Glimpses of Europe

A tribute to Indonesia

natashagan — Wed, 21 May 2014 08:30:00 GMT

“Where are you from?” a friend of mine asked.

“Indonesia,” I said. He gazed up at the ceiling, as if picturing an atlas, wondering where Indonesia could possibly be on it.

“It’s near Australia? You know where Bali is?” I said, dropping clues.

“Oh yeah, Bali! Wait, I thought you said you were from Indonesia?” he said.

I knew where this was going.

“I thought Bali was in India.”

Maybe he had missed a few geography classes in high school, but I don’t blame him. At least he had heard of Bali, even if he got the country wrong. Perhaps it was rather difficult for him to keep in track of every country's cities or islands, no matter how famous, because this conversation took place in Canada, a country with people from all over the world, including me, who traveled 13,000 kilometers to Toronto from Jakarta.

One of the weird things about Toronto is that, try as you might, it seems surprisingly difficult to find a born-and-raised Torontonian who isn’t part Filipino or half-Hispanic or one-eighth German.

People in the city are forever asking, “What’s your background?” or “Where are you from?” before moving on to other topics like work and hobbies.

I am on course to graduate from Ryerson University, one of Canada’s leading universities, with a degree in journalism in 2015. Hopefully by then, even if Canada becomes even more ethnically diverse, all of the friends I have made here will remember Indonesia as more than just that country near the equator that looks and sounds like Malaysia.

“So, is it always hot there?” Sometimes hot doesn’t even come close to describing it, I thought.

“It must be so beautiful all the time there.” I thought they were out of their minds, because I’ve always tried to avoid going out in the sun. I don’t want to get a tan, though that was never really a danger because the heat kept me indoors most of the time.

Then when winter came in Toronto, I understood why everyone had difficulties understanding my remarks. In brief, living in Canada and experiencing its winters had me redefine the word ‘cold.’

Before I left for Canada, people joked about how earmuffs were a must. “You don’t want your ears to fall off,” a family friend said. “I heard it can get down to minus 40 degrees Celsius.”

Maybe global warming did me a small favor because the coldest it got during my first winter was negative 27. The rest of winter was acceptable; especially when it hit a relatively balmy 4 degrees and sunlight seeped between my blinds. Heaven (although in London, UK, I could imagine the city shutting down if it were to reach 27 below zero)

It would have been nice to be back home, knowing that I wouldn’t wake up at night because my toes were freezing. Then again, didn’t I use to complain incessantly when the sun seemed to unleash its full power on Jakarta?

Weather talk aside, people would constantly remind me of my homesickness. “You miss home?” No matter what problems I’m dealing with that day, the word “home” sends jolts of memories.

Some people think I get homesick because of my age. I graduated high school early, and they think people my age should still be living at home. It's very common in Indonesia for teenagers to go abroad to study. Even though times are slowly changing, most of these teenagers opt to pursue a business degree instead of a major they really, genuinely fancy. “Are you sure that’s going to make money?” seems to be the main question for Indonesians studying abroad.

I was fortunate to have parents who asked me, “What do you like? Choose that.” Now, I can’t imagine doing anything else, anywhere else. In other words, having almost fully adapted to the situation and the questions, Canada is now a second home. Perhaps it’s time to help my second home get more acquainted with my first.

Come to think of it, at least people don’t ask me what they used to ask my dad when he was studying in the United States back in the 80s.

“Do you have airports?" or "How long did it take you to get here by ship?” and most despicably, “Have you ever tasted this? You must not have Coke there, right?”

Back in the 1400s

natashagan — Tue, 20 May 2014 21:00:00 GMT

Oxford, 1400s: there weren't books nor pens, not even for the highborn men who had the chance to go to university. This meant attendance was everything and so were the professors' remarks in every lecture. Even the wealthiest with the highest status who could afford Oxford, had to sit through hours of lectures for semesters and remember everything without the help of any written materials, since note taking hadn't been possible.

Books in libraries were then as big as a medium-sized suitcase and each of them was chained to a desk. Opening the massive covers required two hands.

The exam, was a minimum of 3 hours and a maximum of 3 days. It was set like a court room. You would stand on one side, facing your professor at the other side of the room. In the middle, sat the audience including the school's chancellor, your parents, your classmates, and the people from whom you borrowed funds for to attend classes. In other words, a room full of people who you would disappoint if you didn't pass this grilling.

On the ceilings, are engravings of crests, symbols, logos, of people and their companies, alumni of Oxford, who succeeded. The students' inspirations were, literally, up there for them to look up to anytime.

Meanwhile, in the nearby Bodleian Library, one of UK's oldest, still housed wood-covered books chained to shelves for they're so precious. A library with interesting stories, one of which is being Hogwarts' library.

When Edward VI, son of Henry VIII, ruled in the 16th century, he decided that England should adopt Protestantism. He burned every book, however expensive, if it promoted Catholic doctrines. So the Bodleian library, then known as Duke Humphrey's library, was robbed of its books.

Many years later, one of Oxford University's students, Thomas Bodley, was thrilled by the idea of books. He made his way to the library but was left in shock and disappointment when he saw it empty, with holes in the ceilings as rainwater seeped through. How can a library have no books? He wondered. He grew into an ambassador and the Queen's spy. He made it alive through his duties and came back to England, wrote a letter to the school's Vice Chancellor offering to refurbish the library and restore its collection of books in the late 16th century.

He spent a lot of money, probably all of it, to fill the library now named after him. He donated so many books that they build an extension and a tunnel so long it connects three buildings from underneath for extra space. Even that, they're still struggling to store all the books.

Oxford itself, is beautiful. The student's union, like its neighbouring colleges, was a beautiful environment to study in. Every college was gated, had its own gardener, and was welcoming. Upon leaving, a friend of mine complimented the gardener for his marvellous work. Indeed, it was nothing short of mesmerizing.

Picture yourself in your desk, or in the library cubicle that I am accustomed to. Now imagine sitting down on a wooden bench outside a complex of historically rich buildings, in perfect weather, wind rustling the leaves, sun shining through the vines, your foot touching the spring grass, and your sight pleased with tulips and lilacs and daisies... Knowing that's what life in Oxford is like, how can you not aspire to study there?

Tube ride to Fulham Broadway

natashagan — Tue, 13 May 2014 09:11:42 GMT

I stood on the tube (the London subway) platform, wearing my Chelsea Football Club jersey, waiting for my train to Fulham Broadway. I was still unable to fully appreciate that I was going to watch my favorite football club play at their home stadium, Stamford Bridge.

To a football fan who, since high school, has been accustomed to waking up at 3 a.m. on a school night to watch a game on TV, even the idea of potentially watching at the stadium is unreal. But there I was in London, on my way to the stadium one rare sunny day. I was nervous that when people see what I was wearing, they might think I’m not a real fan but I just bought the jersey anyway, that women don’t know anything about football, that I should just be watching the game on TV. I imagined the away team’s fans appearing and cursing at me for being a Chelsea fan. So I hid my jersey under my coat and scarf.

About halfway there, more people in blue (Chelsea’s colour) started coming in, then more women wearing Chelsea scarves started filling the train. Before I knew it I was shoulder to shoulder in a train jammed with Chelsea fans in cobalt blue. I was confident enough to open the buttons of my coat. If only the train weren’t so packed and I had space, I would have gladly taken off my coat and let my jersey show.

I got to the stadium and it was popping. I sat in my seat, right between the away fans and the home fans, facing thousands of people chanting their hearts out. The kind Chelsea supporters with whom I exchanged smiles and a few words were the same people cursing and screaming at the top of their lungs at the away fans just two seats away from me.

At the 90th minute, I was agitated and expecting the imminent disappointment of the match ending with 0-0. This can’t be, I told myself. Lampard, I’ve been watching you since before I knew what alcohol was; Terry, I cried when you slipped during that penalty kick at the UEFA Champions League final a few years ago. I’ve come all the way here so please don’t disappoint me, and score. Four minutes later, one minute before the final whistle, Captain John Terry scored with an assist from Frank Lampard. It was a 1-0 win for Chelsea! I jumped and roared with the stadium and even high fived the security guard beside me.

I left the Bridge ecstatic, still in awe, speechless. On my way home, I wish it were warm enough to take off my coat so I could proudly sport my Lampard jersey. And here I am home writing this article, still in my jersey. Oh London.