Sorry For Not Being There

A farewell to my beloved Toon...

Only if I didn't insist on staying...

Only if I didn't linger...

Only if my return was 10 days earlier...

I could be there to say good bye.

Every single moment with you was truly precious...

Thanks for being my best friend always.

I am sorry for not being with you in the last moment.

I hope you would always have me in your memory...

just as I will always have you in mine.

Rest in peace.

With Love,

Mod

Chronicles of Mod : Eleven Truths I Found Out About Norway

Here we go...

1. The Spaniards prove to be unconditionally noisy regardless of their location. While I was quietly enjoying the evening spring sun in the City Hall Square, a loud chattering group of Spanish tourists suddenly caught my attention. They were across the square but I could still hear their conversation as if they were sitting next beside me.

2. Norwegians seem like albinos. Pretty, beautiful and elegantly tall but bloodlessly pale (No offense!).

3. EVERYTHING is costly. A bottle of mineral water costs 3 euros and a pack of Doritos 4 euros, isn’t that nuts?

4. Too many Thais living there. Why? More investigations need to be fully done to satisfy my curiosity.

5. Contrary to the number of Asian immigrants, this country has fewer Chinese restaurants than I expected! Not that I was desperately finding one, but it surprised me.

6. Norwegian tulips are as visually appealing and beautiful as Dutch.

7. Norway doesn’t boast the architectural grandiosity as most European countries.

8. Norwegians in general can surprisingly speak English! Well, I got this low expectation based on the experience from where I’m currently living, Spain.

9. Oslo, Stavanger, Bergen (and hopefully any other cities) are sprinkled with sculptures. They are extremely obsessed with statues (Well, perhaps not “they” but “some artists”).

10. The weather in spring isn’t as freezing as I was told. In Bergen, it’s kind of wet though. Too fucking rainy.

11. Norway has sparrows and pigeons just like any other cities in the world! Furrier and a bit plumper though.

Chronicles of Mod : Dreaming of You

Last night I dreamt about you. It has been such a long time since I last saw you in my slumber. You were there waiting to pick me up at the arrival gate but somehow didn’t speak a word to me. I saw you saying good-bye to someone I didn’t know and whom you didn’t even bother to introduce to me. There was something between you two that had me disconcerted but, as always, I dared not ask. Fear grew inside me; things would never be the same between us, or at least that was what I thought it would turn out to be.

16:00, May 5th, 2007
Stavanger, Norway

Chronicles of Mod : Invading Norway, Part I (Live)

Stavanger
May 4th, 2007
22:51

Here is the first online note I've been able to made about Norway, simply becuz I'm stucked in the lodge, not knowing exactly what to do.

Stavanger is very small, so tiny that you can finish off the outdoor sightseeing within one day. I was supposed to take a stroll in the city centre in the evening, but since I overslept a great deal, I'll have to come to term with my drowsiness before deciding what next will be done.

Gay scene is off the list, as far as I know. I haven't seen any places particularly established for gays yet. Couldn't find a proper list of them on the Net either :( This is truly sad... But then again, in Oslo I may have a better luck.

I wasn't able to get to the top of The Pulpit Rock since no bus would run there till next week (Good timing!) but, nevertheless, I wouldn't let the chance to get a glimpse of it go easily. I took a fjord tour to the base of the Rock this afternoon and it was indeed impressive. Seeing the majestic Pulpit Rock covered in mist from down below was like paying homage to one of the most wonderful grand creations that Nature itself had ever made.

For now, I'll have to figure out what to do for the night... perhaps a short walk to the lake.

Así Empezó La Despedida

Hace unos días empecé a despedirme de Madrid. Salí de paseo para decir Adiós a las calles en que, durante tantos años, había pisado y pasado, a los sitios que tanto frecuentaba, acompañado y solo. Aún me quedan varios lugares donde dar la última visita, de eso no tengo prisa, que tengo un mes y medio para hacerlo.

Todo comenzó el domingo pasado. Salí emergiendo del metro Tirso de Molina, encontrando al mercado al aire libre en pleno día lleno de muchedumbre alegre. Caminaba a ritmo relajado hacia Sol y luego Sevilla para alcanzar al Retiro, donde había quedado con Por, una amiga tailandesa.

Disfrutaba ver cómo los turistas exploraban cada rinconcito del Madrid de los Austria con los ojos curiosos y cómo los madrileños gozaban del sol primaveral. Prestaba más atención a los detalles minuciosos que nunca antes había notado. Observaba la belleza arquitectónica de la parte más alta de unos edificios antiguos más importantes del centro, que tantas veces había pasado pero nunca tenía interés suficiente para detenerme a contemplarlos. Me fijaba más en la gente que se me cruzaba en la calle; cómo venía vestida, en qué hablaban, cómo sonreían, qué miraban, cómo aprovechaban el descanso dominical y qué le interesaba. En el Retiro me reuní con Por y juntos dimos un paseo muy largo pero ocioso por el parque, dando comentarios sobre temas propios y ajenos.

Las cosas que damos por bien conocidas no siempre lo son al verlas desde otros puntos de vista, desde otros ángulos. Aquella tarde me sentía tan extraño como en el primer día de mi estancia en esta ciudad. Era como si nunca hubiera estado en este metropolitano. Me parecía un lugar desconocido cuyos misterios aún se quedan por descubrir. Quizá fuera una sensación que solo una persona a la que le toca dejar el sitio que tanto tiempo ha vivido puede sentir. O quizá fuera simplemente una impresión (pre)nostálgica.

Fuera lo que fuese, a partir de aquel momento, empecé ya a echar mucho de menos de todo lo que me ofreció y ha ofrecido esta ciudad encantadora llamada Madrid.

New Year Solution

Here comes again the Thai New Year, Songkran Day. This time I welcome the feast with a big change in my life; I quit the job, prompting to leave Spain.

It's time to start anew, but this isn't at all my new year solution. It's pure coincidence.

I was supposed to leave the company on 30th, as stated in the voluntary redundancy letter I handed three days ago. However, the words I had with the company's lawyer the day before yesterday changed all that. She said "Since you're stressed and not very happy with your job, if the company tells you not to come to work tomorrow, do you think that's OK? This way the company is doing you a favor". I was caught off guard. Favor my ass. If I wanted leave at the instance, I wouldn't need that "favor" nor permission from the company, I could do it at that very minute. She then confirmed that it was just one of the measures the board might take. Until she, my boss and the board discussed about the issue, nothing was fixed yet.

The next day I went to the office to settle the wage payment. Most of my colleagues seemed surprised because nobody knew I was leaving. It then dawned to me that the board wanted to kick me out before the 30th to punish me for selfishly leaving the project, but my boss insisted that I stay. Well aware of that fact, I had to choose between continuing till the end of the month as my boss wanted or quitting on that day. Between a bit more extra money and pride, I chose the latter.

And it felt good! I left the office smiling and winning. I didn't need any revenge for what they would want to do with me. It was just to prove that I quit because wanted to, while they still needed me. They could sack as many workers without work contract as they would love to, like they had always done, but not me.

So what I'm going to do from now? More exercise, more swimming, more cooking, more fiestas, more travelling, enjoying the little time I've got a tope before starting a new chapter of my lifetime journey...in Bangkok.

P.S. The most sincere thanks from my heart to those who have always listened to and supported me through this hard time; mom and dad, my brother, Patto, P'Por, Now, Evans, Takeshi, Trixi, Fiat and many more. :-)

The Most Decisive Moment in my Life

Now is the most decisive moment in my life. Everything that happens from this moment on depends solely on the decision I'm going to make today. And it isn't an easy one.

Life in Spain and Hard Life in Bangkok, what will you choose?

After months of waiting and struggling, I've finally been authorised to apply for a Work and Temporary Residence Card. It hasn't been easy, since it took the company six full months to start the procedure, another four months for the Ministry of Labour. And now with the official permit for Work Visa in my hand, and a limited time period of one month, I must decide whether to go back and apply for the visa and come back here again, so as to continue my assignments and responsibilities in this company. All these efforts will be in vain if I choose to throw the chance away, just to return to normal chaotic life in Bangkok.

Two months ago, I was very determined to leave the job, but now, with the paper in hand, I'm not so sure. What if life in Bangkok wasn't what I'm expecting it to be? What if I didn't get the job that I'm applying for? What if things didn't come out as planned? What if being again with my Patto wasn't enough? Will I ever regret the path taken? Will I live in misery, overwhelmed by the mistake I've made? So many questions unanswered, and they never will be until I reach the decision.

I was told, today, by the boss that it wasn't fair for the company that, after all these bureaucracy and procedures the company had gone through FOR ME, I simply decided to go, leaving everything pending in the air and in mess. I didn't speak up, silence. I didn't dare, I suppose.

What dignified me the most was that the company did all the paper things FOR ME. Liars. Partly they did it for themselves. And they did it too late. They should have begun eight months ago, before summer, not after it. That was why I had to extend my Student Card by enrolling in a language school, which took me each month a good amount of my already reduced salary. It was the money I shouldn't have paid for had the work permit procedures been done earlier, but they lingered. Now tell me who was doing a favor for whom? If I hadn't stayed, parts of the project wouldn't have born fruit. They helped me to earn money? Forget about that, what I got paid was a misery because it was only media jornada.

But his comment makes it easier for me to reflect. Tomorrow I'll face what is about to come and justify my action. I'd love to live here and work for this company, but it just isn't me. I can't stomach what I'm doing daily. It's pure torture. The stress is eating me inside out and doesn't leave me in peace at night. I go to bed with headache, thinking of the next day and the tasks yet to be done; tasks I hate to do. Shall I sacrifice myself for the cause of the company? If not, will I be a prick? So be it.

Some other Thais might probably see me as a loser, the one who throws away the great opportunity of life. I used to compare myself to those who tried any means just to stay in Spain and I couldn't be at peace. Comparing oneself to the others will only deteriorate your state of mind. The solution? To hell what the others think of you. It's your choice, it's your chance.

Life in Bangkok may be hard. It's obviously not as beautiful as in Europe but my roots are there. At least I won't suffer from solitude nor loneliness because my family, my friends and Patto will always be there for me. And it took me two years and a half to realise how important they are to me, how their presence keeps me mentally alive and how much I love them.

Molar no mola

Yesterday I had one of my wisdom tooth pulled out. It was one of the worst experience I've ever had since childhood (well, excluding the appendectomy one).

I had known for years that one fine day this molar must be got rid of for good, and from the moment I noticed its inclination towards the other teeth, my fear over the extraction had been gradually increasing ever since. Call me chicken and I wouldn't retaliate. Yes I am, at least when it comes to odontology. Each time I stepped into dental clinics, I was brought back to that painful bloody experience in my childhood when my mom brought my bros and me to that damn dental clinic near our home where one of the two kind-looking female dentists took care of us. If her hands had been at least as gentle as her speech, I wouldn't have been left traumatised up until now. I could feel that she was madly rummaging in my mouth in search of some villainous bad teeth and tried her very best, and successfully, to pull them out in spite of their persistance to stay rooted in my gum.

In fact, the yesterday operation was noticeably less painful than any one I had had. However, I was totally rigid, tense and stressed in my position. Didn't move an inch. Embarrassed and uncomfortable as I was, I walked out of the clinic with a swollen cheek, pretending to be normal as people stared at me in the face. It wasn't about physical pain that worried me like when I was a child anymore, but a humiliation caused by the eyes of curiosity penetrating right into mine.

I couldn't help thinking about my swollen face and what people would think of it...especially when some good-looking guys came by. :D

Lost in Translation

Last month I had a chance to revise a thai translation of three english texts, done by an outsource translation agency who eventually paid a freelance to do the job. It was, without any excuse, a totally botched job done by a self-proclaimed profesional translator. A real shame.

I don't mind people making mistakes in their jobs, we are human after all. The vital part is whether we've got guts to face our own blunders and embrace the comments for the better. If we made our own bed and wouldn't want to lie in it, who else would?

As far as the ethics concern, a translator should at least revise the final text before submitting it to his/her client. In this case, the translation came with tons of orthographic mistakes. Misspelling could be found in every single paragraph, not to mention the inadequate use of puntuation and mistranslation. I gave in after meticulously having corrected the first text, for it took too much time which I had better dedicate for something else more useful to the project.

The company returned the texts to the agency, who consequently passed our comments (made by me) to the translator. A few days later he sent us an email explaining about the gaffes. His excuses weren't in any way plausible. My translation is semantic not verbatim and therefore I didn't translate literally into thai (well, his translation was INDEED verbatim rather than semantic, in my opinion. I had no idea why he said that! And some cases, he even failed to translate certain words). As for a term such as Andrology which isn't yet officially coined in Thai, he opted for loan translation which doesn't make any sense at all, without putting any explanatory note anywhere.

The worst of it all was the catastrophic use of puntuation such as full stops, commas and semicolons. These marks are hardly used in Thai, only in some extremely rare cases, according to Thai standard, but each paragraph was full of them. The culprit justified his action by saying that, though fully aware of the said standard, he still used them because it was HIS standard and style! With this sentence, he didn't even deserve to be called a translator, and even less a Thai.

Until next time, I will keep praying that such species of irresponsible language professionals faced the extinction very soon so the circle would be left untainted.

First Come, First Serve (?)

Life in Spain is all about making queue. Be it in banks, hospitals, supermarkets, theatres, lottery stands, department stores, FNAC, Casa del Libro, Mc Donald's, Kebab's, bus stops or even the chinese grocery store by your home. But as far as my experience concerns, I still haven't found the clearly defined standard of queuing etiquette in Madrid.

Every morning, on weekdays, I must hurry to Moncloa to form a part of an incredibly mile-long queue of oficinistas waiting for the bus number 162, a sole mean of public transport that connects one of the most congested squares in Madrid to a desolated suburban office zone near Aravaca. Since I enjoy the pleasure of sitting and reading on the way to the office, I always arrive exactly when the first bus leaves and wait for the upcoming empty one.

Unfortunately, there are also those who want to earn this privilege without effort by shamelessly cutting the queue on the pretext of talking with their colleagues or acquaintances who have previously arrived before them.

I've been experiencing this phenomenon for one full year and see that this is not quite common in some other places or establishments. It particulary happens only at this cursed bus stop and, therefore, can't be concluded as a Spanish queuing etiquette for which I at first wrongly mistook.
Spaniards do jump the queue , although rarely. Most of the culprits are immigrants (no offense here) and that, in my opinion, contributes sadly to the fact that foreigners are negatively viewed as troublesome in the native eyes.

At first, I was so firm in my believe in the proper queuing etiquette and always gave some openly accusing gazes at those who had a real cheek to slip in front of me, until one fine day I realised that it was done regularly, even by a colleague of mine who always came to salute me and stood by me as if it was one of the most ordinary behaviour in the world. No guilt, no shame. It shook my foundation of believe to the core. And I started thinking maybe I was the one who was swimming against the tide.

I'm ashamed of what my colleague does but still I haven't got the guts to tell her that I really don't think she should cut the queue just like this. I don't want to look at the others in the eyes, because I know, though not my fault, I was partly to blame. I wish every morning that the bus come before she finds me or that my existance in the queue went unnoticed or, be that as it may, somebody reproached her (or us?).

Maybe it's too much to ask for. Perhaps I'm expecting something from the place that can't grant such request. Or it's simply the way it is and I'm too serious about life. But there's one thing I know for sure; making a queue at this bus stop isn't what it was anymore and has become some kind of stressful adventure each morning.

Metro de Madrid informa...

Que ya pueden ustedes disfrutar de la prestación de servicios especiales en toda la red de Metro de Madrid.

Ponemos a su disposición un nuevo servicio de tren de mierda, cuyo mantenimiento se realiza cada década para el mayor rendimiento de la máquina. La situación se efectúa de forma extremadamente lenta e imprevisible en todas las putas estaciones llenas de basuras y carteristas.

Y con el objetivo de que los estimados pasajeros pudiesen disfrutar de la maravillosa vista de las oscuras paredes subterráneas, tambien se presta, gratuita y aleatoriamente, el servicio de paradas interestacionales de entre uno y treinta minutos (o más), independientemente de horas punta, trayectos o la voluntad de pasajeros. Este dichoso servicio está destinado exclusivamente para hinchar los huevos a todos los desesperados oficinistas que aspiren llegar con toda prisa al curro a tiempo pero que no consigan despegar el perezoso culo de la cama a las seis de la mañana.

Además, informamos que traigan paraguas y linterna en caso de diluvio incesante que pudiese provocar una riada suburbana, resultando en la falta de luz y goteos. Para demostrar la responsabilidad de nuestra parte, Metro de Madrid repartirá dos tiritas a cada persona que sufra cualquier tipo de traumatismo, causado por la superficie deslizante del puñetero suelo mojado.

Para expresar nuestro constante apoyo a las campañas del Ministerio de Salud, apagamos la mayoría de las escaleras automáticas y ascensores medievales (que nunca funcionan con normalidad) en casi todas las estaciones más concurridas y profundas de la red, tales como Cuatro Caminos, Plaza de España y Moncloa. De esta manera, todos los distinguidos pasajeros, sean jóvenes, embarazadas, asmáticos o cardíacos, podrán aprovechar la ocasión para hacer ejercicio físico por el bien de su salud.

Les confirmamos que, utilizando todo el dinero que ustedes nos han abonado estúpida e inevitablemente, continuaremos ejecutando este desarrollo degenerativo de la red de metro, con el fin de convertirla en la mejor caja de sorpresas de todos los metros del mundo.

Esperamos que todo nuestro esfuerzo anteriormente mencionado, junto con el apoyo leal de nuestros pasajeros, nos ayude a ganar el primer puesto del concurso internacional de El Metro Más Jodido del Mundo.

Muchas gracias.

Metro de Mierda de Madrid (MMM), siempre pueden contar con nosotros.

What a Lil' Panda Can Do

I'd love to give this cutie lil' pandita a big hug! :)

Do I Look Vulnerable?

One more time, I almost fell victim to professional pickpockets.

It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon when I was enjoying my double-cheese burger at the most peaceful corner of Burger King, Estadio Santiago Bernabeu branch. From plenty of empty tables and seats, I chose to sit at the second table from the innermost corner of the floor.

While I was experiencing the divine taste of oily french fries, three latinos (a girl and two guys) came up the stairs, scanning the area with their inscrutible eyes and impassive expression. I wouldn't have paid any attention had they not come directly to the table behind me, the one at the corner, and sat there.

What really aroused my suspicion was that one of them maintain his position at a table by the stairs, gazing at my direction, watching the couple sitting and doing their business.

There were tons of unoccupied tables but they chose to sit behind me, in the corner which wasn't at all easy to access. I was observing them in the reflection on a plastic panel in front of me. They looked around and then sat down. I instinctively drew to my side the chair on which I had placed my shoulder bag and then stared at the guy by the stairs. Our eyes met. He picked up his mobile and made a call. In the reflection, I saw that the man with the girl answered the phone and suddenly both of them stood up and, passing my table, went straight to that guy before going downstairs. All of this happened within about 10 seconds.

Although relieved, somehow I felt a tiny bit of anger inside me as well. WHY it had to be ME? Because I was alone? Because I seemed like a careless tourist? Just because?

Do I look vulnerable?

Don't answer me, I don't want to know the answer (nor the truth). Thanks for reading.

Sick Again...Naturally

I went to see a dermatologist, again. This time with the hope of finding a solution to get rid of an itchy red patch on the back of the neck that had popped out a week ago.

She told me that it was #?!@!?#@ (Srry, since the left hemisphere of my brain didn't function well, I couldn't catch that technical term), probably caused by nervous breakdown or stress. That analysis hit the bullseye.

I was under extreme stress during the past two week as a consequence of my work (I'll bore you with that issue later) when these annoying little spots started to exhibit themselves to the world using my neck as their base camp. As I said before in Life is a Roller Coaster, I had never believed about the influence of stress on our physical condition, but this situation just made the theory more plausible (to me).

Well, let's see if I'm capable of keeping my stress level under control. Maybe all I need is just a little trip of soul-searching with myself, alone.

Let's get Materialist

I hardly lost my euros on things I considered part of materialism when I was a scholar. Everytime I wanted to indulge in some kind of shopping, I felt guilty, provided that the monthly allowance was aimed at the development of my education here in Spain (Well, travelling is other issue, I DID learn a lot from that!). Things became quite different when I got a job last year and had some extra money to spend. I allowed myself more trips and journeys, as well as more shopping experience, with less guilt, of course. The materialist side of me was unconciously unleashed and, by the time I realised what was actually happening, I ended up in front of a pile of gadgets that had got me the first time I saw them.

The top ten of what I deem must-have accessories are...
1. A PDA phone : One of the most wonderful things I have had. Never regret. So useful that I can't live without it anymore. All in one (Budget Manager, Metro Map, Dictionaries, MP3 and etc.)
2. Nike 360 : Good for walking and running alike!
3. Arnette's sport sunglasses : I had the lenses made to suit my eye sight. Very practical for adventures and outdoor activities.
4. Black XS : My favourite scent from Paco Robanne. Truly sweet, yet manly.
5. Vintage denims: I only look for what really fits me. If my ass is accentuated A BIT, I'm satisfied.
6. Adolfo Dominguez's wrist watch
7. Gran Diccionario Oxford and Real Academia Española : How could I be a translator without these bibles?
8. Shoulder bags from Adolfo Dominguez : I like the accessories from this brand, the clothes suck though.
9. Urban-style sunglasses from Gucci : I just can't run about the city centre in a dressy style with that pair of sport sunglasses, can I?
10. The last one is yet to come... let's see if I can get some nifty leather moccasins around here soon. :)

Lately my materialist spirit has somehow become quite lazy and low. The urge to shop gradually decreases. Like seasons that constantly change, maybe the shopping phase is already gone, and here comes another era of adventures and journeys.

:)

Madrid Dangerous

Last Friday, with all the burdens and stress originated from the office, I was literally mort de fatigue. My physique was so overwhelmed that I could hardly manage to move my scrawny ass from the seat when the bus came to a stop at Moncloa. The metro was particularly crowded that afternoon; all wagons were packed with people like sardines in a can. I fought my way in and found my own vital space in front of an old lady on the last seat of the row. People kept filling in till not an inch was left for more. Even in a situation like this, I somehow managed to keep on reading Fitzgerald's The Diamond as Big as The Ritz, with a little discomfort though. My right hand was grabbing a vertical pole while the left one was holding the book and simultaneously the strap of my shoulder bag, for the safety of my belonging.

In Tirso de Molina entered more people and I felt uneasy and had a bad feeling that something wrong was going to happen. And it did. A small tanned girl with curly long dark hair, of twenty something, inserted herself between me and a gentleman nearby. Facing me, she crossed her arms that were covered with her sweater and coat. Though the train started with a jerk, she didn't even bother to get hold of anything, which provoked a great suspicion on my part. I enjoyed the novel no more but went on pretending to be absorbed in my world, unaware of the surroundings while, in reality, I was observing intently, within my vision range, my shoulder bag, hanging defenselessly in front of my right thigh. Suddenly I felt my bag moving a little. I got fully alert. Then the second time. I was imperceptibly fidgeting. Then came the third. My heart was racing a mile a minute. I looked down and, lo and behold, a hand on my half-open bag!

I looked up and stared at the girl, fuming. As if the most innocent person in the world, she, returning the gaze, asked me "¿Qué pasa?" (What's wrong?) And here was one of the most scandalous scenes that followed.

Me : ¡Que te voy a partir la cara, zorra! (I'm gonna smash your face in, bitch!)
Bitch : Pero no he hecho nada. (I haven't done anything)
Me : Que me estás robando la cartera. (You're trying to steal my wallet.)

Here intervened a witness, a young Spaniard with his girl, confirming me that what she was trying to do.

Me : ¡Hija de puta, ven conmigo, a la guardia, al vigilante! (Bitch, come with me, I'm taking you to the security guards!)
Bitch : Pero no he hecho nada! (But I haven't done anything!)

Our scene was again intervened, by the bitch's friends who were at the doors. Yep, they worked in group. They yelled out, asking what happened. Arriving the next station (Antón Martín), I dragged the bitch out while her friends insisted on staying, but to no avail, because the other passengers just kicked them all out like disgusting stray dogs.

We were making a scene scandalous enough to get the attention of everyone EXCEPT the metro guards. Those bitches were trying their best to seem innocent and find other victim while I followed them with silent rage along the platform. A lady almost fell prey to them when she was surrounded. I got in and warned her loudly. She seemed surprised of what was happening and told me to calm down and don't pay attention to them.

They mounted the upcoming train, in a totally full wagon so that I couldn't follow. I was burning with furore and told the passengers in a shout that they were pickpockets. The doors slided close and the train left, leaving me with the confusing sensation of angry outburst and weakness. At least, I should have done something. Only if some security agents had been there...

My boiling temperament was intensified even more when I saw seven guards chatting in a group at the station I got off . Were they supposed to be there, chatting? Weren't they supposed to be patrolling in different stations? The answer I wouldn't bother to find out. From then on, it became clear that it was the problem of somebody else's, not mine. At least, I had saved my wallet, my PDA phone and my Gucci sunglasses. That's what really mattered.

In a metropolis like this, you can't depend on security agents nor police. Nor can you leave your guard down, or else someone will always find a way to get to you. The best way to come up with these sorts of petty criminals is to build up your own defense; be aware. It's an obvious fact that I've never given it a serious thought before.

After spending two whole days complaining to myself like a wacky nerd, I decided to put this into the blog. No matter where you are from, if you come to Madrid, be very very very careful and always pay attention to your personal effects or you will regret it.

Until next time, keep watch of your bags and never let them get you!

P.S. : This site gives some tips about how to deal with pickpockets.
http://travel.howstuffworks.com/pickpocket.htm

¡Chino Gay!

On a winter's night, I was walking in the University campus, heading to the Dorm, after a tiresome kind of translators conference, when a car drove pass me and one of the four passengers shouted out of the window "¡Chino Gay!" and then left the scene in laughters, leaving me perplexed beyond all cure. That was about a year ago.

I tried to figure out how the heck they knew about my sexual orientation within a glance (in the dark). Obviously, I was walking as normally as any man on earth did. Maybe my body-fit coat and my nerdy look somehow got their attention and automatically turned me into a quarry of their verbal abuse. Sigh.

That wasn't the only occasion. One night, I was waiting for Now at Princesa Cinema and it was getting colder, so I decided to fetch myself something to eat in McDonald's. While I was making the entrance, a big bald white man came walking towards me from the opposite direction, fixing his stare at me and, when approached, shouted "¡Chino!" at me before appearing into the crowds 0_O Another yet perplexing scene.

The same thing happened when I came back from a fiesta to the Dorm at about 3 o'clock in the morning. A group of youngsters on the other side of the road glared at me before baptising me (as always) as "¡Chino!".

Apart from the occasional naming (cruelly done on purpose), most of the people in Spain unintentionally (but always) mistake me and Now for chinese. "¿Chino, qué tal?" (What's up, chinese) "Oye, chino" (Listen, chinese) "Chinita" (Little chinese girl) " Mira mamá, chino" (Mom! Look at that, a chinese!) "Cuidado, que vas a pisar al chino" (Look out, you're going to step over the chinese guy).

All these actions lead to the sole conclusion that, despite the virtually obvious existance of numerous chinese convenient stores and restaurants, the Spaniards and Latinos never get used to seeing Asian people. And this conclusion logically leads to the fact that most of the Spaniards and Latinos know so little about how to distinguish the Asians...well...for most of them, there are two types of Asians, the chinese and the rest. If you're not from the first, you're from the second and that's it.

However, once I was saved from this tragic truth of life when an insane homeless alternatively called me "¡Coreano!" (Korean!). Well, at least, he did make an effort to get things out of the mainstream.

A Jerk in the Work

I've hardly made any comment about my work in this blog, either because it isn't worth mentioning or because I'm not so proud of it. I consider myself lucky not having to wake up each morning moaning "Oh gosh, it's another working day, sucks" but is it my dream job or am I satisfied with it? Well, not yet anyway.

As an assistant to Direct Sales Department, I run some of the department's errands and try, at my very best, to increase the product sales over the Internet in Thailand with VERY limited resources, be it human, technological or commercial. And since my department, countlessly rebaptised over and over again, haven't yet got a really firm ground on the definition of its responsibilities and duties, we all must know a lil' bit of this and that until things (when?) get better and more stable.

This morning I got a talking-to for having made some mistakes from my Mexican colleague, who supposedly is my boss but doesn't deserve to be called so. I admittedly accepted the comments because I really did something wrong, but what really got me was the way he talked to me. The tone of voice he used was, from my oriental point of view, strong, intense, coarse and ill-mannered. It was full of the air of superiority and subtle arrogance. It would be a racism to say that he acted so because he was a Mexican; I've known many adorable Mexicans here and they are well-educated with good social manner. I'd say it was due to HIS strong Mexican character, unrefined and poorly-adapted to the social context, and the linguistic difference between Spanish Castellano and Mexican Castellano (especially tone of voice).

After such situation, which I was hardly accustommed to, I reached a point of professional enlightenment (wow!) that I would never want to stuck here forever, under the shadow of such a prick like this guy, and someday I'll move on. Things can change. So don't just keep my hope too high about the permanent or full-time contract that the company has promised me nor think that they will need me as long as I'm here for them. If the project doesn't work, I might get sacked. If I don't reach the expectation of this so-called boss or our sales don't satisfy the president, I might get kicked out. Or one day I might get sick of this improper behaviour and just say Adios.

But in the mean time, I'll try my best to be more patient, solve problems, improve my performance and facilitate the work of the team so that I can proudly wave good-bye when the time comes.

Divorcio a la Española

Aviso : Este video contiene alta dosis del humor español.

Ultimamente he pasado la mayoría del tiempo navegando en Youtube y éste es uno de los videos que me dejan casi muerto de risa. Espero que os guste.

Kiwi!

I've come across this cute but sad video, created by Dony and friends, in Youtube. Hope you will enjoy it as much as it do. ;)