I actually don't mind seasonal eating. Spring is for delicate white asparagus, summer for tomatoes and fruits, autumn for mushroom and squashes, and winter for sausages. I think it's much better to have limited amount of that season's specialty with its superior flavour and texture rather than have the same tepid variety throughout the year.
So I'm currently in love with Cherry, summer's black pearl (and not the Blair variety). Who can resist heaps of heaps of this lustrous, little orbs containing dark, juicy, perfectly flavoured flesh?
 We don’t go out very often here. For one, things are very expensive and it almost doesn’t make sense to go out to have a cup of coffee when I can make it reasonably well at home for much less.
That was not what I thought when we arrived in Switzerland. I thought I’d be hanging out in outdoor cafes every weekend all day long. Afterall, I did that in Jakarta religiously every weekend and the cafes here are more authentic and attractive. But that isn't the case.
Anyway, last Saturday night after dinner, we went out for a little walk to enjoy the glowing sunset and aid digestion. Passing by Peterplatz at the University, there was no visible mark that, just twelve hours earlier, a bustling and teeming flohmarkt or flea market existed. We turned left to walk by Spalentor, one of the city’s old gates. I don't like going under the gate because it smells of drunk people. Passing by old stores with no customer and an equally empty but excellent Indian restaurant, we arrived at the top of the hill in what we like to call "downtown".
The slope is filled with more independent shops, among them, my chocolate stockist, the Chocoloco. I spotted people with ice-cream cones on their hands so my husband and I retraced our step to, Glacebar Glatscharia, this ice-cream stall he loves so much for its natural yet quirky flavour (Wasabi? Ginger-Prosecco?). An apple ice-cream procured, we continued our walk down the hill toward Marktplatz or the market place. We pressed further right without entering the market place toward Barfüsserplatz or the bare-feet plaza. This time round, I had to stop and peer through the window of La Cucina Kurt Stähli, my favourite kitchen-supply store. I spotted a CHF 300 mandoline and drooled over it for a while. It was time to move on.
At Barfüsserplatz, we had a choice to sit for drinks in All Bar One which the local strangely pronounce as Allbaron-e, Italian-style, for their Irish malt or go to Ono. But before that, I wanted to pass by Tingueli Fountain, which in winter produces wonderful wonderland of icicles, and we trotted up the stairs of the Theatre.
Circling the fountain once, peeking into the garden bar of Campari Bar which resembled scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream, we climbed up the stairs to the imposing and sharp Elizabethenkirche. By that time, we made our decision to sit at Ono as the following week, we plan to watch Kungfu Panda and, while waiting, we’ll most likely end up in All Bar One.
Ono Bar is relatively new and fast becoming our favourite place in town. I love the clash of minimalistic, modern design and its unexpected romantic charms: clean furniture with crystal candle-holders; smooth, plain black bar-table with a pretty chandelier, floor-to-ceiling glass window among the ancient surrounding. That night, the outdoor section was prettily done in reminiscence of beach-side cafes of Bali: a few comfortable rattan chairs with white cushions and tables were set on the pavement beneath white canvas umbrellas and fenced by pots of pink flowers and flaming torches.
I ordered a glass of cosmoplitan, a pink concoction poured into an inverted cap perched prettily on a bowl of ice and my husband a vodka sour set within a shot glass with clean, strong lines. Their cocktails are always well-made. The crowd was a mix of dressed-up girls in their girls' Saturday night out, short-and-t-shirt guys from the neighbourhood drinking beer with their buddies, and of course, a couple of foreigners soaking up the atmosphere of the city they've come to love.
Suddenly, it began drizzling. We asked for the bill and hop our way back home. It poured just as we stepped into the warm house.
Image from : http://www.ono-lifestyle.ch/
 My other Sanctuary...
I've been wanting to have another blog for quite some time. While Multiply serves the purpose for a while, I recently feel I need more: more words, more customization, more selective photographs. It's not exactly what I envisioned before but things have changed and I do too. I started the project when my house 'redecoration' project (read: visiting IKEA) was stalled due to the ceiling crisis. Feeling restless, I walked around and investigated Eliza's pretty blog. Blogsome is the perfect venue for me: it's free (very important), it's user friendly (it allows 5 back-ups at a click of a mouse so refreshing the template is not scary for a dummy like me), it's got tons of templates which I can adjust easily. I started to tinker in earnest. I don't expect anything from any of these. I realize that there are a zillion similar blogs in the internet, competition is tough, and I don't offer a particular specialization. However, I went ahead for the sake of learning, exploration, and vanity. I like looking at the page that is exactly to my specification. I like finally being able to say that I know what these people do to create their pretty pages. I like browsing my own recipe collection for food ideas. I had no prior knowledge of html and css and don't even know the difference between the two but the internet and blogsome forum provides an amazing array of information. All it takes is dilligence, patience, and the right search words. Knowing the right person helps too! I will keep this site. Afterall, this is where I meet so many wonderful people. The content may differ from time to time but I don't expect it to diverge much. During the early stage, the new blog will be filled with selected copies off the entries here. Moving forward, multiply will be more Indonesian-oriented and perhaps personal as it is restricted to people I know. The photographs will certainly be. Lastly, the new blog is best viewed in firefox, safari, or IE7. Just because I can't be bothered to fix it to IE6 and I'm expecting everyone (other than my office, that is) to be on IE7 already, if not firefox. (Gosh.. listen to the geek in me now) Enjoy! PS: Comments, critiques, and suggestions are most welcome!
 Last weekend was tough. First, there was the orange revolution which ended in a sizzle, I must say. And now this. A Brazillian friend introduced us to an addictive type of beef steak called Picanha. It is a special, juicy, fatty cut of beefs barbecued plain with sprinkling of salts. Picanha is really the way to eat beef steaks and we have become rather particular about it to the point that we ate steak only when this friend had a barbecue. Since this friend moved to Paris, my husband has been keen to have his fix. He has helped this friend when he had barbecues and acquired the necessary technical and supply knowledge. He thinks it's about time he does it in the comfort of his own abode. He then cajoled and persuaded me to get a little barbecue set for him to do his number. I complied. Barbecuing on terraces is a confusing matter in Switzerland due to conflicting advices. We also know of all the nasty things that can happen courtesy of dear neighbours in Switzerland, a fate which has eluded us for the time we've been here. To be safe, we did our research. I went into the English Forum and discovered that the rules differ from city to city and house to house. So we asked our hauswart who gave us permission and wished us E Guete. I personally had my reservation because, a member of the English forum mentioned that, upon seeing smoke in his back terrace, he was visited by the firemen called by one of his neighbours. But we never know unless we try, don't we?
So on Sunday, we braved ourselves. I made a bowl of coleslaw for the cold salad and prepared eggplants and mushroom for the grill. Husband was in charge of the picanha. He started the fire at about 11 AM. It was smoky but manageable. I was expecting a door bell courtesy of our upstairs' neighbour any minute now but it didn't happen. Meanwhile, the coals had glowed and my husband proceeded to grill the meat. Picanha is layered by about 1 cm of beef fat which is great for the flavour and texture. On the grill the fat melts and seeps into the meat. It also created great smelling (albeit beefy) smoke. About thirty minutes after the meat was on the grill, deafening noise approached the apartment . Well, hello! Two fire trucks and an ambulance stopped in front of our building. I was feeling queasy but also relieved as I expected them to appear sooner. My husband flew down and greeted the firemen who, upon realizing what happened, grinned and chuckled. They went around ensuring that there was no more fire in the house and everything was in order. One peeked into the kitchen where I hid and was shocked to find me there. I greeted him a friendly 'gruetzi' and he disappeared with a puzzled look on his face.
My husband clarified that he had obtained permission from the hauswart . He also asked if barbecuing on the terrace is prohibited in this town. The firemen again confirmed that it differed from house to house but if permission was granted then it was OK.
Apparently the old lady upstairs called them in. We had a little problem with her when our quiet talks at 2AM many months ago disturbed her sleep. We have heard all about Swiss neighbours, particularly the old ones. To her credit, she's actually not bad. We could talk at night albeit in whispers, flush the toilet in the middle of the night with abandon, and cook the occasional night-time snacks of instant noodles. We were never accused, in writing, of cooking with a wok in a balcony and consequently smoking her clothes with funny smells as a friend had experienced. We also know that to cajole these neighbours, we have to invite them in. Since she doesn't eat meat, we can't invite her to our next BBQ. So I guess I've to bring her cakes instead with an announcement. But the hauswart said that BBQ is really allowed and the lady is lucky the fire department didn't slap her with a CHF 1,500 fine for reporting a false fire.
For those who say living in Switzerland is dull, do have a grill session on the terrace and see what happens. As for me, I need a vacation. PS: I am being mean but really, I can just picture her in full panicky mode upon seeing the smoke as she is one floor above us. She probably didn't have the courage to check if there was really a fire or a couple of ignorant foreign neighbours were inaugurating their new barbecues. I guess she called the fire department and screamed for help. And I had to laugh at that image.
 Unlike other people, I never mind renting. I know that renting is often associated with the poor, the lazy, and the stupid. Poor because there is no money for the down-payment despite perhaps the availability of loan (we shall not touch the, dare I say, greedy American things called the sub-prime loans). Lazy because the person can only be poor because s/he is lazy. Stupid because instead of using the money for something tangible, this gullible person prefers to throw all that away to the owner of the properly. Besides, there is nothing certain on earth but the increased value of land and properties.
I understand all that and in fact I'm ambivalent toward the last point. But I also understand that in Indonesia, renting out a property often spells disaster because the tenant often leaves the house trashed at the end of the contract due to either negligence or dispute. I went through that issue personally: we rented out our first house to an architect neighbour whose house was being renovated. By the time we received it back, the garden was moldy from lack of care, the walls dirty from children's drawings, and the fixtures damaged from unapproved home improvements. That being in Indonesia, we had no reasonable legal discourse despite the signed agreement containing all the appropriate clauses and penalties so we just chalked it up to experience. We've also been to the other side of the pond: we rented an apartment in town and received an equally bad treatment from the landlord. The apartment on the second floor was often flooded. Yes, you read that right. The water spurted from the kitchen sink due to back flow from the waste- water drainage. The building management couldn't do much because all the thirty floors above us all stuffed their vegetable peels down their kitchen drain instead of properly disposing them in a waste basket. The management refused to fix the offending pipe due to hefty cost. In addition, there were instances of loss of power and water so we had to stay in hotels for a few nights with no compensation from anyone, of course. Again, 2-0 for experience. Switzerland is a stark opposite. The rules were very clear of what each party can and cannot do. The landlord, for example, cannot just increase rent without permission from several parties. In return, the landlord knows what to expect from us. For example, the house must be restored back to a mint condition (which often can only be obtained through a professional cleaner charging a few hundreds Swiss Francs for a few hours of work) just like when we received it. Other approved home improvements (eg: changing the colour of the walls) must be returned to the original condition at the end of the contract. Things like that. I, being a pedant, am very very careful with the house. Sure it's not fun because I can't really decorate the house the way I want it and at times it does feel too restrictive. But there are other mitigating factors and, like I've always told people when asked why I like Switzerland, coming from a country where everything goes depending on the strength of your bank account, the overly rigid Switzerland can be a refreshing and comforting change. Recently, I noticed a little mould growing on our bathroom ceiling. One Sunday, I asked my husband to check it and, while wiping away the mould, he tore a portion of the apparently soft ceiling. We reported that to the building management who discovered a small leak from the apartment above us which, over the years, unnoticed, has turned into a disastrous damage (by Swiss standard). Once it's established that the leak is not our fault, they immediately take responsibility for the problem to the point of almost feeling ashamed for having this mess. The Hauswart or the building caretaker employed by the landlord is responsive to all the inquiries we made. We were concerned with the cost of electricity for running the dehumidifier placed in the offending area (a move I deem to be naive, but we'll see). The landlord will take care of that. The plan they draw is ensured for minimal impact on our discomfort. I expect that they'll clean up the apartment properly after work, too. In these circumstances, I really see the value of renting. Both my husband and I are finance people and we're absolutely hapless when faced with housing matters. We are one of those who, faced with a leak or a crack, stare dumbly at the problem then pick up the phone to call the handyman while muttering curses at the cost he charges. On the other hand, being finance people, we are greatly tempted by the returns that a lot of homeowners make (not in America currently, though). I am too tempted with the idea of having my own little garden full of herbs and flowers so I can cut them occasionally for my own use. I also like the idea of painting each room in different colour and not worry about the cost of restoring them to white sometime in the future. The idea of permanence sometimes is very appealing. I don't know. When the time to choose arrives, we'll discuss this further. But now, I'm really glad that we are renting.
 Everywhere I look these days, everyone talks about this signature recipe from a chef who revives the old British habit of eating everything from nose to tail. Of a pig's, that is. Chef Fergus Henderson's Roast Bone Marrow and Parsley salad was said to be one of Antony Bourdain's current death row meals. Everyone from the New York Times' Mark Bittman to obscure and amateur food bloggers heap praises to this dish. Naturally, I was intrigued.
Bone marrow was child's play to me. Literally. On regular basis, from the age of 9 or even younger, my father used to take me and my sister to this little street side eatery to have a few sticks of goat's satay and bowls of bone marrow soup. The best marrow was taken from the shin bones of the goats and they should be cut on both ends for easy slurp. I hate it when one of bones' end is the joint because then I had to scrape the marrow from the bone cavity with a satay stick and lose all the joy of sucking the melting, rich, decadent substance in one long slurp and a big swallow.
I can hardly go to this chef's restaurant in London and therefore am determined to make it myself. I am particularly intrigued by the Parsley salad. I am familiar with adding a little chopped parsley in soups or sprinkle some on pasta but as the main leaf for a salad? That's new.
Anyway, the marrow sold here is not the long, slim, exciting kind. They are from cow rather than veal and they are normally cut into 5 to 7 cm long and full of white matter without spots of congealed blood. They are not the best for this kind of roasting because the marrow often simply melt into fat.
I found a few longish marrow one day and proceeded to make the dish. Served just as the Chef prescribed, with the parsley salad and a piece of toast, it was truly heaven on the first bite. The marrow acts like butter on toast: it gives the luxuriant texture to the dry toast. Topped with the pungent, slightly bitter parsley married with sharp onion and sourish caper and vinegar, the richness is tempered. However, after two marrow, I began to regret the experience. It was simply too rich, too fattening, too oily. I felt like a clogged kitchen sink and, at the end of the meal, I had to brew a strong pot of tea to unclog my throat. Did I do something wrong? Was this dish just a fad resulting from hyperactive food enthusiasts? Was this chicness gone awry?
I'm glad that it's chic again to eat body parts. I think the culinary world has come to a full circle. First, body parts were eaten out of necessity due to lack of food. Then, as prosperity emerges, people began to move to better, healthier, though not necessarily tastier parts. Apparently our prosperity has reached such a high level that our food doesn't remotely resemble any kind of anymore but pieces neatly wrapped in clingfilms on supermarket shelves or powdered dry in boxes. Killing animals for food is not alright because people think that all chicken consists of breast meats manufactured in neat fillets by some factories.
I see this as a rebellion to come back to our roots. I see it as a good sign. We're back to the era of food shortage, those parts need to be used somehow and if traditionally we used to eat them, why not? It's an additional source of protein and it's good to utilize everything and waste nothing. It's certainly less scary than feeding them back to the animal creating a demonic and cannibalistic cycle.
But I'll use other parts next time or use this part for other stuffs (I tried mashing marrow into meatballs, excellent!). I'm keeping the parsley salad though.
Help!
I feel I've been spending too much time with the computer. After dinner, I switch on my computer and normally do not get off until 2 or 3 hours later. I first check my multiply to see if there are additional updates. Then I visit a few regulars or wander around searching for information. Often, however, one thing leads to another and without realizing, it is 11 PM already.
There are just so many good stuffs out there. To switch off my mind, I like to idly read the wikipedia. Discovering a new TV series I love? I do my research so I get updated on the story as well as the biography of each crew, both fictional and real, annoying my husband. I search the internet on how not to kill pots of indoor basil and end up at a food blog and an urban garden page. You get the idea.
Sure I gain knowledge although not always. But I also develop a dangerous habit: speed reading. I tend to read a few lines of each paragraph because I'm pressured to finish the interesting articles I've bookmarked or opened so I can move on to other activities. The habit extends to my professional life, by the way, and now it takes me longer than normal to read proper documents just to understand them.
To limit my overload, I've done a few things: a. I prune my multiply contact lists from time to time. The first to get eliminated are often those who never peek at my page but post endless short stories themselves ranging from what they eat that dawn to how their cuticles are doing. In addition, their buddies write endless strings of supportive but meaningless comments which doesn't add value to the discussion. I can't bear the same updates; then b. I utilize the cross icon in multiply to ensure that I do not get them. c. I review my bookmarks from time to time: sites which I have not visited for weeks, get thrown to the trash. If I don't visit regularly, then I do not like them that much.
Despite all that, the list grows instead of shrinking. I used to have only 4 tabs of bookmarks (food and wine, travel, communication, and fun). Now it's 16! Food takes up 2 to differentiate between recipes and references and general food blogs. Travel also grows to wish list and traveling. In addition, there are shopping and magazines pages as well as various knowledge-based websites. I am again overwhelmed.
There are just so many good information out there written in such enticing manner. Everyone strives to present a blog useful (and beautiful) for his/her own market and tries their best to maintain their market share. How can I turn these free, good stuffs away? Where do I get the will and courage?
Eventually, if I'm honest with myself, these are the only blogs I frequent religiously in addition to my multiply contacts':
a. On a daily basis, it's Jenzcorner: this blog provides a great guide to dining scene in Jakarta (and Indonesia to certain extent). I love reading people's comments there too. Of course, she's a friend. The only draw back is... more frequent updates please!
b. On a weekly basis, they are: for French Laundry's cooking book and contemplating whether to buy it after I borrowed it from a friend. Writing style is excellent and content very unique. + Chuplin: this is a blog of friends and I need my fix on their antics.
There are some other columns, photography pages, and food blog (s) I frequent. The first I read for fun, the second for knowledge, and the third for porn. Food porn seem to have the same formula: good quality, mouth-watering photographs accompanied by either recipes or stories in excellent English. Some are focused, most are general. After a while, they all look the same but provide nothing more but pressure on what I should do with my own food-related postings. (Right, I'm jealous).
I realize the most interesting blogs are the ones I feel connected to rather than gain information from. That is on top of witty writing, accountable content, and agreeable overall style. Chubby Hubby, for example, is not merely about food but also about his relationship with his wife (through food of course) and about his passions, food included. Even without personal photographs (like some silly audience asked of Jenzcorner), we get a picture of what this person is all about. He doesn't hide behind his anonymity yet he remains unknown.
Another factor is a unique endeavour. FLAH is a great example. I know Julie and Julia exists and FLAH is an imitator but the value added is clear: how many people actually attempt FL cookbook and share it to the world in a consistent, comprehensive and stylish manner? Who really has the time, perseverance, and money?
Those are my attempts to reduce this insane overload. It's not a pleasant feeling not to be visited after hours of meticulous crafting. I do get disappointed when my readership falls and I do realize I often, particularly recently, go across the line of being one of those bores (another recipe? Yawn...). However, I understand that everyone has his/her own filter, just like I do, and I just need to be more market-friendly if I choose to do so. Otherwise, convincing myself, albeit feebly, that I do this for me and readership is a bonus, should help
Having blabbing all that, I sincerely thank you for reading. It sure made my (Fri)day!
 If there's one thing that annoys the hell out of me, particularly in heated debate, is a comment to say that a debater should be excused for causing a misunderstanding because English is not his/her native language.
I was reading a post in a forum about a guy who complains about his nutty Swiss neighbours in a complaint forum where members are allowed to vent. The discussion quickly turned into a heated debate as others gang up to say that this guy: a. is stupid for asking the neighbours to adapt to him (neighbour was playing opera in full volume at 10:30 PM) b. has a hidden agenda for revenge c. complains too much d. can exercise his free will of moving but is stupid for not to, etc
During that debate, I observe that the complainer masters English well. He even successfully throws a few cynical and sarcastic comments to fend off his critiques to the desired results because these critiques get more inflamed. Then the moderator stopped the discussion with "As he's not a native English speaker, let's cut him some slack."
I didn't even have an inkling that this guy wasn't a native speaker until it was pointed out by the moderator. To me, he has equal command of the language as this (largely) British crowd.
I understand that language is not only a simple mean to make ourselves understood but also a communication tool for a whole array of complex things. It can carry different meaning depending on the way it is said, the timing of the speech, the tone and the words chosen, the cultural norm of the place, etc. But does that really mean that only native speaker can master these elements?
I like to think that I know English as well as the native speaker and I am proud of that. Therefore, it hurts my pride, and I hurt for others who have been similarly and unjustly prejudiced, that people often discount my skill just because I am not an American/British/Scottish/Irish/Kiwi/Australian/Canadian/etc.
The first experience was in China. I was trying to sell off my English skill in exchange for conversation time in Chinese. There was hardly any taker because I simply wasn't white. At that time, I spoke with a Canadian accent so convincingly that a lot of North-American fellow students thought I was bred and born in Canada. But that wasn't good enough for the Chinese. A freshly-produced banana just wouldn't do. They wanted the real ripe cheese.
Another incident happened more recently when my ex-boss, who is a very nice guy by the way, wrote in my performance appraisal "She has an excellent command of English and seems to understand the nuances of the language." I had to ask him what that meant and he said, I could pick up the subtle hints in the spoken language to correctly interpret the situation. Excuse me!! What did you take me for? I was indignant, to say the least.
The question is, do I have the right to be?
When a native speaker writes broken English, like truely instead of truly, it spreads like flu in a plane-full of people. To me, it evokes the same cosmic sensation in me as hearing the screech of fingernails on blackboard. I suspect that word will be entered into the latest revision of dictionary soon as an alternative spelling, just like the phrase my bad which litters speeches nowadays to mean my mistake. But if I do those, I quickly get spotted and be excused for my non-nativity. I realize that people often find language confusing and it takes time and experience to master it to its subtle nuances and frequent updates. A friend in secondary school wrote in a card "I wish that our friendship never lasts". Indonesian or Malay reader will understand perfectly the graveness of the situation because what the person meant to write was "I wish that our friendship will never end". Last and end have the same root meaning in Indonesian.
This phenomena has nothing to do with race but with perception. My boss is an excellent English speaker. Granted he still has the Swiss accent but his mastery of English is sophisticated as shown in his witty banter and careful speeches. Still people think that the CEO, who is a native English speaker, woos the audience because he is a native speaker. I pin it down to personality and style rather than language. The CEO is simply a natural public speaker.
We are in the age of unprecedented scale of cross-border blending. Does that view of native speaker knows the best still hold? Take Indonesian kids nowadays. Despite their lack of overseas education or even formal education in English, they write flawlessly using sophisticated vocabularies. A lot of blogs I frequent do not give hints of the writers' identity just by reading the entries. Only after peeking into their profile then I realize that they are German, Thai, Japanese, Indonesians, etc. I believe this native speaker thing is just a perception which warrants careful use.
Having said that, I understand that learning is endless and everyone can use a little update once in a while. Perhaps, being cut some slack periodically is also not a bad idea. But still, I don't it. It still irritates me like a nappy rash that refuses to go away. Not that I know what that is, of course. That's just my figure of speech.
Image from cartoonstock.com
 This and this posting brought back bad memories why I left home. The frustration and helplessness turned to anger come seeping back.
After getting my bachelor degree in 1996, I was determined to go home. I figured, lots of people went to Asia, including Indonesia, as expats for better opportunities. The environment was both exciting and exotic. There were lots to learn and do and I wanted to be part of the action. I would also be foolish to slave myself with some clerical jobs with little career prospect (among other things, let's be honest, due to my foreign status) when my degree will be valued highly in Indonesia and I could start ahead of my peers. So, after a year's detour in Beijing, I went home. I had a good job in a bank. It sort of fixed my career path that I belong in Finance. Then the financial crisis started but I had enormous fun, job-wise. I was eager, young, though naive and the learning curve was steep. Life was great personally, too, as a young woman under my parents' roof: meeting new friends, going to parties, dining out, staying up late, etc. My parents took care of the annoying nitty gritties like extension of ID card, car registration, etc. Basically it was just me, the little money I had, and my little car, courtesy of Dad. The traffic jam wasn't bad at that time and to this day, I often romanticized about driving around town in those years, weaving in and out of traffic, being nimble and agile and speedy. It was the best driving experience unlike the slow, sleepy chugging here. Sure I experienced little discomforts such as not finding products I used to have, not finding affordable English books and good English bookstores, not having good internet access, etc. But my job allows me to travel to Singapore from time to time and I'd bring back suitcases full of books and things I couldn't find in Jakarta. I made do with whatever I had and survived well. Somewhere around 2001, I got restless. Unconsciously, I felt that the city wasn't welcoming anymore and things just went from bad to worse. Traffic jam was getting unreasonable. Maybe I grew up, but I began to notice things: decisions were made in haphazard if not insane way. No one cared about anything or anybody else: if one was trapped in a traffic jam, tough luck. If you were going the other way, let's laugh at those who are stuck because you'd outsmarted them. The rich got their own special treatment of course, they didn't have to suffer like we do (like being allowed into the busway lane) and therefore they couldn't care less. Money bought everything, including fraud and murder. The poor also don't care and think they deserve special treatment because they're poor. Hitting a motorcycle is a cardinal sin, regardless of who is at fault. The slumps can blast the speakers as loud as they want for an all-night party but the rich behind their gates can't even say a peep or else riots ensues. Granted, the poor's life was so sad it is easier to look the other way than listen to their stories helplessly. Sure a help is better than none but when do you stop? There are just so many of them. On the other side of the spectrum, people think it's almost chic to throw away food to be slim while there are starving, begging children at every junction asking for change. The elite gets more and more lavish with their spending: every new boutique/club/high-end restaurants are chock-full with people. I wonder how the waitress or shop keeper, who often are not paid very highly, must feel to see these people eat their month's salary in one sitting. Customer has no right and it's even worse when faced with government and medical institutions. They are either arrogant or pathetic. Doctors, the police, and taxmen have absolute and unquestionable authorities. They are god-like, perfect in every way with no mistake or weakness. People refuse to talk. When they hold dialogues, it's often to skirt around issues. TV is full of empty rhetorics and useless lectures from the so-called, self-proclaimed experts. Constructive dialogues are practically unknown because we were conditioned not to question. When fender bender occurs, instead of drawing each other's insurance policies, people wave guns on the streets. Compassion slowly disappears. Once my newly arrived Indian boss and I were driving on Kuningan and witnessed an accident where a mini truck flipped to its side as we whizzed by. The driver didn't stop. My boss was astonished and I explained sheepishly to him that, in this town, people don't stop because we don't want to be tangled: the police will demand money before releasing us as a witness and, if we bring the wounded to the hospital, we have to cover their medical bills before the hospital do anything. Then there's the hypocrisy: people get increasingly religious but that is not reflected in daily lives with increased corruption, glorified views on extra marital affairs, and more TV programs on ghosts! Celebrities are applauded for their charitable (and normally, religious-related) activities and soon, their nude pictures appear in the internet. The so-called role models don religious attires only during the fasting month and dress seductively (their word, again) when overseas and fans still admire them. The rest suffer the consequences: innocent internet sites get a blanket ban, ridiculous, half-baked regulations mushroom. These contradictions eat up my conscience. I don't mind about the hardship but the moral decay, hypocrisy, and selfishness disturbed me the most. In my last years, I told my husband I would end up dead. I couldn't digest these anymore. There was no reasoning in this country and I am a very strong believer in reasoning. I also believe in clear, implementable rule to ensure a fair playing ground for everyone. I'm not naive to say that the rich in developing countries do not get their share of preferential treatment but at least the 80-20 rule applies. I used to come home sobbing after spending 3 hours in a traffic jam, dizzy from the fumes. I screamed equally to an extremely stubborn, greedy official and a helpless waitress. I was going insane and numb and saw no way out of this mess. We couldn't afford to live in the city to cut travelling time short so we, like millions of Jakartan, had to grin manically and bear it. I was traumatized dealing with governmental and medical institutions (I still am). I was afraid of being left on the street in case of accident. I became very nervous all the time. Occasionally, I complain about these to friend but no one saw the problems. They all asked me to be patient because that's the way the city was (I abhor that shallow, insincere, thoughtless advice). Some thought I just worshipped the western way of living. Others told me not to change the world and just be grateful. But we could change it! If we want to. Of course, no one cares because it's always other people's problems. So with heavy heart, knowing that I'd be leaving my family behind, I asked a huge sacrifice from my husband and we agreed for me to take up this offer to work abroad. Life is really peaceful here and I cherish it. I realize the difference when I call home. My mother would discuss things like the traffic, the flood and these things do not cross my mind anymore. Instead of complaining about traffic and a particular truck driver who tried to wiggle his way illegally in front of my car, I can discuss with my husband the American election or gossip about my day at work. Instead of speaking to him on the phone about route to take due to possible flooding, I discuss what we want to have for dinner. I spend more time at home doing things I love: trying out new recipes, reading, watching TV, or quietly enjoying my little apartment. I go to bed not thinking of what route I need to take this time to beat the 3-in-1 or whether this time, I'd get robbed at an intersection. The writer of this article is a dear friend and I admire her determination to go back and face the system, one bureaucratic mess at a time. I admit I can't. Some may think I'm a lesser person because instead of doing my bits, I run. But if life is only once, I want the best for my life and, unfortunately, this is it. Besides, if I truly believe it's going to change, who will make it? Me and which army? Leaving is truly a good decision for me and I'm glad my husband is also a convert now (as long as I cook his favourite food from home, I guess). I don't mean to advocate living overseas but this is my story. I realize how lucky I am to have this choice when I needed it and I can't wish enough for those who want this chance to get it as well. This year, I realize that I do not see this place behind a pretty, dreamy gauze of mist anymore. As I ride the tram, as I walk my usual route home from work, as I meet my friends for coffee, I truly feel this place is my home and I no longer feel I'm blessed to be transported from the mess to this tranquility. It is where I belong, for as long as the circumstances allow.
 After drooling at this place for 2 years, we decided to brave the expense and go to start off the Easter week holiday. We spent two nights in this wellness centre (that's the term in Switzerland for anything related to baths and spa) with the intention of soaking the stress away.
I discovered the bath while looking for architectural places of interest for my visiting friends. I was immediately seduced by the minimalistic design. However, the rooms are quite expensive: the cheapest is CHF 107 per person although it includes warm breakfast (meaning boiled eggs besides the usual cereal, yoghurt, bread, cold-cuts, and cheese) and unlimited access to the wellness centre.
You can read all about this place, its famous architect, Peter Zumthor, and the village Vals by googling 'therme' and 'vals' so I won't bore you with facts.
After braving a 4 hour train and bus ride, the last leg being a particularly nauseating trip on the Post Bus through winding roads, we arrived at Vals, a very deserted little town. Upon disembarking, someone quickly snatched our bags. He was apparently the chauffeur who ferried guests up the hill to the hotel's reception. We were the only guests so it was rather awkward riding in a large van. After a few seconds, we arrived at the reception. Contrary to the deserted bus stop, the hotel reception was a total chaos! Lots of people were checking in and out with some more lounging around the hotel bar.
The lobby hotel unimpressive: the main tones were blue and red (yes, like the American flag), the area poorly lit, and furnitures rather tired. We were told that our room would be ready only at about 3 PM (we arrived at 12) but we could immediately visit the therme. A little round token like a face of a watch strapped to a plastic band were given as our pass to the therme throughout our stay. We decided to trek the village and find lunch.
Lunch was nondescript in a sad, empty restaurant in the village centre which consists of a fountain and a church. But we discovered a great way to put eggs into pasta: I imagine it to be pasta carbonara because there were bits of hams and eggs in it but the eggs were very generous and set the whole dish was egg-fragrant.
After lunch, we were told that our room was ready. We took our luggage to our twin, non-designer room which is arranged to mimic a ship cabin. The whole building does resemble a section of a cruise ship, a brainchild of a marine architect. That fact tickled us silly: who would've thought of bringing a little maritime romance to the mountain? And arranged the rooms to resemble a ship with its numerous little and compact storage? No wonder the hotel went bankrupt and had to be rescued by the village. Anyway, room was in an immaculate condition although the TV was a relic from the original hotel (established in the 1960s and went bankrupt in the 1980s) and there were some locked cabinets belonging to the owner of the room. Yes, the rooms are supposedly part of a time-sharing scheme.
We fished out our bathing suits and went to the bath which, in contrast to the room, lives up to its hype of being truly timeless, minimalistic and beautiful. The architect hopes to recreate a bathing experience inside a mountain with stone and glass. From the rather dingy reception where we receive our towels, we passed through a darkened tunnel to emerge to a long corridor consisting changing rooms and lockers. There are separate lockers for men, women, and families. From the changing rooms, guests trickle out to the other side of the room into the bathing area. Rinsing in the showers near the staircase is mandatory.
 Further down the corridor, still on the upper floor, there were two turkish baths: one is for those who wish to steam naked. Each room is further divided into three areas separated by plastic flaps: the inner-most room is the steamiest and the fullest. During our visits, we managed only to secure places in the middle room. Guests sit comunally on smooth granite blocks and sweat from the steam. We didn't peek into the naked-only bath.
We went to try the outdoor pool first as it has always been my obsession to soak in warm water while breathing in the fresh mountain air and staring at snow-covered hills. We desperately looked for the door that leads us outside because we were cold from the rinsing shower. When we found it, we were greeted by the skin-puckering cold air so we jumped immediately into the pool. Stupid us. Once in the water, we realized that there was a narrow transitional pool which eases the change from the warm inside to the chilling outside.  We soaked in blissful warmth and had our feet massaged by the powerful, submerged jets of water. This experience of contradiction was as good as I imagined it to be. From time to time, we dipped our heads into the water to warm them. When the spouts are free, we swam over to have our shoulders and backs massaged by this vigorous jets of water spurting out of brass pipes. This went on for sometime before our heads freezed from the cold. This time round, we went inside through the water tunnel. Once inside the full grandness of the place became apparent to us: the materials were valser quartzite, locally mined and cut into narrow one-metre strips for the walls, polished for the benches, unhewn in large pieces for the floor, brass for the metal works such as water pipes and towel racks, and glass for the ceilings. Dots of low-hanging, deep yellow halogen lights were placed in strategic places to compliment the natural lightings.
 Next was the fire pool, a small room painted red with narrow ledge in the water for people to sit inside a 42 degrees Celsius water. It was soothing to be in such warmth after the cold but soon, the heat became uncomfortable. We fidget and twitched: time to cool off in the ice bath, an even smaller (and always empty) pool cooled to 14 degrees Celsius.
 Dipping the first few toes into the seemingly freezing water was painful. The trick is to be quick: scurry fast into the water and dip the body up to the neck in the freezing water. Take a gulp of air as you emerge and quickly dip yourself again. The second time around, the cold water actually felt pleasant. I walked back to the fire room feeling as if my whole body was pricked by ice needles in every pores. I quickly soaked myself into the hot water and felt an enjoyable burning sensation on the skin surface. That was to be repeated a few times until I was sufficiently invigorated and relaxed at the same time.
 We went around and discovered a few cool features: the harmony room is a tall narrow grotto reached after through a labyrinth, lit as if it were a cave of the jutting tones. The water drips echoed in that room and the air was stale and stuffy. We didn't stay long. Another is called the flower room where pleasantly-heated water is perfumed with flower petals and fragrance. It was nice and soothing but rather boring so we went out again. We discovered a slim waterfall of potable water around a brass ring with brass goblets. The water tasted horrible, I guess, from the natural minerals, particularly iron, dissolved in it. There were also several pockets of what they call the break rooms where people can rest their weary bodies, read, or sleep on the loungers.
 The most boring feature is perhaps the indoor pool as it is simply a large pool in the middle of the building. This pool, however, afforded an excellent view all round. Every scenery in this place is carefully thought of: a window in front of the resting area facing the mountain, a smaller panel with branches plastered all over the glass like a painting, a glass door with view toward the steaming outdoor pool, etc. 
We went back to the bath after dinner. It was Sunday and the bath was open for a quiet, mid-night session for hotel guests only. There was really no talking or noise allowed in order to enjoy the full bathing ritual. Soaking away outdoor in the enveloping darkness and refreshing cold is an experience I'd love to repeat one day.
For dinners, we went to La Cucina down the hill, across the street from our hotel. It served excellent pastas and pizzas and another place of interest in this ghostly town. On our last night, we tried their hot-stone meal which consisted of mushroom and parmesan risotto topped with steamed vegetables and three-types of seared meat all kept warm in a round pot made of, what else, valser quartzite. The dish was deliciously and warmly homey.
My husband really likes it there: he loves the bodily pampering as well as eye-head coordination exercises (ie. ogling at the uniformly slim Swiss misses). I don't mind the bath, my favourite being the outdoor, fire, and ice pools, and I really enjoy the massive yet light structure and all its thoughtful touches. However, the place is really far from where we live. While I came prepared for rest and relaxation, arming myself with books and conditioning the mind for a lot of sleeping, the place comes across as a little depressing. Scenery-wise, the village and its environ is far from the cheery and gentle Adelboden. There is an outing to the nearby man-made dam (Zervreila) and narrow strips of ski slopes in the area. A visit to the Valser mineral water facility is also possible if you're really pressed for entertainment. But people do go there solely for the spa.
Another multi-million francs facility has been commissioned to be built by the famed Basel architects, Herzog and de Meuron, in a nearby village. I probably visit this architectural landmark for my future baths instead.
Therme Vals
7132 Vals
Tel +41 (0)81 926 80 80
Fax +41 (0)81 926 80 00
None of the photographs is mine as photographing is not allowed inside the spa. They are taken from various sources.
 | Someday | Feb 26, '08 5:40 AM
for everyone |
 I’ve been preoccupied with the notion of work. I’ve just realized that, in order to survive, people must do some sorts of work. Work brings money and money buys food, shelter, and other basic necessities. It doesn’t matter whether one grows food, opens clothing shops, becomes a movie-star, picks garbage, snatches purses, the act of earning sustenance must be performed in order to survive.
Compare that to a child: when we were young, we could skip doing our homework and the worst consequence is perhaps embarrassment of public announcement by the teacher to the class. But we can still go home, eat our meals, and sleep in our beds. No harm done (well.. perhaps, no tv-time).
As an adult, life is no longer so simple and for some strange reasons, the idea of earning sustenance has just hit me in the last few months. I’m rather lucky that my transition from a care-free child (as care-free as a serious kid like me can be) to a productive adult has been rather smooth. But perhaps, that’s the cause of my disconnect. I’ve never really felt I had to work to make a living.
I like my job and the people I work with. There are still so much to learn from all these people. The opportunity is extraordinarily rare, the experience priceless. However, I feel that I’ve changed. |
|
