Don’t Judge My Father by His “Sarung”

I really meant this title as a different version from the proverb “don’t judge the book by its cover.” Well, I know that many people have strong tendency to look upon someone from his/her outer appearance, and that’s okay. But sometimes, they become absorb to outer appearance, until it hinder them to see what really exist beneath that appearance. And my father is no exception, means he always become the target of “that look” if you know what I mean, being so unique and just the way he is.

As I said, my father is not a type of man who always polishes his appearance all the time. He is not a hippy, though, he is really just a very simple person. He can be looks like a gentleman if he wants to, but that only happens when he has to work. He is original-minded person, and because of all those things, he often be the target of, well, “that look.”

One day, he went to the mall with me and my sister, because she needed a new backpack. He wanted to bought a nice, expensive backpack for her, because he thought a nice backpack would be more worth-saving than a cheap but flimsy backpack. Right after his afternoon prayer, without took-off his sarung and only wore sandals, he went to the mall with my sister and me. (For those who don’t know what a sarung is, well, it’s a piece of cloth usually wore by Indonesian men when they are praying or in casual circumstances, and it’s not a kind of cloth someone would wear to go to the big mall).

Anyway, we found a fancy surfing-store which sold many nice backpacks, and my sister dragged me inside. My father still a little bit left behind, because he was busy looking at the display of a watch store. When he entered, from behind the racks, I saw the surf-store’s young clerks and cashier were looking intensely at my father (I knew their eyes were on his sarung and sandals). My father, however, seemed indifferent and continued to looking around.

After found a backpack she liked, my sister went to the cashier and put the backpack on the desk. “Can I put this here for a while ? I still want to looking around,” she said, and the cashier nodded. So she dissappeared again behind the racks, but then we saw our father approached the cashier desk. There were no other visitors in that store, so he assumed that the backpack was my sister’s choice. He picked up the backpack to examine it, but the cashier snatched it roughly from his hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said coldly, while the other clerks also stared at my father as if he had done something wrong. The next scene almost made me laugh my heads off, when my sister quickly approached the cashier desk and said to my father, “I’m done.”

“Is there anything you fancy ?” Asked my father.

“No.”

Then, under the stare of clerks and cashier, my father took out his wallet and presented…a Golden Visa card. You wouldn’t believe how quick their faces changed, from a dislike and suspiciousness to almost an adoration. Inner thought : “so this ‘sarung’ guy holds a Golden Visa. Quick ! Kiss his sandals !” The cashier tone when she said “thank you” to my father was overly sweet and brilliantly polished, with the slight tone of regret. Oh yeah, I thought, the joy of having a Golden Visa.

Despite the hilarity of that episode in the store, I felt sad. Because my father, behind his eccentric appearance, is truly a nice, kind man. But some people has chose to honoured him because of his Golden Visa, not his kindness.

Poems by Michelangelo (4)

Another sonnet written for Tommaso Cavalieri in c. 1534. I love this one for the deep devotion and admiration reflected in the poet’s words.

English version :

With your beautiful eyes I see sweet light which with my blind eyes I certainly cannot see; with your feet I carry on my back a weight which my lame feet certainly could not bear.

Though lacking feathers I fly with your wings; with your mind I am always carried to heaven; on your decision turns whether I am pale or red, cold in the sun, warm in the coldest mists.

In your will alone does my will consist, my thoughts spring from your heart, which your breath are my words formed.

On my own I seem like the moon left to itself, for your eyes can see nothing whatever in the heavens except what is lit up by the sun.

Italian version :

Veggio co’ be’ vostr’ occhi un dolce lume che co’ mie ciechi già veder non posso; porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo addosso; che de’ mie zoppi non é già costume.

Volo con le vostr’ ale senza piume; col vostro ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso; dal vostro arbitrio son pallido e rosso, freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.

Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia, I miei pensier nel vostro cor si fanno, nel vostro fiato son le mie parole.

Come luna da sè sol par ch’io sia, chè gli occhi nostri in ciel veder non sanno se non quel tanto che n’accende il sole.

Too Many Times I Used Umbrella

After several days of hot weather (and several fires, too), it was finally rainy season in my town. Before that, I already learnt not to trust cloudy sky, because cloudy sky doesn’t always lead to rain. Sometimes they just linger for a while, and then cheerily blown away by those damn wind (oops, did not mean to curse, sorry). But that day was different.

It was started on early morning. The sun was hid beneath the clouds. Then, the sky was just getting darker and darker. Finally, about 11.00 AM, drip…drip…drip… and it was rain ! Not small, insignificant small drops, but a heavy rain. Chilly wind blew through the window, and I just couldn’t hold the urge to stand and hopping happily. “Yay ! Rain !” Thank God I was in my house, not in my workplace or market or somwhere else, because I know I will still hopping happily when it happens and makes people look at me like I am insane.

I love rain. I always have since I was a little girl. So much love that sometimes I feel bad just because I’m happy while everyone have their business disturbed by constant pour of water from the sky. Rain makes everything around me become shadier, quieter, more peaceful. Rain enhance the smell of grasses, mosses, flowers, and earth. The sounds of water dripping on any surface have rythmic quality that can be as effective as any relaxation music record. And the sad thing about all of that ? I have no more guts to come out barefooted everytime the rain happens.

When I was a little girl, I had no burden. I didn’t have paperworks and important documents to be protected, and I have no destinations that required me to wore anything fancy. So, when everyone hurriedly protected themselves from rain, I had all places for myself, running-junping-splashing around like a maniac. Didn’t think, just became one with the spirit of rain, if such things are real, though I do feel something magical everytime rain hits my skin.

Now, several years had passed. And I just realised now that too many times I used umbrella. That day, I was crying for no reason. Why, oh, why, I thought, I abandoned my friend, the spirit of rain, for some paperworks and documents and fancy clothes ?

Things that Go...

That was a hot, sunny day in Balikpapan. The road, I notice, was getting more crowded than 4 years earlier when I left the city. Everyone seemed to have a motorcycle or a car, ranging from an old, rattling pick-up to a shiny, brand new Daihatsu. I was in a minibus, ready for my first day at work. In the minibus, I notice, was a tiny dustbin strapped behind the passanger’s door. I was slightly intrigued with this, because dustbins are not the things tipically found in Balikpapan’s minibuses.

“Every minibus now must have a dustbin”, the driver said. “If not, we will have to pay the fee.”

“The rule is only for the minibus ?” I asked.

“No, it is for private cars, too.”

Good, so this is a real progress then, I thought. About two seconds after that, I saw the driver threw out an ice-tea plastic through his window.

Several minutes later, a passanger in a fancy blue Toyota in front threw out a plastic bag contain leftovers of fried bananas.

A little girl in school uniform at the back of passing motorcycle threw an ice cream wrapper onto the road.

At right, a man in government-office uniform passing by with cigarette in his left hand (attention : he was riding a motorcycle, not a car). Something small but hot suddenly prick my eye. I didn’t want to judge, but I highly suspected it was an ember from the man’s cigarette.

Halfway to my work-place, I already lost count about how many people did …that. I looked at the road, to people who still threw rubbishes non-chalantly outside their dustbins-equipped vehicles, then I looked back at the tiny dustbin behind the door. Suddenly, I can’t hold the urge to laugh my head’s off.

What are You Laughing At ?

Some people said, if we want to know a person’s true nature, we should see how he or she treats children. Others said we should see how he or she treats the inferiors. Maybe you have your own criterias, I don’t know. I do have my own criterias. But now, I have one new criteria in my mind. I once read a fan-fiction story, in which the main character said a very meaningful line, “if you want to know a person’s true nature, you should see when he or she laugh.” And recently, I just found out what that line means.

Few days ago, I got a severe allergic reaction attack plus a mild food poisoning. I had to stayed in bed for several days, worst experience in my medical records. At first, I felt a little bit queasy in my stomach after I ate a portion of re-heated shrimp at lunch, and then itchy red spots started to appear on my skin. It was few at first, and I felt good enough to go for work, so that’s what I did. I went for work. It went well for the first one hour, but after break-time, I gave up. I went down to instructor’s office to take a rest (by the way, I’m teaching at study center), and felt gradually worse than before.

I tried to hide my true condition from my friends, but eventually they found out, probably because my face was already turning redder and redder. “What happened to you ?” One asked. It was impossible for being discreet anymore, so I told them truth. What I ate, how it started, and so on. My boss finally took pity on me and told me to go home. I packed my bag and went to the front office, where several of my friends already sat and chatted. And when they saw me, walking gingerly because of stomachache, with my face already turned red and hot while my body felt so cold, do you know what they did ? They laugh.

This is what they said, “next time you eat shrimp, you have to bring some for us. Why, you got sick alone because you didn’t bother to bring some for us.”

If I didn’t ill, that was a joke. But in my condition that time, nothing I could think about except “what a cruel joke ! I even have to try hard to be polite, let alone to laugh along.” Thank God I still had self-restrain to kept myself from snapping at them. Along the journey to hospital, inside my mother’s car, my mind wandered into that story, and that line. “You should see when they laugh.” Yes, I finally understood that. How many times we found ourselves laugh at something that clearly didn’t have to be laugh at ? When someone stumped and fell and clearly in pain ? When someone said wrong answer in the classroom ? When someone “looked funny” because they have imperfect feature or body parts ?

I’ll let you people answer that.

Poems by Michelangelo (3)

This sonnet was written in 1534 by Michelangelo for Tommaso Cavalieri, his prodigy and, later, best friend until his death.

English version :

Not even by raising my thoughts as high as possible can I imagine another figure, whether of pure spirit or of earthly flesh, with which my will arm itself against your beauty.

For, separated from you, I seem to sink so low that Love deprives and strips me of all strength; so when I think of lessening my sufferings he, doubling them, threatens me with death.

It is useless, then, for me to spur on my flight, doubling the pace at which I fly from hostile beauty, for the less speedy never gains distance on one who moves so swiftly.

Love with his own hands dries my eyes, promising that I shall hold all effort dear: for he who costs so much cannot himself be base.

Italian version :

Non posso altra figura immaginarmi o di nud’ ombra o di terrestre spoglia, col più alto pensier, tal che mie voglia contra la tuo beltà di quella s’ armi.

Chè da te mosso, tanto scender parmi, c’ Amor d’ ogni valor mi priva e spoglia, ond’ a pensar di minuir mie doglia duplicando, la morte viene a darmi.

Però non val che più sproni mie fuga, doppiando ‘l corso alla beltà nemica, chè ‘l men dal più veloce non si scosta.

Amor con le sue man gli occhi m’ asciuga, promettendomi cara ogni fatica: chè vile esser non può chi tanto costa.

What Will They Grow Up Into ?

If you spend half an hour everyday in front of TV at morning, afternoon, evening or night time, you will likely getting swept away by a flood of news. And what kind of news that make people open their eyes and ears so quickly after being woken up in the morning better than criminal news ? Sleepy eyes will opened quickly hearing words like “rape”, “murder”, “fornication”, and “sexual abuse”. Some people I know will choose to continue their sleep when they heard words like “economic review”, “political awareness”, or “celebrating the Month of Reading” and “A Day Without Smoking” from their TV. Okay, just kidding. But you get my point.

Some people will comment for sure, either by deep observation to the problem, or merely just lean to their pseudo-science theories. Students, teachers or social workers will discuss the cases, while others will bring those up at coffee-break when they already have run out of conversation. Another will prefer to react emotionally, while others will just watch nonchalantly and forget them after the news over, thinking about them as another world’s problems that completely out of their reach (as long as those are not happened to them or someone they know).

Speaking about that, I remember a short story I’ve read seven or eight years ago. It was Seno Gumira Ajidarma’s “Ratih”. The story was about a little girl, who saw a dead-body floating in the river near her house, and she tried to tell her parents and neighbours, but they didn’t believe her. Doesn’t matter the detail, but there was a monologue—thought of Ratih, actually—that made me quite thinking for a while. The point was, when she saw that body, already swollen and rot among the water-plants, still clad in his shirt and trouser and wore a wrist-watch, she thought “who was he ? What was his name ? What was his job ? What had happened to him long before he became like this ? Did her mother know that her son, her beloved son she gave birth and raised with so much hope, someday would ended-up as a floating dead-body in a river ?”

Now watch the picture of a baby I put on the top. I believe all of you have seen face like that. Cute, eh ? Everyone will agree about that; babies are the symbol of innocence. They are born pure, sinless, know nothing about the complication of human minds, passions, and lusts. Their faces invite nothing but smiles, “pooh-pe-doohs”, and several unbelievably super-cute names like “little-pooh-bear”, “honey-bunny”, “my little lamb”, and so on. But not for me, because after read that short-story, I couldn’t help myself to think like this when I see a baby : what will they grow up into ? How can we believe that people such as burglars, murderers, child-molesters, Hitler, Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Ed Gein were used to be babies with cute face and moonlighted innocence ?

Intriguing, and kind of sad.

Soft-hearted Beast

Picture from wallpaper.free-review.net

I always consider contradictive things as sexy things (bad term, I know). I am quite an open-minded person, although sometimes it is still challenging to see two clearly different things being put together and still become smoothly mixed. In fact, that’s an eternal concept which helped creating the world we live in. Every aspect in the whole world will not complete without their pairs. Man and woman. Cold and hot. Dark and light. And in my case, a beast and an embodiment of innocence.

This was happened many years ago, probably when I was in 5th or 6th grade in elementary school. I went to Samarinda with my parents, and we shopped in this mall. As usual, the mall in Sunday evening was crowded with people. Obnoxious children, over-accessorized middle-aged women, loud-mouthed guys, chirping teenagers; in short, kind of visitors I would not want to bump into when I was frolicking around that crowded mall while busy trying not to get lost.

I was started to get bored, but my parents seemed didn’t have any intention to leave so quickly. So, while they were looking-out some clothes on the first floor, I chose to stand outside, looking around and hoped to find something interesting to see. Well, there are some things, of course, but when I saw that particular scene, I knew instantly, that that scene would always captured in my mind forever.

Near a stall that sold games software, I saw a man, correction, a very BIG man, with muscles that clearly showed about his well-spent days at gym. He had crew-cut hairdo, topped by a simple white hat. He also very tall, and his neck was like a tree-trunk. To completed that look, he only wore bermuda pants and short-sleeved shirt, showing his tattooed bulky arms. No wonder he attracted so much attentions, eventhough he seemed didn’t realize that. He just kept bowing his head, antithesis of other men with such masculine build, thus provide self-esteem high enough to go out with their face raised high. I could not see his face because he stood with his back faced to me, but then, he turned around, and I finally saw the real reason why people stared at him with such awed looks on their faces.

In his arms, there was a little baby, probably just three or four months old. The baby was asleep, covered in white baby-suit and light-blue blanket. I only could see the baby’s face and white gloves that covered his/her little fists. The baby looked very peaceful in the man’s arms. With that arm of his, he could easily break the baby. Instead, he occasionally rocked the baby and shifted his arms ever so gently, so as not to woke the baby. And in one particularly touching moment, he bowed and kissed the baby’s temple, his mouth whispered something that I could not decipher. Judging from his expression, it must be some words filled with love.

My parents finally had to dragged me from there, because I could not stop looking at that marvellous couple. You can say that that was one of my early experience in sporting contradictions, because after that, I kept repeating this phrase in my mind: a soft-hearted beast. And I get addicted to it.

Poems by Michelangelo (2)

This sonnet was written in 1507. I love this one because of it’s simple, honest, yet beautiful descriptive style. Although very romantic, there’s no documentary evidence connected with this poem, that Michelangelo has a passionate sexual attraction to woman. Michelangelo was believed to be homosexual in orientation, and this poem probably merely a practice in poetic tradition.

English version

The garland on her golden hair, cheerful and finely woven with flowers, is so joyful that each flower presses the one in front as if all are vying to be the first to kiss her head !

That dress which fits tightly round her breast, and then seems to flow down freely, is happy as the day is long, and that net made of what is called spun-gold never tires of touching her cheeks and neck.

But that happy ribbon of fine gold thread seems to rejoice more fully still, being so arranged that it presses and touches the bosom it encircles.

And the simple girdle that twines round her seems to be saying to itself: “Here I wish to clasp forever.” So what then might my arms do ?

Italian version

Quanto si gode, lieta e ben contesta di fior sopra’ crin d’ or d’ una, grillanda, che l’ altro inanzi l’ uno all’ altro manda, come ch’ il primo sia a baciar la testa !

Contenta è tutto il giorno quella vesta che serra ‘l petto e poi par che si spanda, e quel c’ oro filato si domanda le guanci’ e ‘l collo di toccar non resta.

Ma più lieto quel nastro par che goda, dorato in punta, con sì fatte tempre che preme e tocca il petto ch’ egli allaccia.

E la schietta cintura che s’ annoda mi par dir seco: “qui vo’ stringer sempre”. Or che farebbon dunche le mia bricca ?

Egg in the Basket

Picture from wikipedia

There are so many interesting things in English lesson's world that students in my area do not aware. In order to raise their interest in English and make my lesson less-boring, sometimes I tell them about various unique phrases, terms, and customs in English-speaking areas. When I first introduced this term to my students, they all went like “you eat egg-in-the-whaat ? Do you only eat the egg, or you must eat the whole basket ?” And they all went big-eyed or laughed when I told the truth.

Egg in the basket is a type of breakfast preparation, which consists an egg being cooked in the middle of hollowed-out bread (watch V for Vendetta, or just look up in Wikipedia). There are other names for this dish, such as frog in the log, hen in a nest, soldier in the boat, moon egg, cowboy egg, one-eyed monster egg, Rocky Mountain toast, and egg in the hole. This is one standard recipe I got from Food Network Kitchens.

Picture from flickr.com

Ingredients (for 1 serving):

1 slice of bread
Unsalted butter/margarine
1 raw egg
Salt and pepper

How to make :

Cut a hole in the middle of the bread (do not cut too large, maybe about 4 or 5 cm in diameter). Spread a little bit of butter/margarine on both sides. Heat the non-sticky skillet first until it's hot, melt a small size of butter or margarine on the surface of skillet, and put the bread in it. Toast it lightly with small heat for about 1 minute, and crack the egg into the hole, followed by salt and pepper. Cook until golden brown, add the remaining of butter to crisp the bread, and flip it over, carefully so as not to ruin the yolk. Season it again with salt and pepper, then cook for another 2 minutes for a slightly running yolk or little longer for a set egg.

If you like your egg yolk slightly running, you can dip the round-part of the bread in the yolk (or best, just do whatever you like to the round part). Buttered/margarined it first before being dipped. You can add shredded cheese, tomato sauce, or bell pepper if you desire so.

Tips : it will be better if you use a slightly thicker bread, to avoid egg overflow. But it's up to you. And instead of a round hole, you can try to make different types of hole, such as heart shaped. Use your creativity !

Poems by Michelangelo (1)

I never pretty much regard Michelangelo Buonarroti as a poet before. To me, he was always a sculptor and a painter (who can forget his David statue and his paintings on the ceiling of Sistine Chapel ?). But I changed my mind when I found his poem collections 5 years ago. I want to share some of them with you. This one actually a part of his letter to his friend, Giovanni da Pistoia, describing his agony he went through when he painted Sistine Chapel's massive ceiling from year 1508 to 1512. There are two versions; in English and original version in Italian.

English version.

In this difficult position I’ve given myself a goitre, as does the peasant of Lombardy, or anyway of some country or another, for it shoves my stomach up to hang beneath my chin.

My beard points to heaven, and I feel the nape of my neck on my hump; I bend my breast like the harpy’s, and, with its non-stop dripping from above, my brush make my face a richly decorated floor.

My loins have gone up into my belly, and I make my backside into a croup as a counterweight; and I cannot see where to put my feet.

In front my hide is stretched, and behind the curve makes it wrinkled, as I bend myself like a Syrian bow.

So the thought that arise in my mind are false and strange, for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.

Defend my dead painting from now on, Giovanni, and my honour, for I am not well-placed, nor indeed a painter.

Italian version

I’ ho già fatto un gozzo in questo stento, come fa l’acqua a’ gatti in Lombardia o ver d’ altro paese che si sia, c’ a forza ‘l ventre appicca sotto ‘l mento

La barba al cielo, e la memoria sento in sullo scrigno, e ‘l petto fo d’ arpia, e ‘l pennel sopra ‘l viso tuttavia mel fa, gocciando, un ricco pavimento.

E’ lombi entrati mi son nella peccia, e fo del cul per contrapeso groppa, e’ passi senza gli occhi muovo invano.

Dinanzi mi s’ allunga la corteccia, e per piegarsi adietro si ragroppa, e tendomi com’ arco sorïanno.

Però fallace estrano surge il iudizio che la mente porta, chè mal si tra’ per cerbottana torta.

La mia pittura morta difendi orma’, Giovanni, e ‘l mio onore, non sendo in loco bon, nè io pittore.

I Was Born Ahead !

One thing that I always notice as a teacher in study center is this: teenager students are prone of inferiority feeling. Especially when they learn English. To them, English is the red-eyed monster, being feared in the second place after Math. The reasons ? “It’s very difficult !” “We will never use that anyway.” “I’m stupid.” The point ? English has become a tool to lower their self-esteem, sink their bravery to even ask a simple question to the teacher.

Since this new semester, I have decided to break the conventional ‘welcome’ to my class, made a benefit from the less-stressful situation in study center. Instead of introducing myself before giving a brief look to the lesson materials and whatnot, I started a discussion. An open-talk. I asked them personally about what were they thinking about English itself, how it made them stressed, what point from English lesson that made them felt “stupid”, etc.

This pep-talk probably already worn out of appeal, I realized, so I spiced it up a little bit by asking : “do you know, my friends, why do I standing here and you guys sitting there and become my student ?”

“You are the teacher !”

“You are smarter !”

Predictable.

“No, my friend. Actually, it’s quite simple. Why do I standing here and you are sitting there is merely because I WAS BORN AHEAD. If you were born ahead, big chance that one of you will stand here instead, and I sit in your place now. So please, do not start this lesson with a thought that you are stupid just because you don’t know anything much yet. You have plenty of time to study, and if you work hard, you probably will catch up with me just in 3 months, 5 months, a year ? I don’t know. Once again, it’s just a matter of time. And I really don’t mind if in the end, you become smarter than me and pointing my mistakes.”

Silence for a while. But I got several smiles, little nervous laughs, or nods anywhere. Good start. Well, after all, they are teenagers. They like older people to talk differently, with brutal honesty, rather than common, empty spirit-raising talk. And by the time I had to end the lesson 45 minutes later, I hoped they use the 6 days remained until our next lesson to think about that.

Live Like Horses

6 years ago, in my 1st year of study, I joined Gadjah Mada University’s equestrian club. Please don’t imagine a fancy horse-riding club with wide practice yard and big, shiny horses. We had to share our stalls, club “office”, and practice yard with a farmer who had two cows, one water-bull, a flock of ducks and chickens, several goats, and a dog already. We only had two horses back then; Iwe, a small white local horse, and Lido, a brown ex-racing horse which has swollen back-left leg. One of my senior’s friend then kindly brought his horse from Nusa Tenggara Timur, a female Sumbawan horse named Ayu Kumala. Among those three, it was Iwe which often brought us some troubles. He was 15 years old, but he acted like a 5 year old human kid. He was stubborn, he liked to runaway, he used to stomp on someone’s foot when he was in bad mood, and he had this habit to roll-over on the ground when we took him out of his warm stall.

One day, when we took him out, he suddenly pulled himself out of our grasps. And before we caught him, he quickly ran, passing the yard, through a line of trees, into the village. Two of my senior hurriedly started their motorcycles, and we chased him together. That damned horse seemed very relaxed, flailing his tail in front of our faces, trotting indifferently while children and villagers laughing and pointing at him. We didn’t dare to speed up because it made him ran faster.

Our chasing ended when Iwe suddenly turned left and entered an empty field. If we chased him further, he would likely run onto the road, which was right next to the field. My senior finally said, “okay, just leave him. We can’t go after him further. If he hungry, he will be back.”

I watched him for a moment. I watched him when he lazily grassing, occasionally lifted his head. Strangely, to me, he looked very graceful and proud, with his head raised high, as if he said “I’m a free being. No one can catch me when I want to run between the trees and the wind. Not even human with their ridiculous motorcycles.” I guess that was his small effort of rebel to us, human who made him into a mere fun-object or sport accessory with some bridles and reins. And eventhough he had to came back to us when he was hungry—because he got so used with food we usually gave to him—he had earned his own freedom for a moment. He showed his level, with a price he willingly accepted (hunger).

How many people in this nowaday world, especially in the city, who will envy that damned horse’s spirit ? I know I do.

One Simple Thank is Enough

In my city, Balikpapan, we refer the public transportation as “taxi” not “angkot”. And we refer real taxi as “argo” (so by paying a little much higher, you can be Jason for one day). I usually take one of those taxis (fake taxi, I mean) to go for work. Although the number of people who have cars and motorcycles are increasing rapidly, taxis never lose their fans.

I always like to watch everything happened in the taxis, including conversations being transpired, the looks of drivers and passengers, and so on. But there’s one thing that always bugging my mind : everytime a taxi stop and one passenger is about to leave, the number of drivers saying “thank you” are so much more than vice versa. What a shame, I sometimes think, because one simple thank is not difficult to say, and who knows, it can bring a certain revelation.

So, in that particular day, I was in one of those taxis. I sat on the front seat, next to the driver. This driver was a big, burly man, with slightly long hair, sun-burnt skin, rough fingers, big moustache, and a pair of lips with the corner that seemed always point downward. A type of guy whom you wouldn’t want to mess up with. Normally, I do not easily freak out, but this guy did really freak me out when he yelled at another taxi driver and a Caucasian guy who abruptly cut his way. He yelled “f*** you !” Seriously. He really said that. Naturally, all the passengers became uncomfortable with this driver, and said nothing more to him than “stop” when they finally arrived.

But, as a person who got good manner lessons from her mother (though I probably forgot some of them in the past few years), I said “please, stop” instead of just “stop” to him. He seemed indifferent. Allright. I gave him the money, then I looked straight to his eyes, smiled, and said “thank you, sir.” Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upward, the corner of his eyes wrinkled, and he said “you’re welcome” in a sweet voice, accompanied with a polite nod as if I am his close neighbour. He was still scary-looking, but he was no longer scary for me.

Few minutes after his taxi gone, I still stood on that pavement, pondering. Then, when I resumed my walking, I smiled. That simple “thank you” really had effect for two person’s heart : me and the driver. He looked happy, and so did I. He probably looked so scary because he simply never had reasons for being polite, until someone showed him a little-but-genuine politeness, by saying a simple thank you.

Welcome, reader

Size does matter. I’m not going to argue about that, because that’s true. But here’s the thing, never mind the size, whether big or small. My blog is not about big things about how to overcome financial crisis, how to make big money in small amount of days, what makes Mr. President from some countries doing this and did not do that, and stuff. Leave those to more competent writers. I’m talking about small stuffs. Simple things. In-depth looking into something very trivial in everyday lives. Something I saw, I heard, I liked, I disliked, I perceived, and I felt. Not important for some but me.

J. R. R. Tolkien (bless him for Lord of the Rings) once said that “Celtic (world) is like a magical bag. You can put everything and take anything from inside.” Or something like that. Replace the “Celtic” with “the world we lived in”. Small things are just like those that we put into the magical bag. The result ? Will varied from one person to another.

Before you read, I only have one thing to say.

They do not built Rome in one day.