Extreme Home MakeOver - Edition Magnifique

While I occasionally cringe at the idea of building a home for one, I also believe things happen for a reason. So when I was presented with the opportunity to take over and Linh up this studio in Logan Circle, I couldn't say no.

So I closed my eyes and signed the lease.

The studio was located on a quiet tree-lined street of DC, in a building dated back to the 19th century when heat came through the hot-water system and cool air didn't exist unless improvised through a window-unit AC. Against that historical background, I wanted to mix the old and the new in a classic contemporary look: clean lines, simple furnitures, but strong color blocks and personalized accents to create a warm and cozy home for myself.
With that in mind, I painted the living room in a light grey tone to differentiate it from the kitchen and to allow indirect lighting to create a warm cozy feeling for the apartment. With the space neither too small nor too large, I used a half-level bookshelf to separate the living and sleeping spaces without blocking too much and cramping the apartment.

The white furniture also pop on the grey background, keeping a clean, classic, but still contemporary look. The orange couch was borrowed from a dear friend of mine as an accent piece to the apartment. While the orange color is extremely retro-chic, it is so beautiful simple that it fits perfectly in the modern setting. On a separate wall, a slim working table also elevated a small lamp that illuminated on a collaged wall of different framed arts.

The kitchen and bathroom were painted in a breezy blue to complement the white cabinets. Iconic art pieces accentuated the walls, giving them a personal touch: Tintin frames, propaganda posters, and beautiful fashion shoots from FT How to spend it.

I lucked out with a walk-in closet, which was quite rare in this area, big enough to hold all my stuff. It was a bit cramped, but with a little organization, I managed to keep the same tidiness that I had always been known for.

With a beautiful apartment, I was now ready to explore a whole new lifestyle that was undoubtedly denied from me for the past 3 years.

Photo Credit: Will Thomas

Bujumbura, Burundi

Holding a boarding pass that said 1F, a beautiful woman sat down next to me on this flight from Kigali to Nairobi. She stood out from the rest of those who boarded at the Kigali stop, not because 80 percent of other newcomers were white and often British, but because of her natural beauty, her brilliant smile, and as I learned later, a vivant personality to match. She turned out to be a Burundaise from Bujumbura.

Women, however, were not the only beautiful thing I noticed in Burundi.

This thought came to me one early morning as I was sipping a cup of coffee at the Hotel Club des Vacances. Grown in a land that had absorbed blood, sweats, and tears of hundreds of thousand people after years of violent civil war, the coffee had a distinctive mixture of sweetness and bitterness, leaving an almost-crude but unforgettable after-taste on the tongue. In front of my eyes, a soft halo of sunshine graced through lines and lines of palm trees, reflecting on the sandy beach that stretched miles and miles around lake Tanganyika. Two crystal-crown birds – particular to this land – approached the stairs, begging for some food. Far away, a fisherman anchored his small boat after a long night on the lake, bringing home tens of mukekes and sangalas.

That’s the thing about life in Burundi – slow, simple, yet subtly beautiful. Outside the small circle of the big men and their families whose social calendars are often filled with cocktails and receptions, most people live an almost routinely lifestyle trying to earn a living – just like pretty much everywhere else. Yet, something particular – like the Friday-afternoon nation-wide sporting program, the neighborhood-organized group exercises, or large congregations at local churches – brings out a sort of simplistic beauty. It may not be for everyone, but this is the type of detour and defrag that anyone can every now and then appreciate.

I know I certainly did.


Photo: View from the breakfast restaurant - Hotel du Club Tanganyika

Contemplation in a Strange City...

I turned on every light switch I could find, and in the dim halo exuded from a few 40W light bulbs, I could only feel the presence of an army of mosquitoes, ready to tackle any millimeter of my skin left uncovered. Here in one of the most expensive hotels in Bujumbura, the term “fragile states” suddenly seemed so real, as it spoke for my own fragility just as well as for the country’s weak post-conflict governance.

For the first time going on missions, I couldn’t wait to return home. It is often said that home is where the heart is. That couldn’t be truer. As I finished checking in at Dulles and walked into a sea of stranger some mere 30-hour before this, I had this distinct regret of leaving behind some strong feelings fully unsatisfied – those of a heart still desperately craving for the other, especially knowing how limited time you do have to enjoy each other.

Alas – distance!

It breaks a heart like nothing else. Despite how much said about how transformational technology could bridge connection, it would never be able to substitute or merely even compensate for a warm hand to hold in the icy coldness, for passionate kisses at the door, or for irresistible body contacts rolling on the floor. Despite what has been said about long-distance relationship, the truth is that when you live two separate lives in two separate continents in two estranged time zones, you can never be more apart.

And just there and then, sitting in front of my computer – fully covered in long-sleeved clothing and heavily armed with insecticide spray – I started to really question for the first time my lifelong desire of traveling the world one mission after another. Business class tickets, expensive hotels, exotic cities: all that extravaganzas could hardly compensate for the loneliness we feel sometimes, being away from our loved ones...

If only we could have it all…


Photo Credit: Human Hand Touch an Artificial Glass Hand - from Shutterstock.com

...so this is good bye for real....

To Hoa.

Fall sneaked up on me – somewhere between a labor-intensive task of building a meticulous work plan and a capital-exhaustive period of social events – as a chilly wind blew into my face and made me hold on to the light-weight scarf to which I had never attributed any warmth-generating value. Despite its endless sun-filled weekends, somehow this Fall season brought to me a perpetual sense of emptiness – as if every last drop of sunshine had been taken away from me.

Or had it really?

This Fall season was a time for me to say goodbye to you, Hoa. Even though I had known this day would come, it still hit me. Hard. The pain it brought, albeit not overpowering or overwhelming, bitterly munched on my defenseless mind. Within seconds I received the news, I was left feeling numb, trying to find a word to describe or an emotional outlet to just break down and cry – but instead, I just fell completely empty.

Hoa – I wanted to write how much this occasion was meant to “bring together hearts, hugs and memories from across the globe – in celebration of your life and all that you have given to us,” and that we would be able to draw strength from your inspirations, and the community you had created. But the truth was that to me, you were not some inspirational Goddess that I turned to learn how to live my life. We have shared even our darkest secrets, and I have loved you for that. You were one of my best friends, and a part of my life that no hearts or hugs would ever make me feel enough.

As sunrays continued to glaze the beautiful color-changing leaves, this emptiness would be eventually forgotten for the work, mission, social events, and many things in my life – but I knew it would always be there, just as my love for you.

May you rest in peace.


Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Dar es Salaam - on mission

I woke up as a tiiiiny ray of sunlight got caught in my eyes, and with a sweeping action, the curtains were spread wide open to reveal a horizon of seawater, punctuated by large vessels which, from where I was standing, seemed like little toy boats leisurely floating offshore. Here in Dar-es-Salaam, life was just as slow - and despite the intensity of the normal Bank mission, I couldn't help letting myself savor that lifestyle every morning like right now.

I had planned to write a long blog on all sorts of genius ideas (what else?) but since I was buried under a huge pile of TORs and professional blogposts, I figured I would add an excerpt from Daniel Sellen's blog on Life in the Field. This blog on a "typical mission" would hopefully give you some perspective on what we usually do during missions. Obviously it's satirical and should be only taken lightly - so enjoy!

It occurs to me that half of Bank staff, maybe more, never get a chance to go on mission. This is a shame, because (a) it's where we get our most important work done, and (b) it's usually lots of fun.

I was recently in a state capital in India where there happened to be four simultaneous missions. This is not too unusual -- often Government staff have back-to-back meetings with the Bank and are mystified to find out that not only did we not know about the previous meeting, we have never heard of the staff members who we saw leaving. They seem to take this in stride.

The three-day mission I was on consisted of making the rounds with several Secretaries and asking them what reforms they intended to make so that we could write these into the loan as a form of conditionality. This makes Government happy (they don't have to bother with any troublesome stuff) and it keeps the Bank happy (we can pretend that reforms were our idea). In the end, it is generally accepted that Government will probably do what they like.

After our counterparts have gone home, the Bank missions gather in various corners of the hotel bar and discuss how the day went, gossip about various difficult Government officials, and after a few more drinks, gossip about members of other missions. The teams then drift off to various restaurants with their note pads, and eventually retire to their rooms to replicate.

Breakfast time on the third day.... At one table is a small forestry mission. At another table a large team is appraising an hydro-electric dam project. In another corner, a transport supervision mission. In yet another corner, a multi-sectoral team is preparing a DPL. About 30 people in all, Bank staff and consultants, most in jackets and ties, with a few saris here and there. Waiters rush back and forth with cappucinos and dhosas, trying to squeeze them in betwen laptops. The diners excitedly exchange tiny pen drives containing critical bits of text, just like (they imagine) secret agents must do. Tourists, munching on danishes, wonder what the hell is going on. An Aide Memoire is born.

At 10:00 the last coffee cups are drained and the various missions break off, jump in a fleet of cars, and head over to their respective offices to present their Aides Memoires to Government, who at this point are confused about whether they are meant to discuss a dam or a forest or a road.

In case you don't know, a mission Aide Memoire is not what the name suggests -- in fact they are hardly memorable at all. An AM is actually a dreary document that explains what agreements were reached in about five lines, which are padded by dozens of pages of fluff which the exhausted Task Manager hasn't had time to edit and never will. It is a fact that every page of an Aide Memoire decreases the probability that it will be read by 15%; as such, a 5-page Aide Memoire will be read by about a quarter of the intended audience, and anything over 7 pages is guaranteed to be completely ignored. At any rate, Bank staff continue to produce these things, with the naive expectation that the things agreed on will magically be done by the time we return on our next mission. This occasionally happens, which no doubt gives us the enthusiasm to produce them again the next time.

This story is of course entirely ficititious. Do others out there have similar figments of imagination?

p.s. what is a "figment"?


Photo Credit: XL - View from Slipway, Dar es Salaam.

Fairytales in Reality

Starry summer nights often take me back to childhood memories of lying on the rooftop waiting for a comet, dreaming of a fairy tale to come true. The plot would be typical - prince charming meets his object of interest at a lavish party held at his palace. She runs off at midnight, leaving behind a (desirably designer) shoe, prompting an all-kingdom house-by-house search in which girls of all feet size try to (deceptively) fit into a shoe that is obviously not theirs. Albeit stretches, the shoe should still magically fit her eventually and they live happily ever after.

In Hollywood movies, these meet-cues continue to be fairytale-like, despite their modern day settings. The main characters meet in a romantic snowy night before Christmas when they stumble on each other and end up having passionate sex. The next day they go on a perfect date in which they talk nonstop about the beautiful things they have in their lives. They are "the couple"in the restaurant - beautiful, well-dressed, and clearly surrounded by nothing but love.

In reality, we met late night through an Iphone app called Grindr and went on our first date at a 24-hour McDonald's for the jasmine green tea to wipe away the Singaporean humidity. On that cloudy night, the cold drink also helped find some peace of mind after a whole day in the hospital witnessing one's best friend going through pains after pains at the last stage of cancer. Sitting outside on the sidewalk, we talked about how our lives were not perfect, tiring, and could be lonely away from home. And at the end, we walked back together in our worn-out flipflops, close and natural as if we had been together for a long time.

We didn't know how it would turn out, but suddenly, life - in that moment of imperfection - felt just like a fairy tale or a Hollywood movie.

.

.

* And just like a fairy tale that has to end at some point, we found a good point to say "the end" - and stayed good friends until now.

Photo credit: Catch a falling star - by David Delamare

The vicious cycle of pain

I was sitting with my legs close to my chest in a beautiful garden on a rare cool midsummer afternoon when my stomach went inflame again. I knew the feeling – that of desiring something too much and learning to accept that it was not going to happen – and I also knew the cause of it.

It was the beautiful creature sitting a few inches away from me, petting a small dog in a manner that seemed completely ignorant of the conversation around him.

I had questioned myself from the start of our “non-relationship.” He had ADD; I had OCD. He was European and noncommittal; I was Asian and dreaming of a relationship. I had told myself this would not work, that there was no place for me in his little world, and that this would be the last time I even think of him. And yet, every time he smiled, texted, or talked to me, I snapped that tiny ray of hope and fell right back to the place I was before – vulnerable, painful but somehow satisfied like an addict between joints.

He told me about his previous relationship – crazy, intense, toxic. His friend told me about how his ex-boyfriend insulted, abused, and tortured him – and how he threw himself to that guy like a moth to the flame. All I thought was how much I wanted a little craziness, a little toxicity, or a little intensity – with him.

Thinking about this twisted chase of cruelty, I couldn’t help wondering why we were so addicted to pain. Was life so boring that we needed pain for excitement? Was life so miserable that we needed pain to escape? Or were we just selfish masochists who blindly give in to whatever our hearts told us to, in hope of finding “true love”? And if so, how much pain would we be willing to tolerate before we finally quit?

Quitting, however, would require closure – or putting a meaningful ending to “something” we had. But in the end, there was just no ending – just like there was nothing to begin with.

Photo Credit: La douleur exquise - from vi.sualize.us/kallini2002/la%20douleur%20exquise/