Descendants of Dragons

Who breaks Paddles?
DOD
Who breaks Records?
DOD
Who breaks Hearts?
DOD
Who. Are. We?
D.O.D

A chant I heard all weekend.
A chant I'll never forget.
A chant that brought together 50 people.
A chant that created Thunder and Lightning on the water.
A chant that will forever define my summer of 2012.

Descendants of Dragons, a dragon boat team name that will rise with the generations to come.

An Adventure in the Kitchen

Lately, there are many bakesales that I should be contributing to so I decided to bake this weekend.

I'm not a good baker. Most of the time, my stuff comes out overbaked or too liquidy. Once I attempted to make chocolate chip cookies. It turned out like this:

"Continent" is the name my mom gave the form of my cookies.






This time, I decided to attempt chocolate cupcakes for the millionth time. I'm a freestyler in life, whether it is dance or cooking, I can't stick to a formula. Following a recipe should be easy right? Everything is written: do this, put that, and it's precise too!  But eyeballing measurements is my specialty. Most of the time I add too much of one ingredient so I add a bit more of another to compensate.

"That looks about right," I tell myself.

  Most of the time, I'm also lacking in ingredients. I needed vanilla extract but had none. I had vanilla sugar though. Should I add it in?

So I put a quarter of the bag in.

                        Next on the list of ingredients were: - baking powder and baking soda. But isn't

I learnt in Chemistry at some point that Baking Soda + Salt is the same thing as Baking Powder. So I added more baking soda and more salt than required to compensate for the lack of baking powder. 

(I just looked it up and in fact, they are used very differently but have the same effects.

http://chemistry.about.com/cs/foodchemistry/f/blbaking.htm -> If you want to know more on your own)

But then, while looking for the vanilla, I found:

So I added a bit of that too. Just in case the baking soda and salt don't work.

Finally, I threw everything into the Magic Oven (because sometimes I get miracles and sometimes I get food for diamond teeth)

and hoped for the best. >.<

In case you were wondering, it turned out quite well: 

My Godzilla mom enjoying my cupcakes.

Pourquoi Pas?, an Adventure into a French Coffee Shop

This morning, I went to a coffee shop called Pourquoi Pas Espresso Bar. It's a small shop on Amherst street between Beaudry and Berri Uqam metro. The walls are made of wood and there is a cosy chalet ambiance. Unlike coffee shop chains like Starbucks or Second Cup, there isn't a high counter separating the worker and the client. In fact, the wooden counter reaches my hip.

"BonJour. Biernvenue." The mid-twenty coffee man greeted me. French was definitely not his preferred language. He was tall, average looking, not hip nor gay like most coffee shop men.

"Bonjour. Je voudrais un latte s'il-vous-plaît." I spoke French, just in case I was wrong about the accent. The name of this shop is French after all. Or maybe this was just the first English wannabe-French coffee shop.

"Okay. Pour emporrter ou pourr ici?" Okay. He definitely speaks English better than French.

"To go please."

He was perplexed. His look told me: Oh! She can speak English! Just to make sure, he asked, "Do you prefer English or French?"

"N'importe lequel. You prefer English right?"

A look of relief spread across his face. "Oh yeah. English please." He finished making my latte, designing a heart shaped leaf with the milk on top. "So today's coffee is from Costa Rica. It's really rich and has a hint of cocoa and a hint of ...." I didn't catch the rest. I'm not a real coffee fan. Coffee tastes all the same to me. Sorry I wasted your breath.

"Okay." I nodded. "Thanks!"

"Sweet!" Half enthused, half generic.

I smiled and left the shop. I tasted my latte as I walked out. Mmmm. Thick, creamy milk with a taste of coffee. But no sugar. Bleh. So bitter. As I mentioned earlier, I'm not a real coffee fan. Too late to turn back now. But for real, what is with French coffee shops and not adding sugar into their specialty coffees?

It's ok. Next time, I'll ask them to add sugar. I will be back!

An Adventure in the Land of American Dreams

Flashing billboards, hundreds of people gathered around 3 streets, tens of yellow cabs driving by, New York, a city where one can really believe to achieve the American Dream.

The last weekend of my March break was spent in the city that never sleeps. Our tour guide Dunkin (Donut!) welcomed us into the city with "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra. A huge city with 5 districts and 8 million people cannot compare to Montreal. Montreal is a kaleidoscope because of its multiethnic city? Wait until you go to New York; it's a rainbow of all kinds of ethnic backgrounds. Here's an idea:

Montreal's:                                                            New York's:
Chinatown: 1 and a half streets                              Chinatown: 10 blocks
Little Italy: 3 streets at most                                   Little Italy: 5 blocks
Downtown: St-Catherine Street                             Downtown: Three times as big

True, the proportion of people should equal the space they occupy. Therefore,

Montreal's:                                                            New York's:
Ghetto area: 3 or 4 communities                            Ghetto area: HUGE

It is a sad reality but the more people there are in a city, the harder it is to find jobs for everyone. Many immigrants stand in the cold in their stands, competing against each other and against the bigger markets, trying to sell their products. Not exactly the most relaxing job. 8am until 3 pm shifts? More like 8am until 10pm days. No more than 40 hours a week? Dream on. These people are there 7 days a week, 98 hours or more per week. They try their best, make the most money they can (sometimes that involves ripping people off or illegal activities). It is how they survive. Money doesn't fall from the sky nor does it grow in trees like in the American Dream.

A dream is just a dream.

On a side note, if money is not a problem, there are many things to buy in New York. Since there is so much competition between stores, the products on sale are at the cheapest price possible. Tommy Hildfiger shirt, 5$, jewelry, handbags, half the price they would be here. Food too is cheaper than in Montreal. McNuggets at McDonalds is only 4.99$ for 20 of them. Here, it costs 6.89$ for only 10 of them. Frozen nuggets on sale are at 3,99$ a box of 20. For a dollar more, they're cooked and prepared for you and there is sauce that comes with it. Not only McNuggets are cheap but fresh strawberries are a dollar a box in Chinatown.It's GREAT!

                                      

Give Me a Break - An Adventure into a Marianopolite's March "Break"

Friday, March 2^nd, 2012.

3:30 p.m. marks the end of my last midterm and the beginning of my March break. You’d think I’d be rushing out of the room singing “We are the Champions.” Instead, dazzled by the effects of the physics test, I’m not too sure what I’m doing or where I’m going. Test, drugs, all the same. They both make you hallucinate after taking them. I follow people out of the room but forgot my jacket at my desk. As I re-enter the classroom, a whiff of dense brain power hits my nose. Thank god it’s March break. Or should I say study break.

That’s right. Study break.

Teachers privilege these long breaks, thinking that students have more time to study and work on projects so they stack it up. English project, Spanish project, physiology project. Oh wait. That’s not enough. Let’s give them homework too, they say. English, Spanish, organic, gym (yes, gym courses in college give homework), physics homework. Oh wait, projects and assignments aren’t the same thing. Assignments are shorter than projects. Why not give students that too! English, organic, Spanish assignments.

Joy.

But! Teachers, do not be fooled. We, Marianopolites can do this. We just prefer spending endless hours playing Tetris or CityVille or in my case, watch uninteresting repetitive Korean dramas (addicting - even though the endings of each episode are so predictable). The problem is then time management and not the amount of projects, homework and assignments we receive.

I will be cramming it all Sunday night. 

Have a nice March break ^^ 

Shoveling Snow - a Manly Adventure

For my parents, they only knew what winter was once they arrived In Canada.

My dad’s first day in Canada was in the middle of winter. Coats, boots, mittens, hats, gloves: they were unfamiliar pieces of clothing to him. His family and he did not know what extreme cold was. The volunteer Olivette who welcomed my dad’s family to Shawinigan (3h away from Montreal), keeps telling me that my uncles walked from one apartment to the next in sandals in the middle of winter. Once they got accustomed to the weather, the appropriate statement is:

For the generations born in Canada and for the long-immigrated established people: You have only experienced winter once you’ve shoveled snow.

When my dad is on a trip, I am the manly man of the house shoveling the snow out of our driveway, even though my mom, my brother and I never use the car. I shovel the snow as soon as possible because as time goes on,  it gets more compact, sometimes saturated with water, sometimes has a layer of ice underneath the snow. And since I’m the one shoveling, shoveling dense snow is not one of my greatest joys.

As a kid, dense snow was the best. It was useful to make snowballs and whip them at each other (even though we weren’t allowed), to make snowmen, igloos, mini mountains of snow to slide down. It is also the prettiest snowfall because since it is so dense, the snow falls down in big flakes as opposed to powdery snow which whips at my face at the slightest wind. However, dense snow is the hardest to shovel. Yesterday, compact snow fell on Montreal. I was too lazy to shovel, told myself I’d do it today. Today, I realized it was a bad idea to let it go yesterday because dense snow holds a lot of water. Overnight, that water drained from the snow to the bottom layer, making it a lot harder to shovel water-saturated particles.

It’s okay, I can do this! LIKE A MAN!

Icy Adventure

This year, the Ice Hotel came to Montreal. My dad always wanted to visit the one in Quebec but we never go there.  We decided to go on one of the coldest weekends this winter because the following week, my dad was leaving for California.

My mom and I were the only ones prepared for the weather. My dad is a driver so everywhere he goes, he travels comfortable in his heated car. My brother is at the peak of his rebellious age. He doesn’t like mittens, gloves and his head looks better without a hat.

Already the walk from our house to the metro discouraged my dad.

“Mina, why did you have to choose such a cold day?” He asks.

“’Cuz you’re leaving tomorrow,” I reply.

When we got to Jean Drapeau Metro Station, we had to walk for another 10 minutes before we got the ice hotel.

Once arrived, we stood on the balcony looking down on the ice hotel, a space of pure whiteness. There were round igloos in a corner, a circular central igloo in the middle and two more big igloos on the side. All that brightness dazzled my eyes.

At the ticket booth, my dad and my brother were already very cold.

My dad tells me, “Mina, I’ll be in the men’s bathroom. Once you get the tickets, just knock on the door and I’ll come out.” Ridiculous because no one does that but nonetheless practical.

Ten minutes later, I got the tickets and we were down on the bleak white field. We started by the ice hotel, the entrance lighted with a blue light, some pop music going on. There was a globe, a table, 4 sofas, and a model of a few of Montreal’s famous buildings, all made of ice. At first we were impressed. Then we moved along to see the actual ice hotel rooms. Most consisted of a bed frame made of ice, a mattress and a bed cover made of fur. Some rooms had different colored lightings or an ice sculpture or a theme. The circular hotel had 4 checkpoints: the main entrance, the bar and two openings. There were guides along the hallway and my dad kept asking every single person:

“How many degrees is it indoors at night?”

“Between 2 and 5°C,” they replied.

My dad didn’t believe that. He felt like it would be -30°C. At the next guide, he repeated his question.  

“How many degrees is it indoors at night?”

The answer didn’t change. It was still: “Between 2 and 5°C.”

He also wondered what people wore to go to sleep. We were told people wear light pyjamas and were furnished with a heavy sleeping bag. My dad, eyes wide, replied, “Really? They must be freezing out here!”

We saw two Jacuzzis outside the ice hotel, in the open air. It’s nice to bathe in warm water but what happens when a person is done bathing; does the person run 10 meters to get back to their hotel room in a bikini? Or do they dress up into their snow suit as soon as they get out? Do people even go to the Jacuzzis?

My dad remembered that Inuits used to live in igloos. He wondered how they did it because “even if they paid [him] to sleep in an ice hotel room,” he wouldn’t. “Most affirmatively definitely never!”

By the end of 30 rooms, my dad said, “Mina, enough. Let’s go home.”

“But we didn’t even see the church and the restaurant yet.” Since I paid for the tickets (34$ in all: 50% off the original price), I wanted to visit everything the ice hotel had to offer.  

“Ok, ok. Where are they?”

The whole thing wasn’t that big so they were easy to spot. The church was on the left side of the entrance, a massive semi-circle round igloo with a cross on top. Inside the chairs were made of ice and there was a beautiful snow sculpture in the wall. My dad didn’t believe it when I told him people actually got married in here.

“No, you’re kidding.”

“It’s true. Some people reserve to get married in here and pay 300$ to sleep overnight.”

“Well those “some people” are crazy.” He said boldly.

Actually, earlier during the tour, my dad asked how many rooms were filled per night. The guide told us that during the week, about 50% of the rooms are filled and during the weekend, there was close to 100% occupancy.

The restaurant was nothing impressive. My brother was on the verge of getting hypothermia so my mom bought him a hot chocolate. Just to know I asked what was the price. My brother told me it cost 3.50$.

Concerned, I said, “That’s quite expensive. But it’s okay since you’re so cold.”

Hearing that, my dad replied, “What do you mean expensive? If the visitors are so cold like I am, I’d even pay 5.00$ for that hot chocolate! And think about it, if you were that bartender, the hot chocolate better make a lot of profit if you’re going to stand in this cold all day!”

“True that.”

“Are we done now? Let’s go home.”

“Okay, let’s go home.”

And that concluded our outing in the icy cold.

Never again.*

*That’s what I told myself last time I was this cold but that adventure will be for another time.

A Wet Experience, An Adventure in the Metro

Everyday I take the metro to go home and I always feel like dozing off. However, I can't and this is the reason why.

Sunday, October 31^st, 2011, an odd day when weird things happen.

Earlier today, I helped out at Marianopolis’ Open House, dressed in a dark gothic personage. I was in full costume and had a painted mask contouring my eyes. Little did I know that my eccentric visage could attract someone.

At 4 p.m., I leave in full costume, high heels and mask. I take the  metro alone to go home. I pick a seat next to a window so that I can rest my head against it. At Lionel-Groulx, you sit next to me. I take no notice of you, a man, a stranger like any other person in that train. The motion of the slightly shaking wagon gently rocks me into a half-asleep, half-awake state.

Two stops later, I feel a slight pressure on the nape of my neck. My brain is confused: is this a dream or is it real? The pressure is harder. This is not a dream; you are grabbing my neck. Guy Concordia. The metro doors open. I am wide awake, fighting back your hold on my neck. Your face is very close to mine; I feel your breath on my cheek. Out of reflex, my eyes are shut tight. My arms are desperately trying to push you away in vain. I feel something wet on the left side of my lips, as if an octopus were regurgitating its mucous on me.  

What I want to say: YUCK! You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you desperate or what? Kissing a half-asleep defenseless girl. Plus I have a Halloween mask on. How in the world do you find this attractive? You weirdo. Instead I let out a small “Eeek!”

All at once, the pressure is released and you leave the metro.

I catch a quick glimpse of your back. You were the one sitting next to me, no doubt. 20 -25 year old Asian, buzz cut, 5’5”, wearing a beige coat and had a school bag. I swear… Swear what? I am too astonished by the events to do anything. Should I run after you and give you a good beating? I can’t run in heels. Then what? Should I just sit here and tear those memory cells into bits and pieces? I guess so.

Frustration gets the better part of me. The people who witnessed the event raised their eyebrows in surprise. Surprised that a stranger would do such a thing, surprised that you would have so much guts.

The doors close. I have no choice but to forget what happened but I can’t forget.

The day that I catch you, you are DEAD

^^

Adventure Time in Minaland Theme Song resembles this one haha

(Click above) At first annoying but it sticks in your head for quite a while.
And remember, every day is a new adventure.

^^

I Don't Guarantee the Cops Won't Stop Us, An Adventure in a Four-Wheeler

Flight

On January 9th, 2012, my dad took a plane to California. During the week, my mom leaves early in the morning to go to work and my younger brother has no say in what I do. Therefore, it is time to have a PARTTTEEEEEEEEHHHHH. Ye, in a car.

The Eve

A week after my dad left, I work up the guts to drive his car tomorrow morning. I text Tasnia (a friend from school), asking if she needs a lift in the morning.

Perplexed, she asked, "How come? Are you driving?"

"Fuck yeah," I replied.

"I thought you didn't get your full license yet. And with who's car? o.O"

"My dad's car. He left for the States a week ago. And nope, no license, just my apprentice."

"LOL oh boy." Not surprisingly though, she says, "Sure :D What time?"

"7:30 a.m. be at the metro near my house. I'll pick you up."

"Okay. :)"

"We'll pick Flo up on the way too." Flo is my boyfriend. "I don't guarantee the cops won't stop us on the way though. :P"

"LOL Okay. XD"

7:30 A.M.

I did not prepare for the icy rain that happened overnight. I woke up at seven o'clock, usual wake-up time to go to school if I took the metro.

7:20: I am out of the house. I realize it is going to take some iron man arm power and some knowledge in cars to get the ice off the glass panels. I never drove alone and much less had to deal with an ice-coated car on my own. I know I have to turn on some heater, but which button? Rahhh, why are cars so complicated. According to my hypothesis, the button with a toaster on it and heat waves might do something. Five minutes later, it seems to have an effect on the back panel.

7:30: I am late to pick up Tasnia. Only one of the small windows' ice is off. My brother just walked out of the house. I am desperate and ask him for help. He knows more than I do about cars; guys are just like that.

"You have to turn on the heater at maximum capacity," he says matter-of-factly.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." Why am I so dumb when it comes to cars.

7:50: Ice is off, car rolling, I drive to the metro. Poor Tasnia is shivering in the cold. Good thing the car was heated for 20 minutes at maximum capacity.

8:00: I pick up Flo and off we are. All three of us on an adventure with me at the wheel. Asian women have the reputation of being really bad drivers. Well, truth is, I conform to this stereotype.

Along the way, there was quite a few of (most of it from Flo because Tasnia does not know how to drive yet):

"Look at your dead angle before turning Mina."

"Okay." I turn while I'm looking.

"Mina, turn there."

"I know." But I didn't turn.

"Mina! Watch out for the other cars!"

"Okay." I almost scratched a few cars along the way.

Needless to say, I am a danger for the public when I drive.

8:25: Finally at school, safe and sound. However, I am late yet again, twice in a row in the same week for Creative Non-Fiction.

Sorry Professor Walser.

One Pencil = 2 Meals, An Adventure Into the Past

Last night, Sunday, is a holy day for some but a homework-cramming day for me. I was already filled with guilt because I procrastinated during my weekend. I was going to get back to work after dinner when my dad decided to talk. And once he starts talking, he never runs out of saliva.

The topic last night was pencils.

   I asked, "Dad, how much did a pencil cost you when you were younger?"

   "Oh, a lot. And we only had one each, not plenty like you guys," he replies.

   I probe, "like how much? Worth a meal?"

Both of my parents come from Vietnam, a background much poorer than the one I live in today. The small rations my parents had as meals were not to be wasted. To use their savings to buy pencils for my dad’s brothers and sisters meant education was equally as important as food. The platform that holds both notions is a highly valued one. Here, education and school supplies are so accessible that kids under 15 rarely make the association that later on education will put food on the table.

My dad was poorer than my mom so I usually ask him questions because his answers have a greater impact on me. Besides, my dad likes to talk.

   My dad shakes his head, "noooo, a bit more than that. I'd say two meals."

   "Two meals for one pencil! That's so expensive! What kind of pencil was it? Was it colorful at least?"

   He begins to chuckle, showing his missing tooth in the middle. "Haha, I wish. No, they were the plain ones, the orange ones you guys had."

Two meals here have an approximate value of ten dollars in total. With ten dollars, I can easily buy at least one hundred wooden pencils.

   “Lead pencils, the mechanical ones, came around when Americans swooped into Vietnam. Those were even more expensive than the normal pencils,” my dad continues.

   “How much?” I ask, curious. My homework is nagging me in the back of my brain, insisting I go back to work. Too bad, this is valuable information, information I can’t get on the Internet. Homework will have to wait.

   “Hmmm, worth maybe 7 meals.”

   “Whut!”

   My dad started explaining, “yeah, they were worth a lot. Salespeople displayed mechanical pencils behind glass doors, as if they were selling gold. If you had one, you were considered extremely lucky. You had to keep your pencil on you at all times or else, another kid would steal it from you while you weren’t looking.”

Wow, I can’t even imagine having to keep my pencil at all times. Most of the time, I’m eager to lose my pencil. That way I can buy a brand new one for the price of close to nothing! My house is so full of pencils and pens lying everywhere that my dad constantly pulls fits about having to pick them up. My dad's story made me realize that not everyone has insignificant wooden pencils at an arm's reach. I am lucky to have an abundance of supplies that facilitate my learning experience.

How my grandparents and parents value education is much higher than the value I give it, especially on a Sunday night. But, after my dad finished talking, I went back to my homework, doubling my efforts because I know my parents did not get the same privilege to be so carefree when they were in school.