Bengali Bridesmaid

"Hi, I'm Sisi. I ate lunch every day in high school with Arusha. Congrats on marrying such a fantastic girl!"

I met the groom two minutes before he was wheeled into the conference hall on a bejeweled rickshaw, waving to the sea of Bangladeshis snapping photos of the patched-together wedding procession of foreigners from eight different countries. 

I picked up the framed wedding gifts, tugged at my sari once again, and put on my camera-ready smile.

Mike and I had flown in that morning to Dhaka and were immediately swept up in the tide of wedding preparations. The wedding celebrations spanned a week and as a bridesmaid who was totally clueless about the cultural nuances of each action, I followed meekly along, trying to reenact a National Geographic episode on Bengali weddings.

Three hours of primping/pulling/fussing/ tugging in 

a Bangladeshi beauty parlor was quite overwhelming. 

At least I wasn't the bride - she took eight hours to get ready.

The bridesmaids, decked in traditional rose red sarees, flowed in after the groom, showing off the gifts of patent leather shoes, 6 m long turban, Armani cologne, and other fancy trinkets that the bride had lovingly prepared for her husband to be. The groomsmen, looking smashing in various shades of green, strode in with their heads held high. The party dress code was set according to your relationship with the bride and groom so guests instantly knew which side of the family you represented. Since the Belgian groom did not have a lot of friends who flew out to attend, we pretended to be the groom's best friends to fill the ranks in the family photos.

The usually passionate bride entered the room

under a demure guise and a roof of stringed sparkles.

Getting bang(l)ed up. 

I nearly cried at night rubbing lotion onto my wrists

 while writhing out of these sparkly bangles.

Painted their faces with turmeric paste for good luck.

As friends, we made sure that they got majorly lucky.

Our gang. 

Eight different nationalities. 

Yet we're so good at partying together.

Quick tutorial to Bollywood dancing?
Screwing the light bulb with your right hand
while petting the dog with your left.

Office Portraits

Marketing department decided that I would be part of the "Leadership Profile" portion of our company website (still under construction). Of course, I'm her boss, so maybe that's a factor. Definitely one of the funnest part of my job since the promotion four months ago. 

As it turned out, I had a terrible time working the professional look. It's supposedly some sort of serene Mona Lisa smile, mixed in with "I'm such a bomb manager" eyes. 

And, you know your eyes must be really small when other Chinese people told you to keep your eyes open while you were already doing your best to stretch those taunt eyelids beyond their God-given max. 

Caught mid-walk. 

Apparently too much attitude for clients.

I wanted to wear my boots at first. Vetoed by everybody.

Luckily, I keep a healthy shoe storage under my desk.

Flowy dresses are so distracting on a gorgeous windy day.

"Finally!" The photographer says. "One that works."

Backpacks and Mopeds

Once in a while (which is probably a little too often from my boss's view), the only respectable thing a girl can do is to hand in a leave application, grab a backpack, and go on an adventure.

Yang Shuo, nestled in its mountainous layers and idyllic streams, was the place.

We first inserted ourselves as a surprise foreigners' musical tribute in a very traditional wedding.

Met friendly Miao tribesmen who were out for a casual stroll in all their splendor.

Explored the rocky slopes and the lush countrysides with steamed pork buns and busting plantains squirreled away in the hiding spaces of our rented mopeds.

Wandered into the occasional farmer's home as he husked outside, wiping his sweaty brow in the midday sun.

Jumped off bridges to splash the passengers on the bamboo rafts.

Fished with Cormorants, webbed-feet birds that torpedoed into the dark waters and brought back fish because they couldn't swallow them with the strings tied around their necks.

Held back the giggles as a hundred "kissing fish" ate at the dead skin on our feet.

Squeezed in work in between everything, till 2 am or electricity shortages.

And rode a 22 hour train, hard seat, back home, with little old ladies leaning in for pillow comfort.

The Arc Moment

He pulls his goggles over his head, adjusting for maximum suction. Neck cranes right, suspending his head at an unnatural sleeping angle, then smoothly swings down and left then hangs. Rib cage puffs out  hungrily as shoulders roll back, gently guiding the tension, letting it ripple through the shoulder blades, muscles, lower back, and releasing it into the flowing water. His vision is tunneled through the grey tinted lenses, seeing only the wall on which his feet will push off, maximizing short bursts that will propel his tautly streamlined body effortlessly through the water, before he emerges once again, breathing in life greedily.

He is ready. He glances back briefly, to check that she is still working on her promised routine in the width of the pool, at the only section where she could touch the bottom with her pointed toes. He tugs on his goggles again and disappears under the water.

I throw out a few more pretentious strokes while bouncing on tip toes, edging my way back to the welcoming ladder. With my feet firmly planted on the ground, I hurry back to my novel about 14th century monks and the plague.

As I wiggle onto the dry wooden beach chair, still slightly warm from the morning sun, I notice that J has switched to the back stroke. Right. Left. Right. Left. His winter white torso glistens while his right arm stretches out, fingers tense and at attention. At the critical moment, right before he is poised to slice through the water, his hand flicks, barely perceptible, allowing his palm to curve and cup the surface.

An unexpected turn; a sudden grace. Beauty so subtle and so rare in his precision and control.

My breath got caught, just a little bit.

Third Time Lucky

J and I are complete opposites so we are constantly venturing out of our own reassuring comfort zones to meet the other more than half way.

I pulled him to the local Fruit Music Plaza for a mind-blowing night of KTV and dancing while he slowly warmed up his side to side shuffles with Katy Perry favorites. He, the high school swim team star, invited me, who frequented the handicap lap lane, to early morning swimming. I often joked about 5 languages of love as a gentle (or pouty) reminder that I needed my words of affirmation for the day, when he would rather take out my trash to show affection.  And when I casually interlinked my fingers with his in the Shanghai metro, he shifted uncomfortably and saved his "I don't believe in PDA" speech for the privacy of a dark cab.

While we grabbed Uighur food with our work friends the other day, in the middle of my 5 love languages conversation with a colleauge who was conteplating divorce, J cleared his throat. A little too loudly.

He held both hands out, palms down, and with a conspiratory smirk, he announced that he had a secret. In a smooth move, he put his hand on the back of my neck, and pulled me in for a kiss.

He missed.

The table went wild. Amid cries of "I knew it!" and "So you're not gay!?" J tried again.

And missed again.

Even my thick skin was not hiding the red that crept up my cheeks. So the third time, I tried to ignore the flashing cameras and the rolling videos that would probably be uploaded to the company QQ group, and held still.

J, the boy known for not dating in the Flagship program, hated hand holding in public, and avoided me when he first moved here because I was a girl, beat me at the PDA game.

Check mate.

Confession: I've never read the 5 Languages of Love

Il Divo

Il Divo came to town and I went to watch their concert on a whim.

After I became hopelessly lost on my way to the concert, I hopped onto a tuk tuk, a box seat attached to the back of a motorcycle. The driver decided to forget about sending me to the designated taxi stand as I had asked, but tried to help out by directly hailing a cab for me. He would follow an empty taxi, speed up as fast as the tired, smoky engine would allow till we're in front of the taxi, and then make a screechy swerve against the grain of traffic to physically block the taxi so I could tell the taxi driver my address. After three or four failed attempts (and near death experiences), I finally told him to just take me to the taxi stand. Gosh. It never feels good to reject a Good Samaritan.

I made it right when Il Divo walked on stage.

Except, you could hardly see the guys' faces when they were singing. They must have brought in interns to do the lighting because they shone the light on whoever was not singing. It became a joke between the singers and the audience, with David waving his arms to catch the light guy's attention while he belted out his lines. The light stayed on Carlos the most though and the ladies absolutely went wild when he said "Hello, piao liang (beautiful)." Even I swooned. Just a little.

A lady sitting two rows behind me kept up a deep, throaty sing along routine. I finally turned around to give her a (mild!) evil eye. Instantly, I paused and retreated. "She" was actually a little boy, with thick framed glasses that rested on his round cheeks, gesticulating wildly as if he was singing alone in the middle of his room. His mom looked bored. But his eyes were shut, his imagination was untethered, and his chubby fists tightened as his voice sprang out of him, uninhibited.

Absolutely inspiring.

Would you be crazy enough to fly to another city for one night just to watch a concert? Well, that's what happened. 2 am nights. Those are always the best.

Regresa a mi.

Check out their videos. You will be hooked.

Don't Embargo My Love

Never thought I would spend Valentine's Day with the guy whom I just wrote an aggressive blog post about (whom? who? ugh).

But that's how karma works I guess.

A good friend of mine in the HR department wanted to do dinner with me since her boyfriend lived in another city. She also invited sales guy along. I didn't know. So we ended up sitting in an awkward triangle, with flickering romantic tea lights in the middle. He grilled me about my dad's job, my passports, and the guy who walked me to work one day. My friend and I kept smirking at each other over our spicy Thai noodles. Towards the end, I wasn't even sure who was the third wheel - sales guy, HR girl, or me. Probably me.

I enjoyed myself, oddly. Sales guy left me alone, channeling his predator instincts towards the gaggle of shy, single girls at the speed dating event at our mall.

So, sales guy upstairs, I guess this is my way of saying that you're ok.

And hopefully nothing else noteworthy will happen that will make me blog about you again.

---

This made me smile yesterday. It reminded me of kindergarten. Or of college.

Ex-Boyfriend & His CD

I rummaged through my stash of DVDs looking for Ella Enchanted so Jane, Dawn, and I could watch and share our mutual hatred for the movie (more like J + D hated on it while I somehow felt obligated to defend all the awkward kissing slash singing scenes).

Then I found a CD. From an ex-boyfriend. Well, Chelsea's ex-boyfriend, to be exact.

Let me explain the context. Once upon a time, Chelsea dated Boy X (think Idaho, well-combed hair, side parting). He was a model PP* and probably rescued a cat from a tree predicament, so she affectionately dubbed him "a heroic angel"  (don't know how to defend this one).

Well he liked her so he decided to burn her a CD. And think of an equally satisfying nickname.

This was what happened:

I don't know what kills me more: the fact that he continued the angel theme or that he felt the necessity of qualifying the gender of angels.

Oh, young sophomore love. 

---


* Peter Priesthood

A Wanderer

 Tap. Tap. Tap. Five. Seven. Five.

I've never liked haikus. Perhaps all those seventh grade composition assignments just drained it out of me. But recently in my creative writing class, our professor asked us to keep a haiku journal. And so I did. And I fell in love.

With Basho.

The magic is you have to cover it up and read it slowly, savoring every last delicious imagery. Let it surprise you.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Don't Imitate Me

Don't imitate me;

It's as boring 

as the two halves of a melon.  

I'm a Wanderer

I'm a wanderer

so let that be my name -

the first winter rain.

Ungraciously

Ungraciously, under

a great soldier's empty helmet,

a cricket sings.

On the ears

I've been listening to the Carla Bruni pandora station. 

It's been a little soft jazz, a hint of folk, and a touch of foreign. 

Try it - you won't regret it.

Happy Love Day!

I don't understand why some people hate Valentine's Day. They mutter "Happy Single Awareness Day (SAD)" and wear black, determined to reverse the tide of romantic pinks or passionate reds. Awareness Days have a bad connotation in my mind - AIDs awareness day, Autism awareness day, Hunger awareness day . . . in short, somehow singledom has been designated a disease or a widespread phenomenon that the UN is supposed to eradicate by 2015. To me, Valentine's Day isn't only reserved for lovers and couples - it's for everybody. It is this wonderful day to celebrate love, in any form and with anyone.

I think this is the first year since eighth grade that I haven't had a boyfriend or received presents from boys on Valentine's Day. I suppose that's not a surprise when things end shortly before. Rather than feeling depressed as many of my friends, and to some extent even I, expected me to be, I ended up really enjoying Valentine's Day. In the place of romantic dinners and cheesy cards, I received long-stemmed roses from the Elder's Quorum, munched on wonderfully decorated sugar cookies (Ty!), and attended a fun Chinese New Year party. I also caught up with old friends and talked to my family. I felt loved. Very loved.

So in the spirit of St. Valentine's, here's a shout out to some of my favorite people:

The Triumvirate: Love these girls!
Of course, we're not complete without Bel.

You mean more to me than you probably realize.

These girls change my life. Literally.

I won't be much without them.

I miss you!
Come back soon - but not too soon :P

I still think you're absolutely wonderful -
Thanks for being my best friend!