I don't feel like blogging today. Really, I don't. But today is the first anniversary of my arrival in Perth, so...something has been telling me that I must write something about it. Anything. Even scribbles and scratches.
So...I don't even know how to start, for God's sake. Today I can only remember all things I held onto on September 28, 2013, all things I left, all things I looked forward to, all Australian hopes and dreams.
I remember getting my belongings inside the taxi as we left for the airport. Then my mother stopped by at a nearby convenience store to buy a few packs of biscuits.
I remember having breakfast at Oh La La Cafe. I ordered a piece of scone and a cup of coffee. I think Mother ordered a cup of hot chocolate. For the first time in years Father, Mother, and I were having breakfast together at the same table without any yelling or swearing involved. I remember feeling so giddy.
I remember Mother realising that she had left her scarf at home. I remember laughing so hard - the night before she had been so excited at the prospect of wearing that nice, flowery scarf to enjoy Australian spring.
I remember hugging Father tightly as Mother and I got ready to go to the check-in counter. He didn't cry. I was glad he didn't. I didn't cry. We said goodbye as if I was only going for a short holiday. I don't know why I didn't cry.
I remember Mother taking care of everything at the check-in counter. My luggage was heavy, but thankfully each of us got free 40 kg of baggage allowance. It was the second time for us to enjoy business class seats on staff fares since Mother got promoted to Flight Service Manager a few months before.
I remember seeing a woman yelling at two airport officials for not wearing gloves while inspecting her handbag. I remember Mother consoling the poor officials. Then we sat inside the waiting room, and I don't remember much during that time. I don't know why.
I remember our plane arriving.Boring Boeing 737-800 as usual. GA 724, PER - CGK nonstop. It was the first time I flew to Perth from Jakarta without stopover. The previous three times there was one stop in Bali. Aircraft registration number PK-G-something. We boarded. I remember Mother greeting her friends who were on duty in the flight. We took our seats. 7A for me, 7C for Mother. I remember asking for The Wall Street Journal as usual.
I remember praying. Dear God, I pray that You will assist this aircraft in its journey and that we all will arrive safely in Perth without any incident. Then PK-G-something taxied to the runway and took off. I remember feeling so excited that I, at last, left Indonesia, the country that I love with my blood and tears yet I associate with a large number of horrible experiences and endless days of crying. Bye-bye, sorrow.
I remember taking pictures on my iPad Mini. As usual Mother looked fresh and refined while I looked like someone who just had been released from an insane asylum. I remember taking a few selfies. Then I also took a few pictures of Mother. After I got bored, I listened repeatedly to two songs in my iPad: "Radio" and "Runaway", both by The Corrs. The versions from their MTV Unplugged album. I remember Andrea's voice and Sharon's violin surprisingly blending well with the sound of PK-G-something's engines. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, runaway, runaway, runaway. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, runaway, runaway with you. I was indeed running away.
I remember switching to the in-flight entertainment. No new choices of songs and films. I remember choosing a Celine Dion album to listen to. Then I played one of my favourite songs, "It's All Coming Back To Me Now". I remember closing my eyes to enjoy Celine's voice and the piano parts more. Such a beautiful song.
I remember having sushi for lunch. It tasted good. It was served well. Mother was pleased. After we finished our meals she fell asleep - I remember seeing some guy who was sitting in front of Mother reclined his seat without thinking that there was a passenger sitting behind him. I remember getting upset. Some people should not fly at all.
I remember having an awful headache. I didn't wake Mother up. I didn't want her to worry. I remember trying hard to sleep to no avail. Then I reluctantly accepted that I would have to survive this five-hour flight without any sleep. Little did I know that it could be a sign of what was to come.
I remember nothing much after that. Only that we landed safely, thank God, with me expressing my happiness that after all shits I had been through I was finally here, in Perth. I remember seeing a South African Airways Airbus A340 when PK-G-something was taxiing to the apron. I remember how much I loved Perth Airport. I don't know why I was so giddy.
The rest was a blur. Then all of a sudden here I am, blogging reluctantly only to mark the unremarkable first anniversary of my arrival in Perth and no other purpose. Here, a journalism student as expected. Here, in my bedroom. Here, after one year.
Here, after 365 days of accomplishing nothing. No spectacular university results (well, a few High Distinction marks here and there, a few praises from most lecturers, a few well-received presentations, and a few well-received essays and researches, but nothing that humans would appreciate). No shitloads of money. No parties. No job. I applied for a job at a fast food restaurant chain and they said something along the lines of, "Sorry, but we have no casual position available at the moment." despite the fact that they mentioned a vacancy of casual position when I sent my application to the restaurant. I never loathed myself so much up until that day.
Here, with the most part spent feeling hatred and rejection. I don't know why I'm still worried about rejection. Rejection was my best buddy in Indonesia. I was rejected by two stepmothers who eventually stopped talking to me without any good reason whatsoever. I was rejected by circumstances. But I still have a huge fear of being rejected. Here, in Perth. Where I have built my hopes and dreams even before I came here, even when I was a wee high school student trying to love grammar lessons.
I was excited to come here. I'm thankful for being here. But there are times when I question my excitement, which gave no indication that I would end up spending a year doing nothing substantial.
Where are hopes, dreams, and optimisms that I held onto at the airport in Jakarta just a few hours before GA 724 boarded last year?
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
No, Stevie Nicks. But if I could buy dreams to make my days better and more substantial, I would. I swear.
So...I don't even know how to start, for God's sake. Today I can only remember all things I held onto on September 28, 2013, all things I left, all things I looked forward to, all Australian hopes and dreams.
I remember getting my belongings inside the taxi as we left for the airport. Then my mother stopped by at a nearby convenience store to buy a few packs of biscuits.
I remember having breakfast at Oh La La Cafe. I ordered a piece of scone and a cup of coffee. I think Mother ordered a cup of hot chocolate. For the first time in years Father, Mother, and I were having breakfast together at the same table without any yelling or swearing involved. I remember feeling so giddy.
I remember Mother realising that she had left her scarf at home. I remember laughing so hard - the night before she had been so excited at the prospect of wearing that nice, flowery scarf to enjoy Australian spring.
I remember hugging Father tightly as Mother and I got ready to go to the check-in counter. He didn't cry. I was glad he didn't. I didn't cry. We said goodbye as if I was only going for a short holiday. I don't know why I didn't cry.
I remember Mother taking care of everything at the check-in counter. My luggage was heavy, but thankfully each of us got free 40 kg of baggage allowance. It was the second time for us to enjoy business class seats on staff fares since Mother got promoted to Flight Service Manager a few months before.
I remember seeing a woman yelling at two airport officials for not wearing gloves while inspecting her handbag. I remember Mother consoling the poor officials. Then we sat inside the waiting room, and I don't remember much during that time. I don't know why.
I remember our plane arriving.
I remember praying. Dear God, I pray that You will assist this aircraft in its journey and that we all will arrive safely in Perth without any incident. Then PK-G-something taxied to the runway and took off. I remember feeling so excited that I, at last, left Indonesia, the country that I love with my blood and tears yet I associate with a large number of horrible experiences and endless days of crying. Bye-bye, sorrow.
I remember taking pictures on my iPad Mini. As usual Mother looked fresh and refined while I looked like someone who just had been released from an insane asylum. I remember taking a few selfies. Then I also took a few pictures of Mother. After I got bored, I listened repeatedly to two songs in my iPad: "Radio" and "Runaway", both by The Corrs. The versions from their MTV Unplugged album. I remember Andrea's voice and Sharon's violin surprisingly blending well with the sound of PK-G-something's engines. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, runaway, runaway, runaway. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, yeah. Runaway, runaway, runaway with you. I was indeed running away.
I remember switching to the in-flight entertainment. No new choices of songs and films. I remember choosing a Celine Dion album to listen to. Then I played one of my favourite songs, "It's All Coming Back To Me Now". I remember closing my eyes to enjoy Celine's voice and the piano parts more. Such a beautiful song.
I remember having sushi for lunch. It tasted good. It was served well. Mother was pleased. After we finished our meals she fell asleep - I remember seeing some guy who was sitting in front of Mother reclined his seat without thinking that there was a passenger sitting behind him. I remember getting upset. Some people should not fly at all.
I remember having an awful headache. I didn't wake Mother up. I didn't want her to worry. I remember trying hard to sleep to no avail. Then I reluctantly accepted that I would have to survive this five-hour flight without any sleep. Little did I know that it could be a sign of what was to come.
I remember nothing much after that. Only that we landed safely, thank God, with me expressing my happiness that after all shits I had been through I was finally here, in Perth. I remember seeing a South African Airways Airbus A340 when PK-G-something was taxiing to the apron. I remember how much I loved Perth Airport. I don't know why I was so giddy.
The rest was a blur. Then all of a sudden here I am, blogging reluctantly only to mark the unremarkable first anniversary of my arrival in Perth and no other purpose. Here, a journalism student as expected. Here, in my bedroom. Here, after one year.
Here, after 365 days of accomplishing nothing. No spectacular university results (well, a few High Distinction marks here and there, a few praises from most lecturers, a few well-received presentations, and a few well-received essays and researches, but nothing that humans would appreciate). No shitloads of money. No parties. No job. I applied for a job at a fast food restaurant chain and they said something along the lines of, "Sorry, but we have no casual position available at the moment." despite the fact that they mentioned a vacancy of casual position when I sent my application to the restaurant. I never loathed myself so much up until that day.
Here, with the most part spent feeling hatred and rejection. I don't know why I'm still worried about rejection. Rejection was my best buddy in Indonesia. I was rejected by two stepmothers who eventually stopped talking to me without any good reason whatsoever. I was rejected by circumstances. But I still have a huge fear of being rejected. Here, in Perth. Where I have built my hopes and dreams even before I came here, even when I was a wee high school student trying to love grammar lessons.
I was excited to come here. I'm thankful for being here. But there are times when I question my excitement, which gave no indication that I would end up spending a year doing nothing substantial.
Where are hopes, dreams, and optimisms that I held onto at the airport in Jakarta just a few hours before GA 724 boarded last year?
Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?
No, Stevie Nicks. But if I could buy dreams to make my days better and more substantial, I would. I swear.
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