New Year, New Confessions.

I've been doing quite a bit of reading as of late, as I find I tend to devour books while traveling. When I first arrived in the UK, I figured I'd read as the British do and opted for the likes of Oscar Wilde, Ian McEwan, and Kazuo Ishiguro. You know, keep it respectable.

After acquiring a stack of 10 books in the past 2 months alone, I realized this simply wasn't sustatinable. Luckily, my family stepped in and presented me with a little something by way of Amazon.

Now that I have a Kindle, I find myself reading through a series of embarrassing books. Books I would never actually buy in tactile form. I have the luxury to do this behind the safe facade of said Kindle.

I feel as though being a card-carrying member of the Authors@Google team prohibits me from reading such drivel, but yeahh.. no.

This includes a selection of chick lit, of which anything post-Bridget Jones era is generally unadvisable, save for maybe The Nanny Diaries or Something Borrowed. Oh, and if you see the words Plum Sykes on the cover, run far, far away.

Once upon a time, I'll admit I was a bit obsessed. In all fairness, this was in high school / early college and coincided with my Korean drama phase, and really, what girl is in her right mind during high school? And I admit I find myself curious to see what Becky Bloomwood is up to on an annual basis.

Moving right along to Dan Brown. Ugh.. Dan Brown. Enough said.

But really, after skimming chapter after chapter in increased annoyance, I couldn't help but think, surely The DaVinci Code couldn't have been this bad? I suppose it was fresher then (but still poorly written) by some professor who fancies himself as Indiana Jones.

And now on to the Sarah Palin memoir. I have to admit, I was curious. When I first got wind of the book deal, I was appalled. Not at all shocked, but very appalled. HarperCollins, how could you? But nine chapters into her Wasilla Warriors basketball games and Miss Alaska pageantry, moving on to her courtship with Todd, I'm actually kind of charmed.

I'm often wary of political memoirs, except maybe Dreams from My Father, as I'm convinced it was written pre- any kind of major political ambition, much less the presidency. I have no illusions that this is another Palin action item in framing her path to the Oval Office.. or so she hopes (with maybe a Fox News anchor-ship as an added bonus). And I still don't agree with her politics. But it takes guts to fight the Boy's Club and serve her state and explain herself to an America that sees only Tina Fey's (brilliant) caricatures. And that deserves [a fraction] of more respect than she's been given by us armchair critics.

But then again, I'm only 11% done. We'll see how I feel come lipstick and campaign time, Mavvvvvrick.

Like I said, new year, new confessions. But surprisingly, what I'm finding amidst these guilty pleasures is a renewed perspective.

A Walk Down Drury Lane.

It's raining outside, pouring, actually, and my pants are soaked to the knees. My shoes have turned into galoshes, except instead of repelling the water, they seem to have absorbed the entire contents of multiple puddles.

I'm reliving my Stratford days. Except I'm not in Stratford-upon-Avon, but rather, reminiscing down various streets in London. I can't believe it's been 6 years.. what I wouldn't do to relive those days. The greatest time of my life. In some ways, I feel all traveling is an attempt to recreate or recapture that time.. when everything was so vibrant and life was nothing but a stream of possibilities.

It's funny revisiting that now. I'm older, but not that much older. Can't say I'm all that wiser, though I've picked up a thing or two in my foray into the real world. And yes, it feels good to be back, but I'm finding it's not a place that a memory makes. What's lacking are the people. That, and the fact that our beloved Drury Lane Moat House has been converted into a Travelodge. A Travelodge!

As I'm wandering down the streets of Covent Garden and Leicester Square, I'm flooded with images. There's the Drury Lane theatre where we saw My Fair Lady (and sweated profusely in the unventilated balcony). They say it's haunted, or so says M. Sasek in his book "This is London." I love M. Sasek. Said production has since shuttered and Oliver! starring Rowan Atkinson has taken its place. The open air market and Molton Brown are still there, untouched by the recession, but I'm really quite dismayed to find not even a trace of Eat My Handbag Bitch.

Around the corner, past where we saw that discarded heroin needle, is the market. To be 21 again and falling over into gutters in front of corner markets at three in the morning (you know who you are) and discovering Topshop for the first time..

Moving on to Leicester Square, there's the intersection where I'd be accosted with 'konichiwa's and 'ni hao ma's. Last I checked, I was still Korean, but what can you do. And ah, Oxygen. I find it comforting that that tourist trap of a club is still there. Gives one a feeling of solidarity, of continuity with the past. A breath of fresh air, if you will.

But ultimately, it's the feeling of not sharing this with good friends and classmates that settles in. Of watching plays, jumping in fountains, and of stealing digestives and custard creams off the room service carts.. These little memories are what I hold on to as I'm walking down Drury Lane in the pouring rain.

One Saturday in Zurich.

I've always wanted to live abroad. It's been one of those pipe dreams that I never really believed would happen, but I hoped nonetheless. About a month ago, the opportunity came along, tapped me on the shoulder, and how could I say no? I've always viewed Europe and the expat life to be one of bohemian glamour and promise. And now I find myself in Switzerland, living in Zurich for the next month, in an attic, no less.

I don't plan for things. In fact, I suppose things have more or less fallen into my lap, and because of this phenomenon, I have become rather ill-equipped at preparing. What I'm coming to realize is traveling to Europe while on exchange in college or while on vacation is completely different from coming to live in a new place, completely on your own. Being a natural introvert has its pluses and minuses.

I've found I'm the happiest at Orell Fussli, a local bookstore. Perching on one of the couches, occasionally glancing up at the passerbys, hoping the bookstore clerks don't mind me perusing one of their novels, getting their recommendations. I want to finish The Time Traveller's Wife because I am over half-way done, but I can't justify purchasing said book because I'm finding it to be awful. But I've come this far. And I leave with Murakami's memoir on running instead.

Today I slept in to catch up on the jet lag and proceeded to wander down alleyways in Old Town. Alleys are safe here - in fact, everything is safe. I have no qualms about wandering about late at night. I've been roaming around mapless, so I can't attest to where I've been, though I can describe what I've seen.

Having woken up at noon and moved into a room one floor below, I'm quite hungry and go searching for food. This is no easy feat, as food here in Switzerland is quite heavy and even more expensive. I'm in search of the doner kebab vendor I passed by some days ago. But I'm momentarily distracted by the flash of red awning and colorful burst of paper flowers, which can only mean one thing: Teuscher. So I head into Teuscher and proceed to order 5 different chocolates. A co-worker had warned me that chocolates here are different from the States - so rich that you can eat just one and be satisfied. One chicken kebab later, I decide to put her theory to test and find that one can, indeed, consume 5 Teuscher chocolates plus 3 Luxembourgli (macarons) from Confiserie Sprungli in one sitting and still crave more.

Outside the church of Chagall stained glass windows, I see a group of Korean grandparents. I want so badly to talk to them, to find comfort in the familiar, but it seems out of place. By the time I turn around to ask them a question, they've disappeared, and I curse my heightened sense of propriety.

Now I smell of gardenias. I've wandered into Kiehl's, a store I cannot walk by without entering, and have spotted a jar of essential oils. I am as well-versed in Kiehl's inventory as I am in the layout of San Francisco, so I find I must sample these new nondescript products which I've never seen. I vote for gardenia, finding amber to be overpowering.

I stumble upon a set of cobblestone stairs that I feel compelled to climb. I see sky at the end and wonder where this leads. And so up the stairs I go... to an open-air park overlooking the river Limmat. I'm drawn to a group of older men playing chess. The board is carved into the ground, and the chess pieces, massive. I long to be an old soul, shuffling chess pieces with my feet, surrounded by the company of local friends who've found each other through their love for the game. They edge each other on. One decisively, the other, consulting with voyeurs on the sidelines. Maybe I am an old soul. I make my way over to the swings and sketch instead.

One sketch later, I head towards the more crowded side of the park. Perched on a park bench overlooking the river and Zurich churches, I'm overwhelmed. All at once, I'm flooded with the beauty, the wonder, the loneliness, the opportunity that is my present.

On the Road.

I got to reminiscing about travels past and thought I'd resurrect some sketches circa 2005, right before I joined Google, incidentally.

Scenes from Seattle:





The Space Needle by day and by night. I didn't want to go up at first as was captivated by Gehry's Experience Music Project, but was eventually seduced by the iconic landmark. Am glad I went up, as the view was unbelievable, as was Jason playing tour guide. And I saw the launchpad where Burke and Alex board the helicopter to get that heart for Denny Duquette. And much to my chagrin, it's atop a television station, not a hospital. Hollywood.. goodness.



I absolutely love Seattle, and Pike's Market is my absolute favorite place in Seattle. I wanted to sit outside and sketch everything, but had to resort to taking photos and leaving the artistic renditions to later. But did not take proper pictures of the marketplace so had to resort to online images.. only to realize photo being referenced was outdated and that sign no longer states 'center'. So was not an authentic sketchcrawl, but that is besides the point.

Spontanaeity at its undistilled best. Good things come from me being spontaneous.

Sumimasen.

There is a magic word that one must learn before vacationing in Japan, and that word is "sumimasen." This nifty little phrase will come in handy when pushing through crowds, getting a sales associate's attention, you name it. Politeness is decorum in Japan, and I found the passive culture to be strangely refreshing.

As is habit when I travel, I guarded my bag with a ferocity. I soon relaxed as it dawned on me that petty crime is not a problem here. Sure, sexual perversions (maid cafes, anatomically, um, enhanced anime dolls) are a different story, but pickpocketing? Non-existent.

During my trip, I attempted to sketch my way around Japan. But it was hot. And humid. And so this is as far as I got:

There are five things that I quickly picked up on during my first few days in Tokyo:
1) Rare is the trash can on Japanese streets. This is a paradox, as for a city that populated, Tokyo is unnaturally clean.
2) You can buy anything from a vending machine. (Case in point: ramen at a Bourdain-approved restaurant.)
3) Japanese women do not sweat. I notice this as I'm more or less mopping my face while waiting in line for a Belgian waffle in Omotesando. Well-heeled and perfectly kept. They are freaks of nature.

4) Calpis is the greatest drink ever. And apparently, an empire. It also comes in chewable candy form.
5) The Japanese really, really like to gift wrap. Really.

In other news, we ate. And ate and ate and ate. From Michelin rated restaurants (Kondo) to street food in Osaka, I happily chomped away at the likes of sushi, ramen, and tempura shrimp legs.

And I've never seen such a high concentration of logos and luxury brands in my life. Beverly Hills and the Champs Elysees has nothing on Tokyo. Louis Vuitton stores are like Starbucks here - there's one on every other street corner. But the shopping is comparable to Paris more than anywhere else. My eyes perked up immediately at the likes of Comptoir des Cottoniers and A.P.C. with a dash of Y-3 sprinkled in. When in Tokyo, do as the Tokyo-ans do. And so I did. :)

As much as I loved Japan, I did find one thing disappointing though.

The yakuza count: 0. All pinky fingers were disappointingly intact.

Home Life.

My drawers at home are full, and the pantry, stocked. At any given point in time, I can slide open the bottom drawer in the upstairs bathroom and see seven bottles of shampoo and conditioner, three toothbrushes, still in its packaging, a stack of Dove original soap, courtesy of Costco, and a container of dental floss, with two missing. My mom likes to double up on coupons and still carries the ratty coupon case I made for Mothers' Day in YMCA day care circa the 2nd grade. I never pack toiletries when I go home, and my room looks just as it did eleven years ago. My home life is full.

My life in San Francisco is thread-bare. My cupboards are scant, save for the soba noodles and baking products. I've been meaning to replenish my jar of cotton balls for Lord knows how long, and the lightbulb in my room blew out three-and-a-half months ago. I've an abundance of CDs and books neatly stacked. I will read them one day. But in the meantime, I think I shall cart home some more. It takes me 3 weeks to unpack my suitcases, and sometimes, I fall asleep face down on a pile of clothes, as if I fell timberrrrrr unto the bed.

Just today, I toted home a paper Walgreens bag - its contents: jumbo cotton balls, a peach eye shadow palette, volumizing shampoo (having forgotten to purchase alongside conditioner during my last Target run), and one Symphony bar, the blue kind. This set me back $24, and I'm quite certain that my mother would have doubled the quantity of haircare products, amassed dental floss to last another seven years, and fed the family four times over with the same amount. I buy on the fly, and can barely even plan for the upcoming weekend, let alone two hours from now. All of that effort goes to work.

My mom is what they call boo-jee-ruhn-heh (that's uber-productive for non-Koreans). I'm nothing of the sort. Around the time I wake up on a typical Saturday morning, er.. afternoon, she has cooked up a storm, watched a Korean drama, gone hiking with my dad, picked lemons from our backyard tree, and visited her own mother - my grandma - in Irvine, one hour away. I, in turn, rub the sleep out of my eyes and happily munch on a Noah's bagel. And three hours later, drag myself to the beach for a leisurely jog, being sure to take the scenic route.

She says that she was the same way at my age, wandering down grocery aisles, contemplating the different soup cans, before sitting at home, sampling each and every one. Rarely cooking until she got married, which she tries to push upon me. I politely decline. I kind of want to fall in love, and I haven't done that yet. But what I don't tell her is, I've grown a little too comfortable being on my own; I find it hard to be convinced otherwise.

I suppose one day I'll learn to cook. And to plan. And to clip coupons. One day. But I'm not there yet.

27.

27. It seems I am 27 now.

I'm 2 years into a new demographic.
I'm older than there are hours in a day.
I'm what the show would be called if Jack Bauer's daughter had more airtime.

When my mother was 27, she was married and living in a new country.
When my father was 27, he had earned his Ph.D.
When my grandmother was 27, she was working to provide for her 3 children after her husband had been kidnapped (& possibly killed) by the North Korean army.

And now that I'm 27..

Foiled Attempts at Joining Twitter (& Sleeping Early).

* generika
* erikac
* wanderlust
* audreyh
* misshepburn
* cleareyes
* fullhearts
* kaleidoscopeyes
* marmaladesky
* golightly
* funnyface
* attraversiamo
* haricotvert
* mascarpone
* bananapancakes
* typewritten
* rhapsodyinblue
* twittersucks

The One That Got Away.

I had this vivid dream the other night, and I couldn't wake up - didn't want to wake up - even when I was supposed to help a friend move. And so I selfishly willed myself not to wake up. (Sorry Parkie.) It's not often that I have dreams, let alone remember them. But for some reason, I can't seem to shake this one, mostly because of who was in it. If ever there was a one that got away, this would be him. And I didn't want him to disappear.

I try not to let myself ruminate on boys past, and I often don't. With the exception of one. I suppose it was unlikely that we would have ever met, were it not for a single mutual friend. And even the memories that I have are random. A trip here, a storied confession there. Random questions and random locations, and me being ever so clueless. Knowing, yet not knowing. Denial, perhaps, sprinkled with a dash (okay, more than a dash) of ill-fated timing.

But when I explained my theory on timing, I had a friend call me out on this: "What you're doing is romanticizing the fact that you screwed up and were too immature to see what was right in front of you," he said. "Don't relegate this to timing - it's all on you."

Maybe he's right.

But maybe, you can't help what life stage you happened to be in and when, and it happens that way for a reason.

I'm not entirely convinced I believe in 'the one that got away.' Rather, I'm not convinced I want to believe it. Truth be told, it sounds completely one-sided - a creation in retrospect following a need to assign significance to events and possibilities past. I don't know that I like the idea of that. I guess I just don't like the idea of regrets, period, however nebulous. It is in some ways nothing more than a justification of a lack of foresight. And where is the closure in that?

Yeah, I wonder. I suppose I'll always wonder. Who knows if it would have even worked? Maybe, maybe not. Although it's been a while, I'm surprised to find he's still there, hiding out in the recesses of my mind, resurfacing in fleeting memories where I felt more alive than I can remember.

But things happen for a reason. And I'm a firm believer of that.

Best Laid Plans.

It's a new year, and I feel the need to say something profound. But I don't know what that is. Instead, I'd like to kick off this new year with a plug:

Watch Friday Night Lights. Watch it because it's the best hour of drama out there, the best portrayal of marriage (Eric & Tami Taylor) possibly in the history of television. Watch it for the glimpse it offers into working class life in small town Texas - its ambitions and its hang-ups. Watch it for the inter-workings of faith in the South - sometimes genuine, sometimes not. Watch it for the beauty of awkwardness (Matt Saracen) and the sometimes honorable, often destructive charm of Riggins. Watch it to fall in love with a community as it rallies around its sole bright light and source of entertainment - the Dillon Panthers high school football team. Moving right along..

I've begun this new year with determination. Not the saccharine, resolution wielding kind of determination of years past. Simply, determination.

Determination to not mess it up.
Determination to be more honestly me, and less what I'm supposed to be.

I'm sitting here, typing away on my laptop, drinking tea. Well, inhaling the steam that arises from the tea, as it hasn't yet cooled to a temperature friendly to my tongue. I'm not quite sure what kind of tea this is, only that it's not a) green, b) chamomile, and c) earl gray.

I'm sampling music I don't particularly like. Yet. I feel as though I'm supposed to like it, but it simply hasn't caught yet. Arcade Fire, maybe I'll fall hopelessly in love with you 4 and a half months from now. But right now, I'm still stuck on Rihanna. I may quite possibly be the only San Franciscan not sick of Umbrella.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm kicking off this year not having anything in particular to say, no grand sweeping message to convey. No particular gesture of optimism or despair. I've yet to make a resolution, although the calves could use thinning, and avoiding the emergency room in my 3rd year at Google couldn't hurt (the statistics aren't in my favor for this one). Maybe I don't have to buy the 3.1 dress, even if it's massively discounted. I could actually listen to the podcasts I download, read those books I've left impressively on my shelves for years and years untouched. Jane Eyre & Murakami, for instance. Perhaps I can place less value in accomplishing, but reclaim my old passions. I think I'd like to be able to do the splits again.

I do know one thing though, and I'll leave you with that. If there's one thing I've learned from Coach Taylor and the Dillon Panthers, it's that clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.

How I Feel..

Sometimes I feel like this:

But today, I feel like that:

Pins & Needles.

It's kind of ironic how for the next two weeks, while the best athletes in the world congregate to perform some of the most amazing displays of physicality known to man, I, on the other hand, will remain perfectly stationary while glued to the telly. Every night, I come home from work, plant myself atop my yellow couch, only to get up 5 hours later, dabbing the mist from the corners of my eyes and waiting for my legs to awaken from their slumber. And the following day, the routine continues. I'm kind of addicted.

This is the first Olympics where I am watching with a critical eye. Not of the athletes, but rather, the media. NBC's nightly coverage of the XXIX Olympiad has been something like this:

Costas. Phelps's goggle controversy from the night before! Synchro diving. Phelps cheering during relay! Comcast Wii commercial. Beach volleyball. Phelps's diet! Kerri Walsh's wedding ring. Women's team gymnastics. Phelps vs. Spitz! Swimming prelims. Phelps's mom! Morgan Freeman's voice. Swimming medley finals. Phelps's dog snores! Gymnastics final rotation. Costas showing Bela Karolyi screaming at LCD. And last but not least, just in case your boy wonder quota is just shy of being met.. PHELPS!!

And I like the guy. I really do, and I wish him well in his quest for 8 golds. But media, enough already! There are other Olympians too! ie. Lezar. I've half the mind to turn off primetime in favor of internet/non-obnoxious American coverage. May-Treanor/Walsh are great, but throw some badminton and archery my way. I want to see some Koreans dominate.

It's 3am now, and frankly, until closing ceremonies, sleep is the least of my concerns. I think I'll be taking the late shuttle into work.

ARE YOU EXCITED?!

Olympics junkies, unite! 8.8.8.

The Fortune Cookie Chronicles.

I'm mildly obsessed with fortunes. I think this is due to the fact that I'm mildly obsessed with being told how my life will unfold. Only in positive tidbits of my choosing, however, as stark reality in large doses is likely to leave me feeling momentarily dismayed.

I went to the SF Fortune Cookie Company when my parents last visited, and I've been slowly plodding through the cookie jar. Once I get started, I'll eat cookie after cookie. Usually, this is due to the sugar factor, however, fortune cookies are the outlier. I've developed a taste for these crisp wafers, but really, what I eat them for are the folded slips of paper. It used to be that I would eat just one or two before attaining desired outcome. An evolution of Choose Your Own Adventure! without the earmarked pages and the dead ends. 

I can't help but notice that the quality of fortunes has seriously declined over the years. Statements such as Opportunity knocks on your door every day - answer it can at best be described as cliche.  And in case I didn't sense the urgency the first time around, there was: Opportunity is knocking on your door - answer it tomorrow. 

But that's not to say that fortune cookie heirs and heiresses are not trying. It seems that these companies have begun to take into consideration the marketplace success stories. There is the Disney approach: May all of the 365 dreams you have this year come true. And the business sensibility: Your short term goal will soon be realized.  And then there is the previously unmarked territory of punctuation: The world will look a little better with some love given by you! An exclamation point for emphasis!

There are the descriptions: You are expressive and positive in words, act and feeling. And then the adages: Trust is the secret to finding the answer you're looking for. The horoscopes: A romantic mystery will soon add interest to your life. And the imperatives: You have a charming way with words. Write a letter this week. Not to mention the self-help: Your choices at the moment will be good ones. Trust yourself.

And they say variety is the spice of life.

My life, according to fortunes, is to unfold as follows:

You will make many changes before settling satisfactorily.

An interesting sports opportunity is in your near future. 

You will attend an unusual party and meet someone important.

You will soon bring joy to someone.

It's not quite the five or ten year plan, but it'll have to do. 

As my cookie supply runs down to the remaining three, I can't help but wonder what will be next. I've brushed my teeth for the night, so the future will have to wait till tomorrow. Until then, I'll just have to remember: Now is the best time for you to be spontaneous. Serendipity!

Another One Bites the Dust.

I walked by this bookstore the other day, and jarringly found myself face-to-face with this:

It's a sad thing when independent bookstores close. I used to love this bookstore. While not Kramerbooks & Afterwords (my most favorite bookstore ever) or even Green Apple, this neighborhood storefront held a special place in my Cole Valley-nestled heart. After any trip down Irving, I'd more often than not stop by, get lost in the selection of both new and lovingly used tomes, the lithographs.. and eventually wander out emptyhanded. Most often, it was the simple matter of not having my wallet handy, having just returned from a jog. Other times, it was due to the jotting down of mental notes - mental notes to later purchase the books on Amazon, discounted, I confess. 

I'm the reason these stores are closing. 

Black Oak Books, may you rest in peace. I loved you; I only wish I had showed it at the time.

People I'm Convinced Are INFPs.

* Ben Gibbard
* David Sedaris
* Amelie Poulain
* Chris Martin

Four Letter Words.

About a year ago, I became infatuated with all things Myers-Brigg. Having taken an inventory online, I was presented with a four letter acronym and an explanation of what makes me tick. And as I began to read through that personality profile, I was amazed. Who knew that such an accurate description existed in four simple letters: I, N, F, and P?

The first paragraph was a general description. I had read somewhere that in a focus group where a personality test was administered to a classroom of high school students, the same rose-colored assessment was given to each member of the class. Each student was pleasantly surprised with their results, nodding in agreement, thinking the results had been tailored exclusively to them when really, the same blurb seemed to apply to everyone. Smart in their own way. Potential to do great things. Key themes that could read true for every student in the room. People like to see themselves in the brightest of lights.

But as I read on, so many of the questions I had, things that driven me crazy about myself over the years were instantly illuminated. How was it that I couldn't answer a simple black and white question, but instead see a full spectrum of gray? Could this be reverse autism, where I was unable to take anything literally? And where was this test 10 years ago during my adolescent angst?

More important was the following: could there be others out there?

And that's when I noticed the list. In addition to shedding light on why you are the way you are, Ms. Myers and her mother Briggs had thoughtfully included a list of notable counterparts. Although not many in number, there were others like me, only famous!

As I perused that list, I breathed a breath of fresh air.

With the existence of other fellow INFPs such as Jackie O (I always liked that pillbox hat), young Drew Barrymore's pal E.T., and Mary, mother of Jesus, suddenly, my shades of gray world became technicolor.

A Spoonful of Sugar.

It began with an ambulance, a hospital, and a shot of morphine. Well actually, it began with some Chinese herbal medicine. Talked into taking herbal supplements by my mum over Mother's Day weekend, I ingested my morning dosage of han yak (Chinese herbal medicine) and carried on with my day. I consumed my daily serving of Special K mixed with Smart Start, tossed and turned in my chair, raided my co-worker's box of Mint Cookies & Cream Frangos, sent an email, and then contemplated and caved into another Frango. The usual.

A couple hours later, I feel a wave of nausea and lightheaded-ness. This is not good.

I stop by my meeting, long enough to blurt out "IfeellikethrowingupI'llseeyoulater!" and make a beeline for the onsite doctor. After confirming that I'm not pregnant, the medical aide shows me into a room with a giant beanbag. Sink and trash can? Check and check. I can rest assured. I then fall into a 30 minute nap, waking up just in time to throw up in the sink. Upon realizing what time it is, I clean up the mess and limp over to my creative writing class.

"I'msosorrybutIcan'tstayI'mfeelingreallysickbuthere'stheassignmentcansomeonegetmybag?" Tom, the instructor, looks concerned and asks a fellow student to journey to another building to grab my belongings.

As I'm stumbling over to the building lobby, where my friend Grace is waiting for me, I collapse on the sofa to take a breather. And that's when it begins. The sequence went something like this: receptionist calls over security guard who calls security guards plural who call the emergency response team who notify the Mountain View Fire Dept (onsite doctors are gone for the day) who call the paramedics who strap me into a gurney, roll me across main campus, into an ambulance and cart me off to the hospital.

"Where are you?" Google.
"What time is it?" 5:30ish. My mental capacities are in tact.
"We're going to check your blood sugar level." Do I have diabetes?! I knew I shouldn't have killed off my co-worker's box of Frangos!
"No, just standard procedure, ma'am."

This is the second time I've ridden in an ambulance, and the sirens did not sound.

At the hospital, there is no wait. I'm rolled into the corner bed, change into a dressing gown that ties in the back and am wristbanded. So this is what it feels like. Certified patient now.

Here's what I learned: explaining the concept of han yak to non-Asian medical caregivers is no easy feat.

"Did you eat anything today, miss?" Well... there's this eastern medicine thing that I took this morning..
"What's it for?" Erm.. general good health? It's not exactly like how Tylenol is for headaches.
"What is it, exactly?" I have the bottle here, but there's no label, and no, wait.. don't open it.. it smells really bad.. I warned you..

By now, I'm rather dehydrated. Continually tossing and turning in pain, I ask where Grace is. The waiting room, they tell me. The nurses hook me up to an IV.

Will this make me throw up again? "No, this will go straight to your veins."

I feel something surge through me, and I'm hurting like I've never hurt before. I saw an episode of Grey's Anatomy where Karev miscalculates the amount of fluids to give and the patient dies. This is what's running through my head as I'm writhing in pain.

Why are you torturing me, nurse? We've only just met.
A shot of morphine later.. I love you, nurse.

Grace is finally brought in. She's studying for tomorrow's exam, while I'm catching up on half a day's work email on my phone. Such a wonderful friend. :)

A drunk patient from two beds over wanders by and mouths something that I'm squinting to make out. "I'll pray for you," he says, convinced I'm terminal. Grace and I giggle, while the drunk guy wanders back to his area.

I'm discharged later that night, once my blood tests check out, and my roommates pick me up. I unfold a hastily scribbled prescription, which simply reads: STOP TAKING CHINESE MEDICINE!

And so begins my birthday week.

The Happiest Place on Earth.

With the Superbowl now over, what was I going to do next? Go to Disneyland, naturally.

Last week, I got to traipse around the happiest place on earth with the happiest company on earth, as part of our annual company trip. Google flew its west coast employees down to sunny LA, put us up in Anaheim and Disneyland hotels, and granted us free passes to both Disneyland and California Adventures for the day. At night, they reserved the entire park for us, set up bars, DJs, and dance floors, not to mention the most awesome fireworks display I've ever seen.

Scenes from Disneyland:

Outside California Adventures. I love this photo for its washed out, 70's family vacation quality.

Entering Main Street. The colors and vibrancy make it a perfect subject for Lomos. The developed photos actually came out like this, with the black borders. I cropped out the borders on the other pictures, but thought this one looked cool. I don't think I loaded the film properly, but it's a cool effect.

Mickey & Tink! The first thing you see when you enter the Disneyland turnstiles.

You can see Matterhorn peeking out from off in the distance.

The enchanted castle. Not sure why this turned out so washed out.. a bit more than I would have liked. Anyone know how to avoid the glare? Perhaps the shutter was held down too long.

Tommorrowland. I got to ride Space Mountain with the lights on at 1 in the morning!

Teacups. I never get sick of this ride. I get giddy everytime I spin the wheel.

During the trip, I ran into two girls from my high school. It really is a small world after all..

In front of the Haunted Mansion. There was this glare that ruined a bunch of shots on this roll, but it works for this one. Maybe it's an apparition. :)

A barbershop quartet at a store on Main Street. Still trying to figure out the best camera settings for indoor and evening shots, but I like how the stripes came out.

I'm naturally terrible about taking photos, but now that I have my new Diana+ made by those folks over at Lomography, photography is fun again.

Sketchcrawling in Europe.

I'm terrible about taking pictures, so here are some sketches instead:

**Disclaimer: It looks like the colors aren't really showing up. I once inadvertently dabbed Clinique Moisture Surge Extra on the paintbrush, and the colors haven't been the same ever since. I guess thirsty skin relief isn't much for watercolors.


This lamp post is from a traffic circle in Berlin that I chanced upon after leaving an antique market en route to the Bauhaus Museum. There's a big statue there, famously captured in the Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, but what captivated me were the lamp posts encircling the monument. I have this obsession with lamposts and gaslights. I noticed them in everywhere I traveled, and my intention was to sketch one in each city had I the time and the patience. Unfortunately, I lacked both.


The view of old town Prague from the Charles Bridge. After going on a walking tour, I wandered across the Charles Bridge and decided to sit out and sketch while the sun was still out. The castle and cathedral are in the distance.


This is the chandelier from the opera house in Prague. I got to see Verdi's Rigoletto at the decadent Prague Opera House. The story of a fool (court jester) seeking fatherly vengeance based on a story by Mr. Les Miserables himself. Crime and punishment themes - classic Victor Hugo. I always imagined operas to be stuffy and boring affairs, but I absolutely loved it. We showed up in jeans and sneakers for lack of decent attire, and it was funny how apparent the distinction between native and tourist was. I quickly scribbled this during intermission.


The Széchenyi Chain Bridge on the Danube River that links Buda (old town) and Pest (new town). This is probably the most beautiful bridge I saw during my travels. I walked over this at night and sketched the lit bridge from the other side, in front of the Four Seasons.


The port in Barcelona. People have been asking me which place was my favorite, and I'm at a loss for how to respond. I loved them all. But as if you were to ask me which country, I'd say Spain in a heartbeat. The culture, the ability to communicate (thanks to high school Spanish).. But I think weather had a lot to do with it. They say that Barcelona is like the California of Europe, so after backpacking through the freezing Eastern parts of Europe, I was thrilled to be able to wear t-shirts and Havaianas again. I spent a day wandering the streets of Barcelona, and lounged by the beach. The port was reminiscent of Marina del Rey or Newport - hoooooome.


The flower mart in Nice. Nice is nice. Har har har. So lame, I know, but I just had to say that. The entire French Riviera, actually, is breathtaking. What struck me first were the colors - a vivid palette of the brightest paints. And this outdoor flower market in Vieux Nice captured my fancy. If I lived there, I think I would buy freshly cut flowers every day.

And so ends my sketchcrawling. I tried to draw something in each city, but by the time I reached Paris, I was freezing and simply couldn't bear to sit outdoors in the thirty or forty degree weather. Now back to reality. Au revoir Europa!