Smile...

While the smell of freshly washed linen fills his nostrils, his mind works and weaves a dream like none other he ever had. His senses were oblivious to the milieu and the occasional tantrums of the passing vehicles. Warm and snuggled up in the comfort of his bedroom his subconscious plays pranks on his conscious, seemingly giving in to his desires for that familiar scent of hers and that familiar touch. Making him hallucinate, like a desert mirage that engulfs a thirsty traveller’s mind. But only here, it is in the comfort of his sheets and in the comfort of a dream, a lie that she was there next to him holding him, touching him and looking at him with those eyes that sparkled like a million diamonds crushed into fragments and daylight glistening off the shrapnel. That comfort in those eyes he saw calmed his tumultuous mind and made peace with his very soul. Her voice made him wish he knew poetry so he may attempt to describe the warmth it gave him through flowered words and sugar coated sentences....but then reality was...she wasn’t there. Miles away...gallons of water and millions of homes in between the reality was that she was far away. He wished only that he had spent another ten minutes just memorizing how she looked, how she smiled and how she smelled. Her images are still vivid, but the distance created a void. How he wished for another moment in her presence just holding her and feeling her warmth. Though he knows that this reality will change and soon the distance will be gone and then bliss sets in again, the unwavering heart cannot help but wish for time to run quickly for once so that he may hold her again...in his arms and in his eyes....

How the years went by his mind cannot fathom but now every minute seems like a dagger to the chest for when the distance is in between he cannot help but worry and wonder about her. Knowing that the skies are like the blanket that hovers above them but yet he can’t see, smell or touch her pulls him into this deafening state of silence. Yet, everyday goes by with a smile on his lips and he lives a life reminiscent of her. How she looks when her arms are folded and resting on her knees, how her face seems placid when she is pondering, how she shields the light for when he is sleeping, how she holds his hand with the occasional squeeze of faith, trust and comfort and how she seems to want so little but yet wants him to be her world. It is not in everyday life where we find comfort in being with another but here, he knew it was more than comfort. The very image of her seems like daylight to a man trapped in his own darkness, lifting him from the imbroglio of his past. Little does she know her worth but she doesn’t have to, because he will remind her in his own ways.

It is amazing how life weaves and then unfolds itself. Where once the platonic relationships were nothing more than a bout of care and concern on the exterior now spawns one that is deeper and meaningful rooted from within. The journey had begun years ago, but only now...he found a meaning for that journey...and he will tread towards that destiny with care, adoration and love... -32-

The End!

The sound of rain pelting on zinc roofs plagued his hearing, shutting out everything else pleasant that he may hear. Drenched in the rain, his clothes soaked and clung to his body like a second skin, forming up against every contour of his body, the very clothes that once hid his frail frame now exhibiting his skeletal form without offering any comfort for privacy. Were his clothes melting into his skin, he wondered? Why did it feel so heavy? How long was he moping on the bench? Why don’t the memories seem to go away? His drenched state paled in comparison with the turmoil in his head. The turmoil caused by residual memories of a past that he still wishes was revived. He could feel his fingers wrinkle up, signs that he has been out in the rain for too long. There wasn’t a soul in sight; a feeble attempt for self comfort that there may be others who suffer a similar fate. “Not a soul in sight?” he wondered. There goes the hope that someone may take sympathy with his state and stutter a few words of comfort. Stutter...yes, that is the word, Stutter. How else can words escape the lips of someone drenched, cold and hungry? Why he cannot get the thoughts out of his head he never knew. It was all surreal, the months that past, the smiles and the joy of familiarity. Before he could get his fill of those emotions, everything crashed like pearl harbour by dawn. One moment life was good and the next, it was as though hell was a perfect embodiment of tranquillity. While the thoughts in his head kept playing again and again, the rains were subsiding. The flooded streets were carrying the remnants of litter and dirt into the drains. Someone’s plush toy, a bear, floated past hurriedly, dirty, filthy and a shameful sight of itself. The last few drops of rain smoothed off the leaves, and fell into puddles below, causing ripples. As he sits and stares into the puddle on the floor in front of him, he wishes he could’ve changed time. He wished that he could’ve made a difference when he could have or at least took a dagger to his heart when he should have, when that thought had crossed his mind. But he knows that option would not work right now. If only his prescience kicked in when it should have, then he could’ve avoided the misery. Now even death seemed impossible for what he felt was now was no longer the hurt or the anger, it was....it was nothing. A strange and overwhelming sense of nothingness. Neither the pain nor the rain bothered his soul. It was although his senses died and now he was a fallen leaf that just waits for time to slowly and surely decompose it into nothingness. His reflection from the puddle mocking him, as though sniggering at him with a wry grin upon its face. The puddle rippled, caused by one last drop of rain. But there wasn’t anything above where he was seated. There weren’t any trees, flags or anything, simply a short building. Was it rain? It couldn’t have been. No...it was the last drop of tear His tear. One that sneaked out of his eyes without his realisation. The ripple distorting his image on the puddle momentarily. The silence in the milieu causing further misery in his heart. He stared blankly at the reflection that was his own. The sunken face, eyes that have retreated deep into its sockets as though hiding itself from the world, not wanting to be noticed. The placid expression on the puddle was a result of months of memories and nightmares that he cannot run away from. No matter where he went, it followed him like a plague. Never stopping at dawn or dusk, it was all the same to him. He could never want the sunrise and he could never accept the sunset. Wishing that this emptiness stopped, he lifts himself off the bench.

Every step he took, he hoped it was one away from the desolate past and into a new beginning. He hoped for new parallel of dreams and aspirations that he could begin weaving. The neon lights across the street flicker, the light bulbs failing. What use is a light bulb if it fails? Doesn’t it fail it’s very purpose for which it was made? The only destiny that was meant to be fulfilled through the illumination it provided now seemed a null, a void, apposite to the nothingness that plagued him. The atelier to which the lights were a beacon held a tagline that read “Where the stories begin”. “Interesting”, he thought. Will they be able to alter stories though, he can’t help but wonder. Alter his story, and create an ending that he desires. He wouldn’t be picky on which ending he wanted. He already knew the ending that would satisfy him. He knew what ending that would allow him the joy and eternal bliss. But that ending, he too knew, was a far reality given the present circumstance. With a heavy sigh, he walked on to his apartment, feet wet with the rain, his clothes a reservoir of water. Again, throughout his journey to his place, there was only but a sense of nothingness. No fears, sadness, joy or tears. Just plain, nothing. The uncanny comfort it provided was such solace, for he didn’t want his mind active and racing through his memories like flipping the pages of a novel. This was one novel he decided to stash away and stashed away it will remain.

He climbed up to his apartment, and slipped in, wetting his floor. He wasn’t in a mood to get ready for bed. He wasn’t in the mood for dry clothes. He shed his wet skin, his clothes forming a pile of soggy linen on his floor and climbs up into bed. Now the nothingness accompanied by the nakedness. The feel of warm and dry quilt against his bare skin reminded him of the loneliness. It reminded him of his loneliness every night without fail, without failing like the light bulb at the studio. The tag line flashed across his mind again. “Where the stories begin”. His story began, a year ago, under that very same sky he gazes upon, in view of the many sailors in the distance. But forget where and how the story begins. He knows he hasn’t seen the end yet. He knows that the story has it’s continuation, only now along an alternate parallel. He knows that even if the story did not provide with that happy ending he so desired, he knows the story is far from finished. He knows it will continue, until one day, he decides to ink the last full stop, the last punctuation to a story that will always be remembered. Until then, he wants to stay awake. He wants to breathe for as long as it takes now. He wants to relish in the beauty of days henceforth. For now, he knows that he has to wait, just to see...how the story ends.....

Judgements and the price it may take.

A soft gush of wind, the breeze grazing against the coloured chimes, filling the night with its tinkling music. The sound of a distant mobile echoing through the concrete blocks, reverberating and finding its way to the ears like an archer’s arrow it seeks. And then comes a bark from a dog. What so annoyed poor Milo I wonder, judging from its bark it cannot be a Golden Retriever, perhaps a Jack Russell. Crickets orchestrating their voices singing hymns in the darkness. The sound of tiles too, made of acrylic or some plastic material permeating through the walls along with the laughter of Chinese ladies having a late night game session with their so very dear mates. Where did silence go to? Why are there noises even in the silence? Isn’t the paradoxical life itself set to challenge a man’s senses? Why doesn’t the silence offer any salvation? Wasn’t the nights supposed to bring about the serenity that he so desires.

Hypocritical society it seems, with the occupants pretending to adhere to societal mores and the customs their parents inculcated since young. Just as the silence vanishes with the rising of the moon, so do these values and morals of community for they are nothing but a facade to the guests who share a sharp eye for judgments. Quick, painful and tormenting judgements. Judgements made without rhyme, reason or remorse. Weren’t they supposed to have learned to not be so quick to judge? Why judge, and change everything?

---“It seems that the man who had the gift of the gap stood a better chance in helping Rome to it’s victory? Or wasn’t it the case that the men who so very well got their hands and cheeks dirty with blood on their bodies, smeared like a second skin akin to their flesh should deserve the credit instead? That was what my mind was telling me. But it seems like the vessels we so commonly quipped as being ‘empty’ now hold more weight to the victory at the end of the war. It is a wonder how some pass off, with mere words, as saints when the devil himself would’ve felt envious of their penchant for promiscuity. It is a wonder how they can twist, turn, manipulate, hell even write a new story based upon facts or fiction without allowing the audience receiving such information the liberty of being able to think and analyse the words said. Somehow then, these words spoken will be transfixed into the subconscious mind of the listener bypassing the analytical part of their brains. Before you know it, they are bought and made to believe that the untrue, is true. So then the speakers got away with the accolade whilst the soldiers walk into the city cut, bruised, burnt and battered without a single applaud. The common man was cheated and made to believe that the raconteur was the saviour whilst the soldiers were proponents of war and all that is bad.”---

What use is there for one sit and gullibly speculate the life of another man? What use is there when he or she fail to understand the complex life of the ones that they judge? If all that you see is true, then hope is a lie, for that is one that is neither tangible nor visible. Love will also be a lie, it is simply but an emotion. Why has one to be so quick to judge I’ll never know, without remorse they paint their own work of art over another man’s masterpiece. Haven’t they understood that fighting one battle is nothing, but when they hit him with battles successive and concurrent, it could very well drain him of his breath? The wonder it is for he isn’t an insouciant soul any longer but instead a shy kind to louche remarks by quidnuncs and their kind. Perhaps their ‘productive’ days can use a little less judgemental badinage.

Well, it seems then that never is enough to shut such up. For passing snide remarks and judgemental bile are parts of their activities. And no matter how much one can maintain decency in any given situation, it still seems that there is a loophole where there is as long exists a situation per-say. Let us choose an option then now, that let us not even allow such a situation to arise. After all, finding the solution to any problem starts at finding the root of it. Since now the root has been sought and found, let us rip it off, so that it never grows again. This shall be, even if it shall cause another simple smile from his face. Let them, hopefully, walk in silence and let him think in peace instead of creating a parallel universe in which he becomes the villain. Let him think....let him....and let the price be the smile...in return...for some simple moments of silence.

The Art of Victory

Hear the war cry going on in my head? The intimidating screams that will etch an unrelenting fear in the hearts of the enemies. Hear the man in the distance shouting his last orders? He tells you to take no prisoners, he asks you to fight for the wife and kids that you love and he asks you to fight and colour this soil with the sweat from your brows. He tells you that victory is beyond that horizon, let the fearful not near it but only the brave. Let the brave conquer the fear and conquer the horizon.

The soldier knows no gargantuan dream. The simple man he is all that he desires is to live another day in dignity amongst those he so very loves. His one step forward will give hope for his family while the same step backwards spells doom for him and his kind. The fear his heart thumps with, oh the fear he feels. Masking those fears he grits his teeth and clenches his sword. He raises his shield and protects the man on his left. The muscles on his body, right from his calves to his jaw, contracting and forming a turgid statue of himself. He stares the enemy in the distance, boring a hole through their shields with such intensity. He knows that today, there is only two outcomes. Either he walks a free man or he feeds the vultures above.

------------------------

Victory never comes without pain. Pain in it’s nimiety brings about the gratitude for when victory tastes sweet. For that honour you so die for and wish for there is a price that you have to pay. For those very people who you once trusted will now turn against you and show their back to you because you took a step, a bold step forward. Now there is silence around you, the gay chatter of those trusted now replaced with quiet. Positively, you can now focus better. There isn’t anyone who shall distract you from the dream you made. Make your dream and think about only that dream.

Abraham Lincoln failed to make into congress on more than one occasion. If my memory serves me right, he failed on seven attempts and made it on the eighth. Today, he is touted as the one President who has etched a permanent respect amongst Americans. Today they have erected statues of him, in his glory so that the world shall remember him. Abraham Lincoln, is a legend. Had he chosen to give up his dream after so many attempts, today his name would not be resounding in history. Or it may, only that perhaps he may have been recognised as the man who gave up his dream for the fear of failure. Had he been reticent to push past the failures, today America may not have become what it is.

Thomas A. Edison made several attempts before he invented the electric light bulb. His every failure drew him closer to discovering that very invention that now dominates the way we live. He never allowed the travail of his pursuit put an end to his will. Instead, those daunting moments he lived in created and built doors in place of where there were once walls.

Every luminary in history had a trying story to tell. Not all were born with a silver spoon. The beauty about life is that people have a choice. People choose when to pursue and when to detach themselves from their goals. Once you detach yourself from your goals, then all that you ever worked for now would count for nothing. What good is your experience then? Once you imbue those dreams within your mind, concentrate on why you want it and remember that and that only.

People fail because they take their eyes off their goals. They fail because somewhere along the way they lost the vigour and fortitude they began with. They concentrate on the failure they have become and in that moment they forget why and what their dream was about. Every runner is taught not to look at ten feet in front but to stare into the distance. To look straight at the finish line and only the finish line. Do not look left, do not look right, what your competitors do is none of your concern. Do not take your eyes off your goal.

Sure, there will be times where you feel like giving up. Sure there may be times you are so broke you would consider slicing a part of yourself for food. And the biggest pain lies in the want to continue to pursue that which you have and perhaps now have found a lost cause in. Because, people feel emotions. Because people feel sad when they lose, they feel angry and frustrated when things do not go according to plan. People feel desperate when they’ve tried more than one attempt at attaining that goal. But I’d say to them, to hell with those times you tried. To hell with those people who didn’t trust you enough. To hell with those people who didn’t have the guts to reject you in your face but instead led you in a merry-go-round chase. To hell with circumstances to hell with those who put you in it. It is them who ought to be ashamed for they never realised the purity of your intentions. Now put that aside and move on to the next. The longer you dwell in such grieving nuances the deeper your desolation is going to be.

Every sunrise means there is yet another opportunity. Every sunrise means that you still have another day to turn it around. Every sunrise means, that you have lived another day, to try yet another time. So make use of that opportunity, turn it around and try every single day until your last breath shall run dry. And by the time you take that last breath, there can be only two outcomes. When you read this line, think about what that outcome will be for you.

Create your circumstances, not be a victim of it.

Eulogy for the King, thou shall never be forgotten Michael.

My personal eulogy for a legend that once lived among us begins right here and now.

Michael Joseph Jackson. What a gift he was to the world. What a wonder he showed the world. He was not merely a musician, but an artist who encompassed and embodied perfection and showmanship within that child-like behaviour. How could one ever feel for a man who was pushed into show business at a tender age of 5. How can anyone understand the life that he led or the pain that he had. How can mere people like us even imagine what living as the King of Pop would have been like? His celebrated life soon tormented and now celebrated again by people wishing under their breaths that they hadn’t called him a freak once before. What would any of us know, about how any part of his life would’ve felt like?

My childhood, just like for many others, was filled with Michael. I got introduced to Michael with ‘Bad’. Since then, I used to save money and plead with my mum and brother to buy me his records. I used to hunt the stores after school for anything I could find on him. I would tape his concerts, interviews, his videos and everything on television about him just so I can watch it again and again. I would play his videos and put it on slow-mo so I can learn his steps. I wanted to learn to moonwalk and to move like him. He took something from people like James Brown and brought it to a whole new level with his mastery of the beat. Along the way I would have blisters on the foot doing the moonwalk. There was no place too small or big to practice. I would practice in the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, the shower and anywhere else that wasn’t bustling with people. Tracks such as ‘Man in the Mirror’ and ‘Will you be there’ had such overwhelming emotions that it seemed more magical than mere pop. But somewhere along the path of growing up I gave up. I gave up wanting to dance like him. The fact is that there is no one in the world that can be like him. There wasn’t a soul who can do the slightest bit of justice impersonating a man who made history with what he did. He was the one artist who could let the music take control of him but yet he takes control of the stage. His stage presence wasn’t merely mind-blowing but it was a force to be reckoned with. The sheer power he had on stage made people cry and faint finally getting carried out of the crowd by bulky security personnel. I remember watching his History concert at the national stadium. The crowds raked in from as early as morning wanting to get as close as they can to the action. I was no different arriving at around noon. My friends and I felt the life sucked out of us for it was so painful waiting to see the King. The anxiety and the thrill of watching a man so legendary was overwhelming. And when he did come, the stadium roared with such deafening voices that it will be remembered for a long time to come. It was beautiful to see people united by a man who was neither a black nor a white. After many years, somehow Michael became universal, as how some would put it. He put the black community on the world map and later united the blacks and the whites with his music.

It would’ve shattered fans to hear that he was accused of child molestation. It affected me as well. How can a man who was so child-like within, singing songs of his own sad childhood and being tormented by brothers who urged him to engage with groupies behave in an offensive manner with kids? He loved children. All his profits from his Dangerous tours went to charities. There was a man who was giving to the world in a way that he can but yet being traumatised by the very society that he tried to help. By the very world that he so cared about. Michael is a stroke of genius that soon became a dark shadow of himself. Pushed into the layers of ice he moved, shying away from the world that he so loved. Michael was a man with so much of popularity and wealth living a life secluded and in loneliness trying to find ground that will not give way. So yes he had cosmetic surgery done. Perhaps he even had bleaching done. Or perhaps he even was eccentric. Why is it that a man who brought pure music to the world judged upon what he does unto himself and not judged upon what he gave to the people around? Perhaps it is now a trend that if you do not get a boob job then any other cosmetic surgery will not be tolerated. Wasn’t it us who damaged the ozone layer and started waging wars with each other? Wasn’t it us who pushed what was the brightest star on earth into the dark abyss? Wasn’t it us who asked Michael to give us his music and yet tore him apart from within? Fact of the matter is that no matter what he may have been or accused to have been, he was a musician to everyone else. He was and still is that person who created not music, but an entire different culture. Michael was screaming through his songs to be left alone from the satire and pejorative tabloids. He was never let alone until now. And now a voice within me screams that ‘he was only still a child’. Michael was only still a child...why didn’t they leave him alone.

Michael to many was not any of those described. He was not a child molester nor was he eccentric. He was a mere man who refused to grow up and had so much of care for the world. He was a mere man when he was alive because a man can get hurt. And get hurt he did many a times. Now which vulture or money grubbing journalist shall defame him some more shall go ahead. When artists sang his songs at his memorial I realised that there will never be another person in the world who would be able to sing his songs. No one will have his voice but most importantly, Michael sang from his heart and his gut. Only Michael can sing his own songs because he sings them from deep within his soul. He can make his fans cry with the way he sings and that accolade can only be given to him. When Michael passed on, he did not pass away quietly. He made the world that he cared about, now care for him. He made the world that did not care when he became a recluse now stop and reflect, and finally realise, how much he actually meant to them. He made people realise that true legends will never be forgotten and like the thirst in our throats we will thirst for him again and again.

When Michael passed, it was not only an end to an era, it was an end to some of our childhood. It is an end of a storybook about this child, that never saw a life fulfilled, that was stabbed by the very people it loved. This was a story about a child that refused to grow up but showered the world with its sheer talent. This story now ends short with so much regrets that perhaps, this little treasure should’ve been better protected from the cruelties. But all that has been said, done and sung...all that remains now is the soft hum of his music...that magical music. His legacy is written in stone...rest in peace Michael Joseph Jackson.

---- Mugi

Bellisimia Italia! The Italian Vacation.

Bouna Sera! At long last I have sat down in front of the computer in an attempt to articulate my stay in Italy. Let me go down memory lane a little and picture Rome in my mind. Sweet sweet Rome in all of its glory. The statues, the Corinthian pillars, the streets, the history behind what was once the world’s strongest empire were all too much to grasp at one take. I revelled in it every moment from the time I landed. The Vatican City and all that it stands for. A city within a city when it was declared a sovereign state. The Sistine Chapel within the Vatican is a must-see for all who are intrigued by history or the arts. Michelangelo and his works speak for themselves on the ceiling and walls of the chapel. Amazing is not only the paintings displayed, but what they hide within and the subtle flaws in them. Works such as “The Last Judgement” and “The Creation of Adam” were some of the few good images that still stay in my mind. The story behind every character portrayed, every hand motion depicted and every fine stroke of the brush. Although to some it may not be in any way significant, the realisation comes when it strikes you that those drawings were works by a real artist who lived long before our time and is still recognized for his artistry. To think also that Michelangelo, presumably, hated to be known as an artist, spent years on that ceiling. For someone who hates to do something and for him to spend 4 years of his life doing that very thing he hates is indeed astonishing. Michelangelo was more of a sculptor. That was evident in the St. Peter’s Basilica where stands “Pieta”, a statue of Mother Mary with Jesus lying on her lap. The details and intricacy of this statue is beyond doubt a classic work. The peace that sprawls across Mother Mary’s face and the resignation of Jesus on her lap were so beautifully crafted. Moving on, the Vatican Museum where not only Michelangelo’s works were displayed but so was Raphael’s and many other pieces from all across Rome’s territories. There were statues of “Hercules”, “Perseus” and “Loacan” a few to name, all who were once part of Roman mythology. Some statues lost part of their original form but were reconstructed as much as possible.

Then came places such as the Colosseum, the Flavian Amphitheatre that is still standing after years of torment from both natural disasters and man-made. In all of its glory the Colosseum was once an architecture made of white marble and majestic pillars. Now, all that stands is the foundations that were built minus the grandeur and white marble. How many gladiators, animals, criminals and entertainers were killed in that arena is still only an approximation. An epitome of hell that place was where death hit the fortissimo after entertainment worn off. How can I forget the Spanish Steps in the city? In the evening you see a conglomeration of tourists from all across the globe shopping and walking to the highest step to take in Rome’s beauty in the sunset. Throw in a few Bangladeshis hawking imitation goods on road side stands and you have the perfect ensemble. Artists stand ready to sketch anyone willing to pay 20 euro. Trust me when I say, for a Singaporean who is not used to the cold, sitting still to get yourself sketched at low temperatures is definitely not easy, but worthwhile nevertheless. From the top of the stairs you can see Rome divide into two and people sprawled all over the street hustling and shopping. Then we have the Fontane Di Trevi. Throw in a dollar over your shoulder with your back facing the fountain after you make a wish. So many tourists gather here to make their wishes. The bottom of the fountain is an attractive sin for any pirate looking for gold coins and a shiny penny. Rome’s sights were many and those were beautiful in every way. After all, it is a city built to be beautiful and unique in its own right. Now then, let us move on to Florence, the Jewel of Italy.

Florence is a quiet city filled with more students than anyone else. Walk around the town and grasp the quiet city life of the Italians. Try the pastries in the city for they are by far some of the best I have experienced. The crust will crumble at the lightest bite and then oozes out a thick chocolate filling. We did not do much sight-seeing in Florence but instead took our time in walking out and about town and finding good eateries and restaurants. Where else can you get good pasta and pizza but in Italy? Be careful of what you ask for though, order the wrong dish and you will regret that day. Be conservative and play it safe and you should love the food. Oh yes, and for anyone in Italy for the first time, try their Tiramisu. I had to abnegate the sins I’d have made again and again due to the price tag on the trip itself. The tiramisu is soft and creamy. Not something we can find much in Singapore definitely. We made a trip to places such as Fiesole which is a town set in the hills. Driving up and setting our foot on ground we were greeted with a beautiful view of Florence from high ground. All that we envisioned before the trip, the peace and tranquillity of the town were embodied in Florence. However, Florence is not all a quiet town. There are clubs around but be informed that some clubs are only for students and no one else. From Florence we went to Sienna, a countryside region with vast open lands and beautiful wineries. One of Italy’s very own wine is called Chianti, found in some bars or pubs in Singapore as well. Sienna was quiet and hence half a day was more than enough to relish in it. We hit into a castle that is now turned into a small city and a tourist attraction. Apparently built in the 18^th century, this castle still stands tall and majestic with many towers. Picture a king and his subjects living within the castle. Servants, maids, soldiers all bustling about their daily chores and there you have a magnificent vision of the castle with its original occupants.

From Florence, we took a drive into Pisa. How can one miss the leaning tower when in Italy? And my gosh that fella was really leaning! It was hilarious to see tourists, like ourselves taking pictures of the tower with someone posing as though he or she is pushing against the lean. I learned that the tower had an architectural flaw right from the start. The foundations given were only 3 meters deep and to make matters worse it was built on ground that did not have a strong resistance to water. Over time authorities had made various attempts to stop the tower from leaning further. We got a ticket and proceeded inside the tower. The stairs were spiralling and narrow, a word of caution to claustrophobic individuals. The marble stairs did not help one bit for it was slippery as well. A person’s sense of balance and his orientation will be thrown off once inside the tower because it is leaning. After the climb up, we had a bird’s eye view of Pisa. There is something about beige or pastel coloured buildings without neon lights or company logos. Not a skyscraper in view. Get yourself treated to the red roofs meeting the distant horizon. There gave also, mountains in the distance making a perfect backdrop for a picturesque moment.

Next stop, Milan! The shopping capital of Italy boasts brands such as Roccobarocco, Freddy, Guess and many more. Here you will find the finest leather bags and boots that sometimes we in Singapore are cheated of. The designs are unique and exquisite. One envious fact about the Italians are their dressing sense. Even the beggar on the street throws a coat over during working hours. Shopping was a breeze in Milan for you can find the cheapest imitations to the most expensive of designer goods. It is a city that has a bustling night life and enticing shopping avenues. For anyone who loves the city life, Milan is a place you will love. Another attraction in Milan would be at Doumo where stands a church of magnificent and intricate architecture. It stands like a sore thumb in the city but is majestic in every right. The towers are adorned with statues; every wall had detailed designs and at the centre of the towers stands a golden statue. The building was by far the most amazing I had seen in Italy. I would however, not give brownie points for the service in Milan. Perhaps they are pampered with so many businessmen and tourists that waiters and baristas do not see a reason to smile or be amicable. Drivers too, are a devil’s incarnation. When the light turns green, take off immediately. A split second of hesitation and there goes thunderous honks behind you. There you will find coloured people hawking imitation goods on the streets. When a policeman walks by they simply bundle up the goods in a white cloth and drop it into the nearest rubbish bin for retrieval later. Another point about Milan is that for every ten minutes of walking about, you will probably hear another ambulance screeching past. The roads are so dangerous that people die like flies in Italy. Milan was no exception. Apart from all that, take a trip to Milan and go by foot, you will love the shopping and the rich lifestyle.

Finally then, we end up in Venice, my favourite part of the trip. Ever since I was a little boy I always wanted to go to Rome and Venice. Everything I ever imagined the places to be, they gave me more and made me wanting further. Venice was colder than the other cities. One reason for it being closer to waters than the other cities of course. The hotel we stayed in gave a splendid view of the waterways. Every morning I open my window to be greeted by the salty scent of the waters and the river that flows below. Beautiful is not even a word that can do justice to that life. There is no driving in Venice, either you walk, cycle or you take a boat. The gondolas are just like in the movies, except I did not get on it, considering that we wanted to cover Venice by foot. After the busy eight days we had, Venice was a cooling off period for us. We went hunting for the Venetian masks. I assure you this that when you step into any shop, you will be in a dilemma as to which mask to purchase. Everything is so unique and gorgeous that making up one’s mind can be an arduous challenge. The city is known for its waterways and theatre. Not forgetting also that there is an abundance of casinos on the island. One of the casinos displayed a nice Aston Martin at its gates, reflecting the fact the movie, Casino Royale was partly shot in Venice. It is a joy to walk about at night. A friend and I were walking about exploring Venice at night trying to make the best of the last few days of our holidays. The cold left me numb from my fingers and was slowly but surely relieving me of any feelings in my nose. To top all that off, it rained a short while too. But that did not deter us from our exploration. We walked to every other part of Venice that we could. There were bars and pubs open till wee in the morning with people still happily chatting away. Drunk white men were talking loudly in a foreign language gamely quaffing beer and alcoholic beverages. Wine tastes like nectar in a place that cold. Coffee tasted like heaven too, considering that cappuccino did not have froth but instead creamy foam. People in Venice were friendly, a total contrary to people in Milan. In Venice, careful where you step because here and there lies a brown token from the behind of dogs. You can see people walking their dogs everywhere in Venice. Old and young alike it seemed that walking their dogs is one of their favourite pastimes.

Done and over was Venice, I hadn’t had enough yet. It was almost as though I was woken up rudely in the midst of a pleasant dream. The ten days in Italy has been shrunken into a summary here. Any longer the post I fear boredom will set in. But in no ways can words express the experience. I only hope you will take an opportunity to experience it for yourself. Along the way back to Dubai where we had a transit I was again greeted by the Swiss Alps from my window. The soft bed of snow covered the mountains enticing me to leap out of the plane and onto the sweet fluffy bed of ice. I will go back to Italy again. This time, better prepared. Until then, I shall plan for Paris, the city of romance. For now I thank Kalai, my manager and cousin for this golden opportunity.

“Gratitude is the Heart’s Memory”

Arrivederci!