia, Korea, Thailand, China and Taiwan knowing I can crash into somebody's house there.

Oh I received my first mail today in Sydney -- well first few anyway. The State Library of NSW did send me my library card! I didn't think they really would after I applied for a membership online last week. That's local government for you. Now I'm a member of 2 libraries!

In my makeshift bookshelf:

Adventures, Audrey Niffenager - finished reading

Stardust, Neil Gaiman - finished reading

Chez Moi, Agnes Desarthe - currently reading

The Pleasure of My Company, Steve Martin

Winner of the National Book Award, Jincy Willet

We're entitled to 20 books for 3 weeks, with one chance of renewal. If I wasn't so worried in becoming a loner, I would've borrowed more.

I'm not only a disappointment, I'm a bad influence

I didn't attend the Iglesia ni Cristo celebration. I wasn't comfortable at all with their way of worship, and I felt like I had no right to be there. The members worked so hard at making that celebration take place; I feared I would be there trivializing everything. Plus, when I told B, he absolutely forbade me to go.

Somebody was going to pick me up at 11am on Monday to take me to the celebration venue. I woke up at 9am and heard Cherry moving about outside, and the voice of her son. I thought they were going to leave at 7am. I guess she decided to hitch the 11am ride with me. I was hoping to do it over the phone. When I told her I didn't feel comfortable going, at first she said it was 'fine', although I thought she said it a bit too quickly. I didn't know what to say after that, but, unhappy with the clipped conversation, I followed her into the laundry room and apologized again. I tried to explain myself in a way that wouldn't offend her, but the impression I gave was that I was only too shy to go. She tried to change my mind one last time before giving up.

The car picked them up at quarter to twelve, with Cherry showing no signs of any hard feelings. Relieved, I got ready to go to the library. Then Hentji called me on my mobile, but the person on the other line was Beth, a pregnant member I met the day before. She had been extremely nice to me, so declining her was the toughest challenge of all.

"Sabi ni Ka-Hentji hindi ka raw pupunta?" she demanded.

"Ahh... eh... nahihiya po ako eh..."

"Wag ka nang mahiya! Sige na, pumunta ka na. Minsan lang mangyayari ang ganito sa buhay natin!"

"Ahh... um... nakaalis na po ata sila eh..."

"Ah hindi pa nakakalayo yun, may sinundo pa sa kuwan. Sige pababalikin ko. Pumunta ka na, ha?"

"Um... ano... hindi pa po ako nakahanda?"

"Magbihis ka na! Sige na, pababalikin ko na, ha? Ano?"

"Ah... ahaha... sa susunod nalang ho siguro... sorry po..."

"Ah ganun ba? Ah... ok... sige..."

"Sige ho... salamat ho..."

I sense that I do not have the tiniest power of persuasion at all.

While having breakfast, Cherry went out to hang the laundry, leaving Gabriel, her four year old son, to me.

"Ate Roselle, want apple?" Gabriel asked sweetly. He pointed to a slice of the apple he was eating.

"No, thank you," I said gently and smiled at him over my bowl of cereal.

"Ate Roselle, want owange?" he pointed to an orange in the fruit bowl.

"No, thank you," I said as I had another spoonful.

"Ate Roselle, want this?" he pointed to a packet of biscuits he had been eating before the apple.

"No, thank you," I answered without looking at him. My eyes were by then glued to the TV where a black man in an afro and an orange tight suit was inviting us to dance with some alien-like mascots.

Gabriel disappeared into the kitchen and produced an orange juice jug. "Ate Roselle, want juice?"

"No, thank you, Gabriel," I said for the last time, with a forced smile.

His mother came in just then carrying an empty laundry basket.

"Mama!" Gabriel exclaimed as he ran to Cherry.

"Oh, naubos mo na apple mo, anak?"

The child turned away and said, "No, thank you."

"Anong no thank you???!"

Quickly, I gathered my dirty dishes and went into the kitchen, out of sight.

An alien twice over

The family friend I'm staying with here in Sydney invited to go to church with them this morning. They must've felt sorry seeing me spend a beautiful Saturday at home alone yesterday. In a heartbeat, I said yes. Even though I'm pretty sure that at some point in my life I promised to myself I'll never step into an Iglesia ni Cristo church. Alone in a strange country with no friends, one tends to embrace anything for company.

Of course, it's only after I said yes that I found out we had to leave the house at 7am. And of course, God chose today to keep the sun from coming out, so that the entire day was not only cold, it was wet with rain too.

The Iglesia ni Cristo members in my town assemble in the gym of a pubic school in Canterbury. All of them are Filipinos, apart from one Spanish old man. Today happened to be the church's Thanksgiving to end the daily prayer the members had to attend at church everyday at 730pm for the past month. Hentji says they were made to pray everyday in preparation for the sect's 95th anniversary, which falls tomorrow. I imagine the celebration to be tantamount to the Catholics' election of a new Pope. In the Philippines, the date has been declared a non-working holiday. No such luck here, but people aren't going to work or school anyway. As one member asked rhetorically, "If judgment day comes tomorrow, could I say I was at work?"

As much as I'm tempted to, I don't want to elaborate on what I saw today and the differences of their ways with my church's. I like to think I keep an open mind, and I respect other people's religions so long as they don't start bashing mine. But I hope I'm not violating some ethical code when I share two observations that startled me the most. The first would be how well-dressed one has to be to attend their Sunday service. I thought the dress code for women is a long-sleeved, high necked blouse and a long skirt. For men, whatever as long as they are wearing pants. But in that church, an unwitting passerby might take the assembly for a really early cocktail party.

The second observation is I've seen churches where there's too much singing; some churches have too much dancing. Catholic churches have too much "please stand" and "please sit" intervals. This church has too much crying. The Iglesia ni Cristo "mass" commences with five songs of praise. Halfway through the first stanza of the first song, four member of the choir were already howling. Soon, all the choir members were crying. A short time later, the male deacons started crying too, and in the "audience", all around me handkerchiefs came flying out of pockets and quivering voices tried to stay in tune amid sniffles and loud blowing of noses. The deacons took their turns with the mic, and it never failed; each one would cry in the middle of an impassioned speech or prayer, and then everyone would cry again. I really can't understand it. I mean, praying made me cry sometimes. Going to church made me cry at the part when I'm on my knees and I'm talking to God. But the members of this church sing the same songs every mass, yet the same lyrics make them bawl every time? The deacons appeared to have memorized their speeches and prayers too. Yet they burst to tears after uttering them sentence by sentence? Either I'm stupid and destined for hell or there really is something I need to get here.

After mass and eyes were dried off, they had a group picture taking. I decided to step out since I'm not a member. Outside the gym, it was effing freezing. I couldn't wait to get back inside where it was nice and warm. But I kept my resolve even though it was so cold that my teeth were chattering, my insides were shaking, and it hurt to move my joints. I refuse to believe God was sending me a message.

There was cook out after that. People brought food, portable stoves, pans, thermos for coffee, etc. Right there outside the gym, the men cooked scrambled eggs, a potful of chowder, asado, fried chicken, fried rice, and some people brought bread, Nutella and cassava. This happens every Sunday but I was told there was more food today because it's Thanksgiving.

It felt awful and exciting to be an outsider. Hentji made sure I was introduced to everyone, and I found I did pique everyone's intrigue. I doubt, though, that they're going to take a shot at conversion.

It's an awful thought not having a similar community to help me feel like home. They offer everything from company to advice, from assistance in seeking a job to protection from discrimination. But I know those are wrong reasons for wanting to belong. I'm quite happy with my faith and my relationship with my God.

Tonight, I was invited to a housewarming party of one of the church members. More food and more chance to meet potential friends. Their acceptance of me is really heart warming. The downside of it all, however, is I'm obliged now to attend their celebration tomorrow out of everyone's insistence. Are they being nice or is this the beginning of conversion efforts, after all?

Enrollment Day

Woke up today at 8am. Waited 30 minutes for Cherry and her son to get out of the house before getting out of bed. First thing I did was open the blinds in the dining area. Beautiful, warm sunshine filled the cold room. Aside from the sound of cars occasionally passing by, it was quiet. I went in the kitchen, took two spoons and ran cold water on them from the sink. Flipping the spoons over, I put their backs on my eyes, one for each. Of course, I realized as soon as I did that I couldn’t see where I was going. I went to the bathroom to check how bad the condition was. My eyelids were still puffy, and there were mascara stains on my lower lash line.

I went to the living room, discarded the spoons and turned on the TV. A news anchor was saying an airline is thinking of implementing standing passengers at a cheaper airfare as a way of cutting costs. I went to my room, got an specially absorbent face towel, wet it and placed it on one eye. In the kitchen, I put the electric kettle on and prepared my cappuccino.

When my coffee was ready, I got a plate from the sink that was left to dry from last night, and padded back to the dining table. I love the multi-grain bread in Australia. When my parents were here, we bought an eight-seed bread which was so good we’d eat it without anything else. I got a slice of 4-seed multi-grain bread and a banana. With the teaspoon I used to stir my coffee, I made half-inch thick slices of banana, arranged the circular pieces on the bread: three on top and three at the bottom, and folded the bread in half. Bananas grown in Australia are so huge there was still half a banana left. Carefully, I dunked the bread into my coffee, and enjoyed breakfast. I capped it with a glass of water and 2 types of vitamins: one to aid red blood cell production, and one for strengthening the immune system. I don’t believe in vitamins, but I’m doing it in Sydney for my mother.

About that time, my thoughts were on the broadcasting companies in Australia; whether they’re all headquartered in Sydney or did each city have their own. If it was the former, I wondered if it was fair to the other cities. I left the TV on as I cleaned up and took a shower.

I almost forgot the papers I needed to bring when I got out of the house at five before 10. The weather this morning was colder than yesterday. Good thing I brought a scarf. When I reached the train station, I was surprised that 15 minutes had passed. I thought I did better because I was practically out of breath and the scarf was suffocating me with heat. The fare to North Sydney cost $5.20. Today there was a different Aussie man selling tickets. He’s nicer than the other one; he smiles.

The PA system announced that my train would be delayed 4 minutes. Of all the times, I thought. There was a scary man asking $2 from strangers for coffee, and there was a Chinese guy who was making me uncomfortable. At Redfern station where I have to switch trains to North Sydney, I had to wait 10 minutes for the train and 1 minute in, the PA system announced my train was going to depart from Platform 3 instead of 5 where we were expecting it. There was a mad dash to the correct platform, and I was only glad I ate breakfast.

I assumed my travel time is 40 minutes maximum, but I got to school at exactly 11am. Next time I’ll have to give a thirty minute allowance for train delays. The first thing they made me do at school was fill up a form which came with some orientation materials. There were only 2 people ahead of me in the line for tuition fee payment. I was directed to a room where my picture was taken for my student card, which I received instantly. I was told to have lunch and come back at 2pm for the orientation, which I found was three hours long. And all the way to school I was pondering how to get to the city library where I hoped I would spend my afternoon today.

The N.Sydney train station runs under a mall called Greenwood Plaza. Not finding anything I liked and could afford, I heeded my rumbling stomach and went to the foodcourt. The mall actually has sentimental value for me, because it was where I ate with my parents the first time we visited my school the day after we arrived. She loved the salad sandwich from Pan & Olive so much that she told she still thought about it the next day. I wasn’t feeling adventurous, and I wanted to save money, so I got that sandwich again for $5.90 ($6.10 because I asked for pesto spread). I realized my mistake when I decided to eat it there instead of having it as takeaway when I was looking for a place to sit. In the end, I sat at those bar stools where solo people ate. The thing about Australia is you don’t get drinks for free. I miss foodcourts in the Philippines that have water stations. Of course, I could drink water from the toilet tap, but I doubt it’s a normal practice even for Australians.

I had half my sandwich packed and returned to school. With still an hour to spare, I roamed around the foodcourt at my building’s bottom level. It seems foodcourts here are composed of the following staples: coffee shop, sandwiches, salads and wraps, Japanese food, Thai food, and a convenience store. I decided to get a small cappuccino.

“Where are you from?” the oriental lady asked while making my coffee.

“Philippines,” I replied.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. She gestured at her face. “You must have some Chinese blood?”

“I actually am Chinese.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You have very good skin.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely.

The coffee is $2 plus $0.30 for skim milk. The lady only asked for $2. Sometimes, it pays to meet kin,

I found out that I am the only Filipino in my class. Most international students are Chinese and European. I met a French girl who was as lost as I was in finding the orientation room. I learned from her that she’s staying at a homestay, which costs a minimum of $220 per week. She said, “But I might transfer. I’m living there because it’s cheap. But it’s ok. I’m lucky that my family is good, so I can stay in a better place.” She asked how old I was and when I told her, she was shocked. She told me she’s 18 and had just finished high school.

I asked her why she chose Australia. She said, “We had to live in Caledonia from Paris because of my parents’ work. And when I graduated I had a choice whether to go back to Paris, you know, to normal life, and explore a new country. I chose Australia. And you?”

I told her the Australian embassy was promoting education in Australia back home. I don’t know if that’s true. She was actually about to ask me how long I’ve known how to speak English. Fortunately the orientation cut us off.

At the end of the orientation, I’ve toured the building, known the people I should know, got a good look at my would be classmates, and received my art kit. The art kit is pretty decent and must’ve taken a chunk of my tuition fee. Upon receiving it, I was appalled that I have to lug the large, heavy paper bag home. My first paper bag gave at the weight, so I had to get another one, which ripped again when I got to the train station. As I was coming down the escalator, I caught a glimpse of my French friend exiting the building. A Filipino looking guy I saw her talking to earlier was carrying her stuff. I must have turned green then. I wonder if that girl knows how blessed she is. Of all the things she has though, I probably envy her long, golden, curly locks the most.

When I reached the house, I was cold, my left shoulder which I used to carry the paper bag was sore and my left hip felt like it had paper bag burn (it was that big), and my bag smelled of salad inside. Wow, at home by 6pm on a Friday night. The only thing about the weekend I’m looking forward to is doing the laundry.

God speaks in metaphors

I have been in Sydney with my parents for almost a week now. For the first five days, I walked ahead of them. I didn’t notice it at first, but I suppose it’s the fact that I’m the one in charge of interacting with strangers whether it’s to ask for directions, buy tickets or order food, that makes feel like the leader of a small troop. Also, because it’s winter in Sydney and heaven knows how my body can’t stand cold environments, I tend to move faster to keep some blood flowing around.

I first noticed that I’m never in step with my parents one night on the way home. That time it was about nine degrees, and we’ve just spent the whole day exploring some mountains. The house I’m staying at is a good twenty-minute walk from the train station. The nippy air was going through my thickest pair of jeans, my knitted jacket, and in through three layers of clothing under that. I had to walk briskly or my insides would keep shivering. As my troop and I soldiered on, I only looked back once to see my parents almost two blocks behind. I did wait for them in front of the house’s front lawn, though, which made my insides shiver maybe eight and a half times.

My parents will be going back to Manila tomorrow. This morning, I walked to the train station with them thinking it was the second to the last time I’d walk foreign streets with company. It wasn’t until we were halfway to the station when I noticed I was following their pace, that they were in front of me and somehow, I look like I’m trying to squeeze myself in between them as we walked. That was the first strange awareness.

The day went by very well. They went with me to talk to some banks, and then we visited Queen Victoria building where we also had lunch. I led the way again around the city. When we got back to our town, we went to do some groceries for me and for some things to bring home. Everything was going well. We were having some grown up talk about how I should protect myself while I’m here alone. Then we had to pick a place to get our take away dinner, and we couldn’t agree. My dad chose this Chinese restaurant that made me feel greasy just by looking at the food displayed. I told my dad we should look some place else, and he kind of got cross saying I wasn’t going to eat anyway and I got offended and told him fine, I’m not going to eat then. My mom got mad at me for raising my voice and they went ahead into the restaurant while I stubbornly remained outside. When they came out, I was still pretty bummed, but also sorry for what I said. After all, they came all the way to Australia to support me, and they did nothing but that since the day we got here. They were literally behind me throughout this journey, guiding me, providing me with whatever I needed. As I thought about this, huge drops of tears had been forming in my eyes so that when my parents emerged from the restaurant, I quickly walked in front of them so they wouldn’t see. But then my dad called me, and in a kind voice, told me to pick wherever I want to eat. I said I was ok, and continued walking. From behind me, he said, “We can get pizza.” Frankly, I would have loved some pizza, but I repeated that it was fine. Then we passed a dumpling place, and he suggested I get my take away from there. Even my mom insisted. But I was too busy fighting the tears that were starting to form again, and was too embarrassed to let them see, that I just kept walking.

That time, it had been drizzling. By the time we were a quarter of the way to the house, the rain started to pour harder. My jacket didn’t have those hood things that are hidden inside a zipper by the collar, like my dad’s does, and I didn’t bring my bonnet, like my mom did. They told me to put my trench over my head or I’d be soaked by the time we were home, but I insisted it was no big deal. When we got to a stop light, my mom thrust her bonnet at me and said, “Wear this. After all, I’m going home.” My dad took the grocery bags from both my hands so I could put it on. The light turned green and we crossed the street together.

I guess I’ll never really know how much my parents love me, but the sad thing is, they might never know how much I love them either. This is the first time I’ll be away from home. While at the supermarket, I told my mom I envied her. She sounded like she couldn’t believe her ears. “Why?” she asked. “Because you’re going home,” I said with a sad smile. I envy her not only because she’s going back to things that are familiar, but because I’ll be somewhere she won’t be. Oriental people like to keep their children around until they get married, and maybe that’s why for children like us, leaving the nest is so much harder. The later we’re let alone, the scarier it is. Before even beginning independent life in Australia, I’m already realizing how good I had it at home. I love my parents so much, and even though I don’t show it, I need them. During the past week, there had been nights so cold that I had to climb onto their bed and squeeze myself in between.

We all dream of going away one day, but I guess the truth is, we all wish we could bring our nests with us too.