6th Stop - Milan
The throb of Milan lies in its Duomo, the church of Milan. Exhibiting true blue Gothicism in every way possible, there is nothing more that I can muster other than a "Oh My..." upon setting my eyes on what seemed like a miniature model from Lord of the Rings. Or my Gothic literature. Either one.
Milano - fashion capital, indeed. The great weather allows coats, boots and turtlenecks to be worn, complimenting their Italian features to the most defined jaw-line. The streets lined with Gucci, LV, Prada and the likes, as well as a promenade of silk shirts, leather shoes and mink coats.
Most unfortunately, Milan reflected the lack of confidence in myself, and brought to surface my body issues. (Yes, it's the mind-fuck thing again, but everything's okay now) Looking at all those wonderful clothes, I wished like anything I had the small hips to carry those dear skinny jeans and pants off (considering that a large number of them were on sale too) matched off by a small waist like 'em Italianos. The tall and slim ones, that is.
Mind-fuck aside, I concluded I was still European-built after all. *beams* No shirt fit better than those from Italy, and pants have never felt more snug and tailored perfectly than those from Italy (and the UK). Now, that's something Milan is known for - shopppping!
Saturday, October 27, 2007The throb of Milan lies in its Duomo, the church of Milan. Exhibiting true blue Gothicism in every way possible, there is nothing more that I can muster other than a "Oh My..." upon setting my eyes on what seemed like a miniature model from Lord of the Rings. Or my Gothic literature. Either one.
Milano - fashion capital, indeed. The great weather allows coats, boots and turtlenecks to be worn, complimenting their Italian features to the most defined jaw-line. The streets lined with Gucci, LV, Prada and the likes, as well as a promenade of silk shirts, leather shoes and mink coats.
Most unfortunately, Milan reflected the lack of confidence in myself, and brought to surface my body issues. (Yes, it's the mind-fuck thing again, but everything's okay now) Looking at all those wonderful clothes, I wished like anything I had the small hips to carry those dear skinny jeans and pants off (considering that a large number of them were on sale too) matched off by a small waist like 'em Italianos. The tall and slim ones, that is.
Mind-fuck aside, I concluded I was still European-built after all. *beams* No shirt fit better than those from Italy, and pants have never felt more snug and tailored perfectly than those from Italy (and the UK). Now, that's something Milan is known for - shopppping!
And so we met again, this time as young adults maturing gracefully into our area of profession. Friendships of 14 years and more, it was only appropriate to open a modest bottle of wine to celebrate the occasion. A celebration of friendships, a celebration of us surviving Singapore's school system.
We all went through that messed up, confused and self-discovery period, we dated guys, we discovered love, we had our hearts broken once before...and as we clinked our wine glasses together, what more could we congratulate one another except for, "We're still in one piece, for better or for worse." Indeed.
The years crept by too silently, yet not too quickly for us to remember fondly our days of mischief and fun. Contemplating further studies and future employment, it was only a matter of time before we met again as professionals in our own field. Our evolution never cease to amaze me. Change can be beautiful too.
Cheers to a decade of friendship, cheers to our current (and future) success as a person.
Life is an eternal journey of blessings.
I thank God for blessing me with opportunities to live a comfortable life, for giving me a freelance job that I love, for realising my passion.
For my mother, who is very slowly relaxing her iron grip on me. Someday, just someday, I will be able to sit down and talk to her about my problems - everything. My mum had not forced me into Science as much as she believed it was the road to be.
For a reunion with those dear to my heart, to appreciate the values of what I have grown up with again.
For my wonderful friends. For them to talk sense to me, to comfort me, to laugh with me.
For discovering love. I have been sneaking and tiptoeing around the idea of "love", jumping in and out of relationships to find out the meaning of love, and whether I can love. Cynical as always, I have always believed there was no such thing as "love", only a combination of every other thing combined. I have people telling me that I have feared to embrace love, and I realise at this moment, they have been right all these while.
Love is not love till you feel it. Not that I am exactly the right person to preach about this subject, but the past 8 years (probably) I have not allowed myself to feel it. Perhaps it is so much easier to guard my heart against the pain, just flirting with the idea of "love" but not baring my naked self to it. But "love" is such an elusive thing that I am (as I am writing now) at a loss for words to describe it.
I emerge from relationships scarred, but always not hurt enough to continue looking for companionship. How is it that I always advocate independence, yet fear loneliness? Under the vivacious facade of "independence" and "nonchalance", I have successfully managed to appear strong and un-needy. Believe me, beneath that facade is a pathetic, whiny self who - like most real-life stories seem to talk about - thinks too much, reads too much into her boy's actions, words and all, becomes overcome with worry, jealousy and everything else. No, of course, I was exaggerating a little.
Yes but that side of us is inevitable in every human being. It is all about - as Miranda pointed out - perception and understanding our dear ones and putting ourselves in their shoes. It is about controlling our inner demons, chasing those fleeting thoughts away. Putting aside these mindless obsessions erases the pain that has been building up, and in turn lets a little love in. Too many years, I have been afraid to feel love. Till now, "love" is still as baffling as ever, and no one is sure of "love" till it is right in front of their face.
Too many questions, too many (nonsensical) answers. I think I will just have to keep trusting my heart, and those I believe in.
Friday, October 19, 2007I thank God for blessing me with opportunities to live a comfortable life, for giving me a freelance job that I love, for realising my passion.
For my mother, who is very slowly relaxing her iron grip on me. Someday, just someday, I will be able to sit down and talk to her about my problems - everything. My mum had not forced me into Science as much as she believed it was the road to be.
For a reunion with those dear to my heart, to appreciate the values of what I have grown up with again.
For my wonderful friends. For them to talk sense to me, to comfort me, to laugh with me.
For discovering love. I have been sneaking and tiptoeing around the idea of "love", jumping in and out of relationships to find out the meaning of love, and whether I can love. Cynical as always, I have always believed there was no such thing as "love", only a combination of every other thing combined. I have people telling me that I have feared to embrace love, and I realise at this moment, they have been right all these while.
Love is not love till you feel it. Not that I am exactly the right person to preach about this subject, but the past 8 years (probably) I have not allowed myself to feel it. Perhaps it is so much easier to guard my heart against the pain, just flirting with the idea of "love" but not baring my naked self to it. But "love" is such an elusive thing that I am (as I am writing now) at a loss for words to describe it.
I emerge from relationships scarred, but always not hurt enough to continue looking for companionship. How is it that I always advocate independence, yet fear loneliness? Under the vivacious facade of "independence" and "nonchalance", I have successfully managed to appear strong and un-needy. Believe me, beneath that facade is a pathetic, whiny self who - like most real-life stories seem to talk about - thinks too much, reads too much into her boy's actions, words and all, becomes overcome with worry, jealousy and everything else. No, of course, I was exaggerating a little.
Yes but that side of us is inevitable in every human being. It is all about - as Miranda pointed out - perception and understanding our dear ones and putting ourselves in their shoes. It is about controlling our inner demons, chasing those fleeting thoughts away. Putting aside these mindless obsessions erases the pain that has been building up, and in turn lets a little love in. Too many years, I have been afraid to feel love. Till now, "love" is still as baffling as ever, and no one is sure of "love" till it is right in front of their face.
Too many questions, too many (nonsensical) answers. I think I will just have to keep trusting my heart, and those I believe in.
3rd stop - Rome
Aside from the popular saying of, "When in Rome, do as Romans do" which probably will require me to walk around in a gladiator's outfit, white cloth and nothing else - oh are we talking about the modern times now? Rome will take my entire life to understand its rich and colourful history of Roman sculptures, cathedrals and its magnificent marble buildings. It was only after seeing the great city of Rome did I finally understand why the Romans commanded such great respect after so many years. Rome's highlights - the Colosseum and the Vatican. Listening to their guides narrate the story of might and glory, celebrating the strength of Man through battles of the "pop-stars" of their era - the gladiators, it was easy to sit (I mean, stand) on the marble stone seats and imagine a sporting event centuries ago. Climbing the steep steps of ruins scattered throughout the city, such strength and unity of the Romans can hardly be believed, what less the sophistication of the simple pulley system paired with pure human strength to build Rome as it was in the past?
The second day brought pairs of weary feet to the grander Vatican, the collections of Popes residing in the chapels and almost endless carvings of marble sculptures. Carved to its tiniest detail, characters of the Bible come alive under these sculptors' tools, etched in marble and a good thousand years to come. And what stood out like a precious gem was the Sisteen Chapel (not the 16th Chapel as popularly mentioned), its interior born out of a talented artist, Michael Angelo. And talented he was, having painted all 55 rooms of the chapel including the final (and at its grandest) St. Peter's Cathedral. Beautiful, majestic, mouth-gaping...I was stunned to silence at the pages of the Old Testament unfolding before me as I craned my neck to examine every inch and corner of the painted ceiling.
There was a stopover to Pompeii, Sorrento and Almafi Coast, but these were rather touristy in their own ways, with too many English people for my liking.
4th, 5th Stop - Florence, Venice
We ventured into the countryside of Florence and stayed in a camping village - Camping Il Pogetto. T'was a good change of accomodation and "feel" compared to Rome; it immediately felt more peaceful, more laidback and I appreciated the serenity of the entire place, even though it takes one bloody hour to get to the main town. 'Nuff said.
Venice took my breath away though. The sinking city has its own signature arched foot-bridges and gondolas, a city so small that it was walkable to anywhere we wanted to go. There were no vehicles (only boats) and the air finally smelled good. More delightful were the little gift shops we could venture in whilst walking down a normal street, and their colourful street markets selling fruits, souveniers to glassware. It was in Venice which I also saw a small army of individual blacks selling (what we suspect) fake branded goods. Bags with labels of Prada, Gucci and LV were laid on white cloths on the floor, only to be hastily bundled up and packed away upon the shout of "police!"
The last day in Venice was spent in typical Italian fashion - starting with good ol' Italian breakfast of cuppacino and croissants (donuts if we were lucky), strolling down the streets in search for a mystical "pussy" tie which Adrian was adamant on getting for his friend, and of course, dining it the Italian way in a restaurant. The last hour in Venice ended in typical Singaporean fashion - rushing into a restaurant, woffling down our meal in ten minutes (much to the disgust of our Italian waiter, who reckons meals should be eaten in 3 hours), running (imagine the stitch, ouch) back to our hotel to grab our backpacks and catching the train to Milan with probably only 5 seconds to spare.
Thursday, October 18, 2007Aside from the popular saying of, "When in Rome, do as Romans do" which probably will require me to walk around in a gladiator's outfit, white cloth and nothing else - oh are we talking about the modern times now? Rome will take my entire life to understand its rich and colourful history of Roman sculptures, cathedrals and its magnificent marble buildings. It was only after seeing the great city of Rome did I finally understand why the Romans commanded such great respect after so many years. Rome's highlights - the Colosseum and the Vatican. Listening to their guides narrate the story of might and glory, celebrating the strength of Man through battles of the "pop-stars" of their era - the gladiators, it was easy to sit (I mean, stand) on the marble stone seats and imagine a sporting event centuries ago. Climbing the steep steps of ruins scattered throughout the city, such strength and unity of the Romans can hardly be believed, what less the sophistication of the simple pulley system paired with pure human strength to build Rome as it was in the past?
The second day brought pairs of weary feet to the grander Vatican, the collections of Popes residing in the chapels and almost endless carvings of marble sculptures. Carved to its tiniest detail, characters of the Bible come alive under these sculptors' tools, etched in marble and a good thousand years to come. And what stood out like a precious gem was the Sisteen Chapel (not the 16th Chapel as popularly mentioned), its interior born out of a talented artist, Michael Angelo. And talented he was, having painted all 55 rooms of the chapel including the final (and at its grandest) St. Peter's Cathedral. Beautiful, majestic, mouth-gaping...I was stunned to silence at the pages of the Old Testament unfolding before me as I craned my neck to examine every inch and corner of the painted ceiling.
There was a stopover to Pompeii, Sorrento and Almafi Coast, but these were rather touristy in their own ways, with too many English people for my liking.
4th, 5th Stop - Florence, Venice
We ventured into the countryside of Florence and stayed in a camping village - Camping Il Pogetto. T'was a good change of accomodation and "feel" compared to Rome; it immediately felt more peaceful, more laidback and I appreciated the serenity of the entire place, even though it takes one bloody hour to get to the main town. 'Nuff said.
Venice took my breath away though. The sinking city has its own signature arched foot-bridges and gondolas, a city so small that it was walkable to anywhere we wanted to go. There were no vehicles (only boats) and the air finally smelled good. More delightful were the little gift shops we could venture in whilst walking down a normal street, and their colourful street markets selling fruits, souveniers to glassware. It was in Venice which I also saw a small army of individual blacks selling (what we suspect) fake branded goods. Bags with labels of Prada, Gucci and LV were laid on white cloths on the floor, only to be hastily bundled up and packed away upon the shout of "police!"
The last day in Venice was spent in typical Italian fashion - starting with good ol' Italian breakfast of cuppacino and croissants (donuts if we were lucky), strolling down the streets in search for a mystical "pussy" tie which Adrian was adamant on getting for his friend, and of course, dining it the Italian way in a restaurant. The last hour in Venice ended in typical Singaporean fashion - rushing into a restaurant, woffling down our meal in ten minutes (much to the disgust of our Italian waiter, who reckons meals should be eaten in 3 hours), running (imagine the stitch, ouch) back to our hotel to grab our backpacks and catching the train to Milan with probably only 5 seconds to spare.
An angel of autumn, she seems.
Sailing her own skies, soaring her own heights.
There's Mother Nature, who brings winter to her nights.
Mother Nature, her controlling force; no one else can.
For it takes just a blink of an eye, a wave of the hand, for winter to sweep away the golden tan.
Sailing her own skies, soaring her own heights.
There's Mother Nature, who brings winter to her nights.
Mother Nature, her controlling force; no one else can.
For it takes just a blink of an eye, a wave of the hand, for winter to sweep away the golden tan.
------------------------------
Perhaps she did not realise that her daughter has emotions more complex than what it seems.
And so it begins, my recollection of Europe.
1st Stop - Luzern; Switzerland
I liked the way the Swiss live their lives. Pet-friendly environment; they allowed dogs on buses, trains, cable-cars...everywhere! Pace of life is nice and slow, especially in the suburbs, of which I caught a glimpse in Weggis. It was extremely quiet yet peaceful at the same time; there wasn’t anything unsettling on the nerves. Air is super fresh, their cars didn’t seem to spew out gases and toxic fumes. However, the standard of living here is a little high, with fast-food (self-service) costing about $15 Swiss Francs per plate, and a bottle of juice at about $3 Swiss Francs. Everybody was really friendly too; bus-drivers weren’t like Singapore’s grumpy ah-peks, neither were their citizens unsmiling and cold.
2nd Stop - Interlaken; Switzerland
Friday, October 12, 20071st Stop - Luzern; Switzerland
3 weeks of feverish planning for Europe finally presented its reward – spacious seats upon Thai Airways and a picture-perfect view from Switzerland.
The journey there wasn’t as bad as I anticipated, 12 hours of being up in the air flew by pretty quickly since I spent most of my time sleeping, watching movies and eating. I must be crazy to love airplane food, really.
Switzerland seems to be built around its glistening lake, framed by mountains and wrapped in cloud and mist. Luzern's main attraction was centred at its vast body of freshwater, sprinkled with bobbing ducks and swans, paddle boats, steam-ships and the occassional powerboat. The close proximity of Swiss Alps suddenly dawned upon me; no longer was I looking at postcards of Switzerland, I was right at its doorstep taking in its splendour and beauty.I liked the way the Swiss live their lives. Pet-friendly environment; they allowed dogs on buses, trains, cable-cars...everywhere! Pace of life is nice and slow, especially in the suburbs, of which I caught a glimpse in Weggis. It was extremely quiet yet peaceful at the same time; there wasn’t anything unsettling on the nerves. Air is super fresh, their cars didn’t seem to spew out gases and toxic fumes. However, the standard of living here is a little high, with fast-food (self-service) costing about $15 Swiss Francs per plate, and a bottle of juice at about $3 Swiss Francs. Everybody was really friendly too; bus-drivers weren’t like Singapore’s grumpy ah-peks, neither were their citizens unsmiling and cold.
2nd Stop - Interlaken; Switzerland
Interlaken blew full force immediately on my face as soon as I disembarked the train. A light drizzle welcomed me into Interlaken, followed by what seemed a temperature of 18 degree Celcius (and below). Interlaken was quiet; it wasn’t as busy as a big town like Lucerne. It seemed really small, for I saw only 1 bus operating since I first stepped foot into Interlaken. Everybody there seems to cycle or walk to get around, and I soon realised why. Interlaken was a small town, with only about 2-3 buses operating every 20 minutes. It was faster to get to places by walking; one could even walk from Interlaken East station to their West station.
The plan to ascend Jungfroujoch (top of Europe), some 3000+m up in the air was almost impossible with improper attire. Nevertheless, we saw snow atop another peak, Schilthorn, 2000+m above ground level. The above photo, taken mid-way up the ascent to Schilthorn, is my all-time favourite of Interlaken, for that was really what Interlaken was all about - colourful, cold, peaceful and stunningly beautiful.
The latter part of the European adventure concluded in a series of late nights, friends and beautiful sceneries. Just when I thought I would only imagine them in books of Enid Blyton and the likes, driving along the M4 (into some random road) presented endless wooden stills, miles of green green pastures and plenty of (baa baa not-so-black) sheeps.
Of course, there was also the morning fog that gave London its famous horror stories, for the mist simply envelopes and entwines around you; scenes of M. R. James' horror reads sends your imagination reeling.
Of course, not being able to capture all those on a relatively slow shutter speed camera, I took others.
That's around Bristol, and Barcelona. Purrrrrrfect.
Friday, October 05, 2007Of course, there was also the morning fog that gave London its famous horror stories, for the mist simply envelopes and entwines around you; scenes of M. R. James' horror reads sends your imagination reeling.
Of course, not being able to capture all those on a relatively slow shutter speed camera, I took others.
That's around Bristol, and Barcelona. Purrrrrrfect.
I've done it again.
I locked us out of the room, in the name of "accidents" and "very unfortunate happenings". Just when I wanted so badly not to screw up, and to make a better day for both of us, I just HAD to screw up again.
There have been too many jagged stones, too many forks in the road, too long and winding this path has turned out to be; our loads are heavy, the heart's a drag, our bodies far too weary. I have taken too many wrong turns, made too many wrong decisions - will you still walk this path with me?
Monday, October 01, 2007I locked us out of the room, in the name of "accidents" and "very unfortunate happenings". Just when I wanted so badly not to screw up, and to make a better day for both of us, I just HAD to screw up again.
There have been too many jagged stones, too many forks in the road, too long and winding this path has turned out to be; our loads are heavy, the heart's a drag, our bodies far too weary. I have taken too many wrong turns, made too many wrong decisions - will you still walk this path with me?
The endless need to write continues to haunt me through the night, so strong that I am beginning to live the Barcelona way - those Spanish people don't ever sleep at night.
The previous night was spent at a quaint and traditional Spanish house tasting beer and watching a friend of ours get high on 8 bottles of beer. Tonight, packing and getting ready to head to our next destination was high on the priority list, and we finally settled down to the dining table, whipped out our laptops and in typical Singaporean fashion, concentrated the last of our energy on our laptops.
I seem to be losing my mojo for writing. Reading through the blogs of Mir, Jer and Kiat reminded me of my love for words, and how beautifully they flow to create forms of their own - to touch the heart, to soothe the soul and to inspire the mind. I remembered how easily I fell in love with his lines of poetry, how lyrical they seemed to me. I remembered how attracted I was to his messages of flamboyance, wit and egoism. I read her story of an unfilial daughter and felt the angst deep within; I made a promise to myself never to follow the footsteps of the female protagonist. Tonight I perch on the wooden chair and let those words totter their way out; they do not flow, they do not soar, they can only try their best not to slip and fall.
So many unspoken emotions swirling within me. It nudges, it pokes, it tears at me. I wanted so much to please, to make things easy; I end up complicating, frustrating, doing everything wrong. Perhaps I was too cocky in the past, thinking I was really as independent as I thought myself to be - no, the little one has to peek out at her most vulnerable moment(s). Vulnerability is a feeling so feared, something that spent most of its time firmly wrapped in thick layers of black tape, sealed and boxed away from the harsh realities of the real world.
I don't know if it is a good thing to be sensitive, for it pains more than it rewards.
The previous night was spent at a quaint and traditional Spanish house tasting beer and watching a friend of ours get high on 8 bottles of beer. Tonight, packing and getting ready to head to our next destination was high on the priority list, and we finally settled down to the dining table, whipped out our laptops and in typical Singaporean fashion, concentrated the last of our energy on our laptops.
I seem to be losing my mojo for writing. Reading through the blogs of Mir, Jer and Kiat reminded me of my love for words, and how beautifully they flow to create forms of their own - to touch the heart, to soothe the soul and to inspire the mind. I remembered how easily I fell in love with his lines of poetry, how lyrical they seemed to me. I remembered how attracted I was to his messages of flamboyance, wit and egoism. I read her story of an unfilial daughter and felt the angst deep within; I made a promise to myself never to follow the footsteps of the female protagonist. Tonight I perch on the wooden chair and let those words totter their way out; they do not flow, they do not soar, they can only try their best not to slip and fall.
So many unspoken emotions swirling within me. It nudges, it pokes, it tears at me. I wanted so much to please, to make things easy; I end up complicating, frustrating, doing everything wrong. Perhaps I was too cocky in the past, thinking I was really as independent as I thought myself to be - no, the little one has to peek out at her most vulnerable moment(s). Vulnerability is a feeling so feared, something that spent most of its time firmly wrapped in thick layers of black tape, sealed and boxed away from the harsh realities of the real world.
I don't know if it is a good thing to be sensitive, for it pains more than it rewards.
There's this place called Fondo in Barcelona which illuminates the streets of the chinkys, very appropriately nicknamed due to their China origins.
Dining in a Chinese restaurant in Fondo (we missed the taste of oyster sauce, soya sauce and hot soup) brought us many curious stares from our fellow yellow-skinned creatures. "Fellow yellow-skinned" species as all of us are, I would not want be associated with them. Living in Europe taught me that most Caucasians would associate us with China, and many were surprised when they learnt that we were Chinese, Singaporean-Chinese to be exact. We had many dumbass presumptions as well, like the conversations below...
American: So, where are you from?
Singaporean: Singapore. You know where it is?
American: Ah, yeah...part of China, ain't it?
Singaporean: ...
and at the beach, where we were suntanning and looking at an amazing number of saggy boobs, freckled and not...
Chinese masseur: Where are you from ah?
Singaporean: Singapore. (decides to wait a while to see if she knows where it is.)
Chinese masseur: Haha. China not enough sun for you to tan, have to come here to tan ah? [directly paraphrased from Chinese]
Singaporean: ...
The China-Chinese have zero sense of social etiquette, so quoted from Gerald, and I totally agree with him. Every yellow-skinned person in the restaurant gave us curious stares when we walked in, and our table was constantly eyed upon. Not surprising indeed - we looked different, we dressed different, we spoke English all the time. There were 'em chinky chicks carrying LV/Gucci bags with absolutely no class at all; they might as well have been carrying fake Pradas for all we cared. Their mobiles rang as loud as a stereo speaker, they openly spat into their plates, they gnawed at bones and slurped their beer.
A quick payment was all we needed to make a hasty exit. No, we had nothing to do with them. So tell me, can there be better reasons to be ashamed of our Chinese heritage?
Dining in a Chinese restaurant in Fondo (we missed the taste of oyster sauce, soya sauce and hot soup) brought us many curious stares from our fellow yellow-skinned creatures. "Fellow yellow-skinned" species as all of us are, I would not want be associated with them. Living in Europe taught me that most Caucasians would associate us with China, and many were surprised when they learnt that we were Chinese, Singaporean-Chinese to be exact. We had many dumbass presumptions as well, like the conversations below...
American: So, where are you from?
Singaporean: Singapore. You know where it is?
American: Ah, yeah...part of China, ain't it?
Singaporean: ...
and at the beach, where we were suntanning and looking at an amazing number of saggy boobs, freckled and not...
Chinese masseur: Where are you from ah?
Singaporean: Singapore. (decides to wait a while to see if she knows where it is.)
Chinese masseur: Haha. China not enough sun for you to tan, have to come here to tan ah? [directly paraphrased from Chinese]
Singaporean: ...
The China-Chinese have zero sense of social etiquette, so quoted from Gerald, and I totally agree with him. Every yellow-skinned person in the restaurant gave us curious stares when we walked in, and our table was constantly eyed upon. Not surprising indeed - we looked different, we dressed different, we spoke English all the time. There were 'em chinky chicks carrying LV/Gucci bags with absolutely no class at all; they might as well have been carrying fake Pradas for all we cared. Their mobiles rang as loud as a stereo speaker, they openly spat into their plates, they gnawed at bones and slurped their beer.
A quick payment was all we needed to make a hasty exit. No, we had nothing to do with them. So tell me, can there be better reasons to be ashamed of our Chinese heritage?