A short story (wow, I'm so creative at coming up with titles)

Yes, I know what you're thinking. And I can't believe it either. I just wrote a short story in Indonesian. Ugh. Whatever, this is a short story I wrote for a competition. So it will mean A LOT to me if you tell me what needs to be changed and how I can improve my story-writing. Thank you so much for reading!

Indonesia, Negaraku yang Dulu Kubenci

“Dear Nick, I love you. Sungguh, aku sayang kamu. Tapi kalau aku harus memilih antara kamu atau Indonesia – “ suratnya terputus begitu saja. Aku memberanikan diri dan membalik surat tersebut. “The next time we meet, it will be at the most beautiful place in Indonesia (Pertemuan kita berikutnya akan berada di tempat yang paling indah di Indonesia). With love, Dewi.”

Aku meremas surat itu dan melemparnya sekuat tenaga ke arah tembok. Really, Dewi? (Kamu serius, Dewi?) Kita cuma punya waktu kurang dari lima hari dan kamu merasa ini waktu yang cocok untuk main petak umpet?

“What’s wrong, daddy? (Ada apa, Ayah?)” Kathleen akhirnya terbangun dan keluar dari kamar tidurnya.

“Nothing (tidak ada apa-apa), Kath. Go back to sleep (Tidurlah lagi),” aku mengibaskan tanganku ke arah Kath tanpa meliriknya.

“Di mana Mommy?” Kath mengusap matanya dengan tangan kanannya. Tangan kirinya memeluk boneka beruang hadiah ulang tahun ketujuhnya yang baru saja lewat dua bulan lalu.

“Mommy pergi keluar sebentar, dia akan pulang sebentar lagi. Go back to sleep (Kembali tidurlah).” Aku bangkit dari kursiku dan membelai rambut pirang Kath yang bersinar keemasan. “OK?”

Kath mengangguk dan berjalan kembali ke arah kamar tidur. Detak bunyi jam dinding yang pelan terdengar menggelegar di subuh yang sunyi ini. 4:30 pagi. Desahan halus terlepas dari mulutku. Aku melihat ke sekeliling dan melihat handphone Dewi tergeletak di atas meja makan di sebelah ia meletakkan suratnya. Pandanganku lalu tertuju pada surat kusut yang terkulai di lantai. The most beautiful place in Indonesia, huh? (Tempat terindah di Indonesia?) Aku menggumam seraya membuka laptopku. Better start looking, then (Lebih baik aku mulai mencari kalau begitu).

--

Aku menyeruput kopi hitamku yang mulai menjadi dingin. Matahari menyeruak menerangi meja kerjaku. Setelah bertanya pada Google dan teman-teman Dewi, aku memiliki dua pilihan: Karimunjawa dan Raja Ampat. Tepat setelah aku memesan dua tiket pesawat ke Raja Ampat untuk besok lusa, Kath muncul di belakangku. Ia masih memeluk boneka beruangnya dengan erat. “What’s for breakfast? (Ada sarapan apa?)” katanya sambil menguap lebar-lebar.

“Nothing (tidak ada apa-apa),” aku berdiri dan menutup laptop. “Get ready (bersiaplah), Kath. We’re going on an adventure (Kita akan pergi berpetualang).” Mata Kath terbelalak dan ia berteriak kegirangan selagi ia bersiap-siap.

--

“Daddy, kita kemana pergi?” Dewi dan aku memang lebih banyak berbicara menggunakan bahasa Inggris sehari-hari, sehingga bahasa Indonesia Kath masih agak canggung.

“Juanda,” kataku dengan mata tetap terpaku pada jalanan Surabaya yang dipenuhi oleh sepeda motor. “Kita pergi mencari Mommy,” aku mencoba menekan kegelisahanku, tapi suaraku tetap bergetar. “Mommy sedang berada at the most beautiful place in Indonesia (tempat terindah di Indonesia). Kath tau di mana kira-kira mommy berada?”

Kath menggelengkan kepalanya. “Di mana?”

“Daddy rasa di Karimunjawa atau Raja Ampat.”

“Why there? (Kenapa dua tempat itu?)” Aku dapat merasakan tatapan matanya tertuju ke arahku.

“You were still young back then (Kamu masih anak-anak dulu), tapi dulu daddy pernah ngajak mommy pergi hiking, ga sampe satu jam, mommy sudah merengek-rengek minta pulang. Mukanya pucat seperti salju. Mommy ga pernah ngaku, tapi daddy rasa mommy takut ketinggian deh,” aku tersenyum mengingat-ingat kejadian itu. “That’s why daddy rasa mommy ga pergi ke gunung.”

“How about other places? (Bagaimana dengan tempat lain?)” Kath bertanya sambil memeluk bonekanya lebih erat.

“Yes, memang ada banyak pantai lain, seperti Lombok atau Bali. Tapi mommy ga suka keramaian, remember?”

Kath mengangguk. “So, where are we going? (Jadi, kita pergi kemana?)”

“Semarang. We’re going to Karimunjawa (Kita pergi ke Karimunjawa),” jawabku sambil mengambil karcis parkir Juanda.

--

Dua juta rupiah dan dua jam kemudian, Kath dan aku tiba di Semarang. Kami lalu bertanya-tanya kepada orang-orang cara pergi ke Karimunjawa. Rupanya untuk mencapai Karimunjawa, kami perlu menaiki kapal dari pelabuhan Semarang, Tanjung Emas.

Sesampainya di Tanjung Emas, aku dan Kath dihadapkan dengan pemandu wisata yang terlalu ramah.

“Halo halo! Where you go guys? (Kalian mau ke mana?)” Kulit pemandu wisata tersebut terlihat gosong terbakar sengatan matahari. Bahasa Inggrisnya memang tidak terlalu bagus, tapi aku dapat merasakan semangatnya.

“Kami mau pergi ke Karimunjawa,” aku menjawab seraya menepuk kepala Kath yang dilindungi oleh topi jerami.

Pemandu wisata tersebut tertegun untuk sementara, mungkin ia tidak menyangka bahwa aku bisa berbicara bahasa Indonesia dengan lancar, atau mungkin ia sedih karena ia tidak mendapatkan peluang untuk memamerkan bahasa Inggris capjay-nya. “Karimunjawa? Yes yes, ikuti saya please.” Pemandu wisata tersebut – yang ternyata bernama Joni – pun mulai berjalan dan melambaikan tangannya mengisyaratkan agar kami mengikutinya.

Tidak sampai lima menit berjalan, aku dan Kath berdiri di sebuah loket. Di belakang loket tersebut, duduk seorang nenek. “Karimunjawa?” tanyanya.

Aku mengangguk. “Satu orang dewasa, satu anak kecil,” kataku sambil melirik ke arah Kath yang mengibas-ngibaskan bajunya yang basah oleh keringat. Panas kota Semarang hari ini memang sudah melampaui batas normal.

“Ferry Semarang-Karimunjawa cuma ada sampai jam 12 siang.” Nenek melengos sambil menunjuk ke arah poster yang tertempel di tembok dekat loket. Memang disana tertempel jadwal perjalanan ferry dan waktu tempuh rata-rata untuk sekali jalan. Tiga setengah jam. “Kembali saja besok pagi.”

Aku melihat ke arah jam tanganku. Jam dua siang. Setelah ditolak seperti itu, biasanya aku akan mengangguk lemas dan kembali keesokan paginya. Tapi tidak kali ini. “Kami harus sampai di Karimunjawa hari ini juga, Nek,” seruku dengan mata tajam lurus menatapnya.

Mata nenek itu terbelalak. Tidak mengherankan. Aku menyangka kata-kata berikutnya yang akan keluar dari mulutnya adalah ‘Kalau mau sampai hari ini juga, kenapa tidak beli dari tadi pagi!?’ Namun kalimat yang keluar sangatlah berbeda. “Dari Semarang ke Karimunjawa butuh waktu tiga setengah jam. Pulang pergi tujuh jam. Kapal yang berangkat sekarang baru bisa kembali jam sembilan malam. Terlalu malam dan berbahaya untuk berlayar… Tidak bisa berlayar hari ini, kecuali kamu menemukan orang yang bersedia berlayar dan menginap di sana,” nenek menghembuskan nafas panjang sebelum berpaling dan mengaitkan matanya  pada Joni.

Joni tersentak dan melihat ke arah nenek dan aku secara bergantian dengan mata terbelalak, “Ya?” tanyanya kebingungan.

Aku memegang kedua pundak Joni, “Please, Joni, I beg you. (Tolong aku, Jon.)”

Bahkan Kath melepas topinya dan menundukkan kepalanya. “Please,” pintanya.

Joni memejamkan matanya sambil menggerutu, “Fine. This just once, okei? (Baiklah, hanya kali ini saja, oke?)” Aku dapat menahan tawaku, tapi tidak demikian dengan Kath. Ia terkekeh kecil. Aku menepuk kepalanya dan meminta maaf kepada Joni.

--

Perjalanan ke Karimunjawa memakan hampir empat jam. Untungnya, laut tenang dan Kath tidur sepanjang perjalanan. Ditemani oleh bau garam yang menusuk hidung, aku berbincang-bincang dengan Joni; aku memberitahu alasan kenapa aku sangat bersikeras untuk mencapai Karimunjawa hari ini dan ia memberitahuku kalau ia adalah cucu satu-satunya yang bersedia membantu neneknya mengelola usaha ini. Aku merasa iba dan mengingatkan diriku sendiri untuk memberikan tip ekstra untuk Joni.

Jam tanganku menunjukkan pukul setengah tujuh sore saat aku dan Kath menginjakkan kaki di Karimunjawa. Begitu mendarat, Kath langsung berlari di pesisir pantai setelah melepas topi jeraminya. Tingkat panas yang di luar normal itu pun mulai turun seiring dengan terbenamnya matahari. Hangatnya pasir putih yang kuinjak dan bunyi ombak menderu mengingatkanku kalau ini bukan mimpi, mereka mengingatkanku akan tujuanku datang kesini: Dewi.

Aku menyalami dan mengucapkan terima kasih kepada Joni. “Kita akan berangkat pulang ke Semarang besok jam tujuh pagi,” serunya sambil berjalan ke arah rumah penduduk untuk beristirahat.

“Kath, come on (ayo), kita harus mulai mencari mommy,” aku berteriak sambil berlari kecil mengikuti Kath.

Aku menghampiri setiap orang yang kutemui dan menanyakan apakah mereka bertemu dengan wanita berumur 30-an, berkulit sawo matang, dengan tinggi hampir 160 cm. Jawaban mereka semua sama: “Banyak.” Remind me to marry someone more unique next time (Ingatkan aku untuk menikahi wanita yang lebih unik lain kali).

 Aku merasakan tarikan pada celana jeansku. Aku memandang ke bawah dan melihat Kath. “What now dad? (Lalu bagaimana Ayah?)” tanyanya.

 “Not much (Kita tidak bisa apa-apa), kita cuma bisa nunggu sampai besok pagi,” Aku berjongkok dan merebut boneka beruang yang dari tadi dipeluk Kath dengan erat. “Sepertinya Mr. Teddy Bear mau menikmati Karimunjawa. Daddy juga mau, Kath mau ngga?”

Kath mengangguk dengan keras. “Kita bertiga are having a date (berkencan)!” serunya dengan penuh semangat seraya merebut Mr. Teddy kembali dari tanganku.

Matahari sudah terbenam sepenuhnya, aku mengangkat kepalaku dan bukannya melihat kegelapan malam yang membutakan, aku malah melihat puluhan bintang – atau bahkan ratusan – yang menyilaukan mataku. Bulan sabit ikut menyilaukan lautan bintang yang terang benderang tersebut. Kami melepas sepatu kami dan berjalan di sisi pantai yang basah. Air pantainya begitu jernih sehingga – dengan bantuan cahaya bintang – aku dapat melihat kakiku dengan jelas meskipun malam sudah mengambil alih siang. Di kejauhan aku melihat kapal kecil sedang berlayar di tengah gelapnya pantai malam. Kath melihat seekor bintang laut di pasir. Ia memungutnya dan meminta ijin untuk membawa bintang laut tersebut pulang ke Surabaya. Aku mengambil bintang laut tersebut dari tangannya dan melemparkannya kembali ke laut. Aku mengedipkan mataku dan Kath berhenti merengek. Di sekelilingku terlihat orang-orang yang sedang memancing; rupanya sedang ada perlombaan memancing. Terdengar sorak sorai dan gemuruh tepuk tangan ketika salah satu dari mereka berhasil menangkap ikan. Aku bisa berbicara bahasa Indonesia dan bahasa Inggris dengan sangat lancar, tapi tidak ada kata-kata yang tepat – walau seluruh kosakata kedua bahasa tersebut digabung – untuk menggambarkan indahnya pulau ini.

“Mommy is not here, Kath, (Ibu tidak ada disini, Kath,)” tatapanku jauh ke arah pantai yang dimakan gelapnya malam. Aku merasakan belaian dari rambutku yang berkibas-kibas dengan kencang diterpa angin. “Apakah kamu menyesal datang kesini?”

“No! (Tidak!)” seru Kath sambil memegangi topinya agar tidak terbawa angin. “Kath sangat senang telah datang ke sini. It’s a really beautiful place, we should come here with mommy next time (Ini tempat yang sangat indah, kita sebaiknya ke sini lagi bersama ibu lain kali)! Daddy, mommy, Kath, and Mr. Teddy Bear!” ia berpaling ke arahku dengan senyuman terlebar yang pernah kulihat.

--

Aku dan Kath memilih untuk tinggal di homestay daripada di hotel mewah. “It’s not every day (Jarang-jarang) kita ada di pulau yang seindah ini. Mendingan kita tinggal di rumah penduduk merasakan pengalaman baru daripada di hotel mewah, right, Kath?”

Kath tidak menjawab, ia memeluk bonekanya erat-erat dan mengangguk lemah. Aku melirik ke arah jam tanganku. Jam 10 malam. Tidak heran, jam segini biasanya Kath sudah terkulai lemas di ranjang bersama dengan Mr. Teddy kesayangannya.

Untungnya, kami menemukan satu homestay yang masih kosong, aku membayar biaya inap untuk semalam dan kami tergeletak di ranjang. Meskipun masih agak panas, udara di sini sangatlah berbeda dibandingkan dengan udara di Surabaya. Mungkin karena tidak ada mobil dan sepeda motor di pulau ini, yang jelas udara di tempat ini sangatlah segar. Angin sepoi-sepoi dari laut membawa bau garam yang menusuk hidungku dan tanpa kusadari, aku terlelap bersama Kath.

--

Aroma kopi dan ikan panggang membangunkanku dari tidurku yang lelap. Jika harus memilih antara dibangunkan dari tidur panjang, aku pasti akan memilih dibangunkan dengan kopi seperti ini daripada dengan ciuman seperti di cerita Sleeping Beauty. Aku membangunkan Kath dan kami mengucapkan salam kepada pemilik homestay. Aku mencuil ikan panggang yang telah disiapkan tersebut, mencocolkannya ke sambal kecap yang dilengkapi dengan bawang putih dan pencit (mangga muda), dan memasukkannya ke mulutku. Ikan penuh bumbu tersebut lumer di mulutku; rasa gurih, rasa asin, rasa manis, rasa kecut, dan sedikit rasa pahit dari bagian gosong ikan tersebut bercampur menjadi suatu paduan rasa yang tak bisa dijelaskan oleh kata-kata. Meskipun makanan ini sederhana, ekspresi Kath menggambarkan bahwa ia sangat menikmati santapan ini. Aku sangat terkejut ketika melihat Kath meminta piring kedua. Ia sama sekali tidak pernah makan selahap ini meskipun di restoran ternama di Surabaya. Kami makan dengan nikmat dan mengucapkan selamat tinggal kepada mereka selagi kami bersiap untuk kembali ke Semarang.

Saat kami berjalan ke pelabuhan, matahari pagi menyinari kami dan menyilaukan mata kami. Di kejauhan aku dapat melihat segerombolan orang yang sedang mengantri. Aku mendekati mereka dan harus bertanya tiga kali sebelum aku percaya bahwa mereka sedang mengantri untuk berenang bersama ikan hiu. Ikan hiu. Can you believe it? (Percayakah kamu?) Aku melihat seseorang memegang kamera dan mengambil foto seorang turis yang sedang berenang dikelilingi beberapa ikan hiu. Saat aku berusaha menjauhkan diriku dari ikan hiu sejauh mungkin, Kath malah melompat kegirangan dan memohon agar aku mengijinkannya renang bersama ikan hiu saat kita ke sini lagi. ‘Never (tidak akan),’ jawabku ketus.

Perjalanan tiga setengah jam menggunakan kapal ferry ke Semarang berjalan dengan cepat. Aku memeluk Joni dan berterima kasih atas bantuannya selama dua hari ini. Saat aku berusaha memberinya tip, ia menolak dan berkata, “I am hope you find you wife soon (Aku berharap kamu menemukan istrimu).” Bahasa Inggrisnya memang kurang baik, tapi Joni adalah salah satu orang Indonesia yang paling tulus yang pernah kutemui. Aku tersenyum dan berpisah dengannya.

Aku dan Kath naik taksi dan berangkat ke bandara Achmad Yani untuk terbang kembali ke Surabaya. Kath menghabiskan waktu perjalanan satu jam dengan tidur sambil memeluk Mr. Teddy Bear kesayangannya. Bahkan waktu pramugari datang untuk memberikan minuman, Kath tetap terlelap. Ia memang agak mirip dengan Dewi dalam hal stamina, mereka sama-sama gampang lelah.

Kami tiba di Surabaya jam dua siang. Karena pesawat kami ke Raja Ampat masih dijadwalkan untuk besok, kami memutuskan untuk pulang ke rumah untuk beristirahat. Perjalanan dari Juanda ke rumah kami tempuh dalam 30 menit. Selagi aku memarkirkan mobil di garasi, Kath menyadari bahwa lampu ruang tamu menyala. Kami langsung bergegas berlari ke dalam rumah dan mendapati Dewi sedang duduk di sofa.

“Dewi?” panggilku, aku menjatuhkan ranselku di lorong pintu masuk sambil berjalan ke arahnya. “Ke mana saja kamu dua hari ini?”

Dewi tidak menjawab, ia hanya terkulai lemas. Aku mulai panik dan berlari ke arahnya sambil tetap mengenggam Kath. Aku merasakan genggamanku semakin erat. Saat aku mulai mendekati Dewi, aku dapat melihat mukanya begitu pucat. Detak jantungnya tak beraturan. Hal terakhir yang kuingat adalah tangisan Kath dan semua menjadi gelap.

--

“VSD,” kata lelaki berbaju putih tersebut seraya ia mencoret-coret kertas yang terletak di mejanya.

“I’m sorry? (Maaf?)” Aku menggelengkan kepalaku supaya dapat lebih berkonsentrasi.

“VSD, atau Ventricular Septal Defect, adalah kelainan sejak lahir dimana terdapat lubang antara ruang jantung kanan dan kiri, sehingga darah pindah ruangan melewati lubang, bukannya melewati paru-paru. Karena itu, darah tidak mendapatkan persediaan oksigen dari paru-paru dan akibatnya bisa fatal.”

Kath mulai menangis. Lagi. “Tapi Dewi dapat disembuhkan kan, dok?” kataku sambil mengenggam tangan Kath, berharap ini semua hanya mimpi. Mimpi yang buruk.

“Seperti yang sudah saya katakan, VSD ini kelainan sejak lahir. Dalam kasus Dewi, ia telah menjalani operasi saat ia berumur satu tahun.” Dokter berhenti sejenak untuk menarik napas dalam-dalam. “Sayangnya, operasi itu tidak sempurna dan lubangnya telah terbuka lagi.” Ia melepas kacamatanya dan berdehem sebelum melanjutkan vonisnya. “Lubang di jantung Dewi sudah terbuka selama kurang lebih 10 tahun. Apabila Dewi datang ke sini lima tahun lalu, kami dapat dengan mudah menangani ini. Namun untuk sekarang… sudah sangat terlambat. Kita hanya bisa berdoa dan menunggu waktu.”

Sepuluh tahun yang lalu… Aku masih ingat itu adalah masa-masa di mana stamina Dewi mulai menurun. Perjalanan singkat di mall pun adalah sesuatu yang sangat melelahkan baginya. Aku pikir itu hanya disebabkan oleh kekurangan olah raga. Aku menyuruh Dewi berolah raga lebih rutin sejak itu, namun Dewi tidak pernah mau. Rupanya itu adalah gejala pertama dari VSD.

--

Satu minggu kemudian, adik Dewi mengirimiku surat yang ditulis Dewi pada masa-masa terakhirnya. Tertulis demikian:

“Dear Nick, jika kamu sedang membaca surat ini, berarti aku sudah berada dalam kondisi dimana aku tak bisa berbicara langsung kepadamu. Kamu pasti heran ke mana aku pergi beberapa hari sebelum penerbangan kita ke Amsterdam. Aku tidak ke mana-mana, aku hanya pergi ke rumah adikku. Ini caraku protes, Nick. Aku sebenarnya ngga mau kita meninggalkan negeri ini, meninggalkan Indonesia. Kamu memang tidak dilahirkan di Indonesia, tapi aku? Aku dilahirkan dan menghabiskan 35 tahun di sini, Nick. Aku tidak mau ke Amsterdam. Aku cinta negara ini.”

Aku sebenarnya sudah lelah dengan kehidupan di Indonesia. Korupsi, nepotisme, kerusuhan, kemacetan, belum lagi penyanyi dangdut yang rasis itu. Aku capek dengan polusi yang disebabkan oleh orang-orang kaya yang tetap membeli BBM bersubsidi, dengan mereka yang buang sampah sembarangan dan menyebabkan banjir dimana-mana. Aku mendapatkan tawaran kerja di Amsterdam beberapa minggu lalu dan berencana memulai hidup baru di sana dengan Dewi dan Kath. Kesimpulannya? I don’t like Indonesia (Aku tidak suka Indonesia).

Surat Dewi masih berlanjut: “Aku tau kematian sedang merayap ke arahku dengan perlahan. Aku berobat ke rumah sakit tahun lalu dan divonis bahwa aku hanya memiliki dua tahun lagi untuk hidup. Kamu tau kenapa aku pergi dari rumah beberapa hari sebelum pesawat kita ke Amsterdam berangkat dan menyuruhmu mencariku di tempat paling indah di Indonesia? Agar kamu pergi melihat Indonesia dengan mata kepalamu sendiri, Nick. Agar kamu dapat melihat betapa indahnya negeri yang kucintai ini. This is my dying wish, Nick. (Ini permintaan terakhirku, Nick). Agar kamu berdamai dengan Indonesia. Agar kamu mengubah sudut pandangmu terhadap Indonesia meskipun hanya sedikit. Agar kamu mengetahui bahwa Indonesia adalah tempat yang indah. Agar kamu mulai mencintai negeriku yang kucintai.”

It’s her dying wish (Ini permintaan terakhirnya). Suami macam apa aku bila aku tak bisa menyanggupi keinginan terakhir istriku? Sejujurnya, perjalananku mencari Dewi – meskipun sangatlah singkat – telah membantu mengubah sedikit pandanganku terhadap Indonesia. Rupanya masih ada orang-orang yang dengan tulus hati membantu orang lain seperti Joni, masih ada tempat di Indonesia yang begitu indah dan perlu dipertahankan seperti Karimunjawa. Oh jangan salah, I still don’t like Indonesia, I’m just trying my best to love it (Aku masih tidak suka Indonesia, aku hanya berusaha dengan sangat keras untuk mencintainya.)

Bagian akhir surat Dewi: “Oh, aku hampir lupa. Kalau aku harus memilih antara kamu atau Indonesia, aku akan memilihmu. I love you, Nick, I really do (Aku sayang kamu, Nick).”

Air mataku tak dapat berhenti. Aku tidak tahu berapa lama waktu yang kuhabiskan untuk menangis. Aku berharap ini semua hanya mimpi yang buruk dan memukul tembok begitu keras sampai kulit tanganku mengelupas. Rasa sakit memenuhiku, namun aku tidak terbangun dari mimpi buruk ini. Aku mulai menyadari bahwa ini semua adalah kenyataan yang kejam. Aku menangis dan menangis, dan saat aku merasa air mataku sudah habis, aku menangis sedikit lagi. Kath melihatku menangis dan ia menangis lebih keras lagi hingga ia terlelap. Kath menangis begitu lama sehingga ia membutuhkan make-up yang sangat tebal untuk menutupi bendolan hitam yang ada di bawah kedua matanya saat kami menghadiri pemakaman Dewi.

--

Beberapa bulan telah berlalu sejak kematian Dewi, Aku memutuskan untuk membawa Kath pergi memulai hidup baru di Amsterdam. Drastisnya perbedaan cuaca antara Amsterdam di musim dingin dan Indonesia mengguncang Kath awalnya. Tapi setelah beberapa minggu, Kath mulai terbiasa dan menyukai Amsterdam.

“Hey, new guy. Where are you from? (Hei, orang baru. Kamu dari mana?)” tanya Frans, rekan kerjaku, sambil menyuguhkan kopi hitam panas untukku.

“Originally, I’m from States. But I’ve spent my last 10 years in Indonesia (Aku dilahirkan di Amerika, tapi aku telah menghabiskan 10 tahun terakhirku di Indonesia),” kataku sambil mengambil kopi yang disuguhkan padaku dan menyesapnya pelan-pelan.

“Why did you move here from Indonesia? (Kenapa kamu pindah ke sini?)”

“My wife passed away a few months ago. I moved here from Indonesia because everything there started to remind me of her. Staying in Indonesia was too painful for me (Istriku meninggal beberapa bulan lalu. Aku pindah ke sini dari Indonesia karena segala sesuatu di sana mengingatkanku akannya. Menetap di Indonesia menjadi sesuatu yang sangat menyakitkan untukku).”

“I’m really sorry to hear that (aku turut bersedih),” kata Frans sambil menepuk pundakku. “But how about Indonesia itself? I’ve never been there and I’m thinking of going there for my vacation (Tapi bagaimana dengan Indonesia sendiri? Aku tidak pernah ke sana dan aku berpikiran untuk pergi ke sana untuk berlibur).”

 “It’s true that the government is corrupt, there is flood here and there, and the air is polluted. (Memang benar bahwa pemerintahnya penuh korupsi, banjir dimana-mana, dan udaranya juga sangat kotor.)”

“Yep, I’ve heard about it, (Yep, aku sudah dengar tentang hal itu.)” kata Frans sambil memegang kopi panasnya dengan kedua tangannya untuk menghangatkan badannya dari salju yang mendera.

“But, every country has its own problems and its own upsides. Indonesia has nice people and there are great places to be if you’re looking to relax. Indonesia might not be the most beautiful country on Earth. But it’s pretty damn close for me. In fact, I’m planning to go back there for my vacation. We have beaches and pretty girls and the sun shines all year long. Would you like to come see Indonesia for yourself? (Tapi, setiap negara ada kelebihan dan kekurangannya masing-masing. Indonesia memiliki banyak orang baik dan banyak tempat indah bila kamu ingin bersantai. Indonesia memang bukanlah negara terindah di Bumi ini, tapi sudah sangat indah buatku. Aku berencana untuk berlibur di Indonesia. Kita punya pantai, wanita cantik, dan musim panas setiap hari. Apakah kamu tertarik?)” tanyaku dengan senyum simpul menghiasi wajahku.

“Yes I would! (Ya, saya tertarik!)” ujar Frans sambil membukakan pintu masuk gedung kerjaku. “Would you be my tour guide, Nick? (Bersediakah kamu menjadi pemandu wisataku, Nick?) ”

“I would love to! (Dengan senang hati!)” seruku sambil menghabiskan kopiku.

Kesimpulannya? Aku dulu tidak menyukai Indonesia. Tapi setelah melihat cinta Dewi kepada Indonesia, aku tak bisa terus-terusan membenci Indonesia. Aku memang tak bisa berkata dengan penuh percaya diri bahwa aku mencintai Indonesia, tapi satu hal yang pasti, aku tidak lagi membenci Indonesia.

-

On breakups.

I'm supposed to be writing my short story that I need to submit in two days. I'm also supposed to write something happy since I just got into a relationship. But no, I decided to write about this since one of my good friends just broke up. If you're reading this, I dedicate this post for you.

"It's not working out." His flat tone creeps you out, but there is nothing you can do about it. "Let's break up," he adds bitterly. You try to say something, anything. You try to cry, you try to shout, you try to ask 'Why?' but nothing comes out. You just gaze at him with a blank stare.

The next thing you know, you're holding your phone as you cry. You cry and cry as we listen to you without knowing what to say to console you. And when you think you're finally done crying, you'll cry a little bit more. We try to say something like "He has a better plan for you," or  "I'm sure your prince charming is out there waiting for you. Waiting for your smile that will shake his world." But you clamp your ears shut, you refuse to listen to other people. And you keep on crying for a little bit more. You realize that breakup doesn't kill, the realization that you'll never be with him again does.

The next day, you think the worst has passed. You think you can finally pick up the pieces of your heart and start moving on. But who are you kidding? We all know this is the part that would kill you, or -- if it doesn't -- at least it would cripple you. Even the slight sight of their gifts starts to irritate you. You're thinking of throwing away whatever reminds you of them. But you're not ready to throw away everything, are you?

You get a lot of attention, yet you're getting tired of telling your story over and over again to friends and to strangers. You start faking smiles and you start faking 'I'm fine' when we ask "Are you okay?" or "How are you doing?" But we all know you are not. We all know you're not fine. In fact, we all know you're the farthest thing away from okay.

You read books. You watch movies. You play games. You cook. You do sports. You hang out with your friends. You try to distract yourself from thinking of him. You don't want to think about him, let alone talk about him with your friends.

A week passes and you start saying to yourself that you have to move on. You have to pick up the broken pieces of your heart. Everything starts to be okay. You're still irritated when you see couples being lovey-dovey when you're hanging out with your friends. You try to throw a shoe at them, but your friends manage to hold you. Other people's relationships hurt you, but you start moving on.

A month passes and your heart starts to heal. You begin to think that being single isn't all that bad. Having no one to care about but yourself. Having no one to please but yourself. You start thinking that being single is better than being in a relationship that cuts your heart a bit more by each breath you take.

A few months pass and you're whole again. The sight of other people's relationships don't bother you as much as it did a few months ago. You start smiling from your deepest heart, wondering whose world you will shake using your smile. And whose smile will shake yours.

The country I used to love

21 years ago, I was born in Surabaya, Indonesia. My dad never liked travelling, so I spent the first 17 years of my life in Indonesia. It was kind of sad and embarrassing, really. Back when I was in grade school, everyone in my class would brag about where they went during the vacation. Singapore, Malaysia, Europe, some of them even went to USA and bragged about it. And where did I go? Yep. Nowhere.

For those of you who have never spent 17 years of your life staying in one place, -- trust me -- you are bound to have an emotional attachment to the place, whether you like it or not. So when I had to leave Indonesia right after graduating from high school, I was scared. People said that you didn't know what you had until it was gone. They were right. It took me 17 years to actually realize that I was in love with it. I was in love with Indonesia. And the thought of leaving a country that I had come to love THIS much scared me.

So let's fast forward a little bit. I left Indonesia with tearful eyes, and it was three and a half years later when I graduated and earned my bachelor degree. After spending my last three and a half years in America, I flew back to Indonesia and my impression of Indonesia changed completely.

Ever had an ex who makes you think 'what the hell was I thinking when I dated him/her?' when you run into them after a few years of not seeing each other? That's how I felt about Indonesia when I flew back home. In the first 17 years of my life I spent in Indonesia, I thought everything was okay in Indonesia. The last three and a half years of my life I spent in America opened my eyes and I realized that NOTHING is.

Okay, that was too harsh. Some things are actually okay in Indonesia. Like the food is nice. Or we don't have to pay like 20 bucks (around IDR 190,000) to park our car in a mall for two freaking hours. Or, or that we only need to pay IDR 50,000 to watch movies, as opposed to 12 bucks in America (around IDR 115,000).

See? Some things are actually okay in Indonesia. Some things aren't, of course. And you're right if you're thinking we need to change them. You're right if you're thinking we need to transform Indonesia.

This might sound a bit arrogant coming from me, but PLEASE STOP BEING ARROGANT. Indonesia has been here for what? 67 years? And us? 20 years? 30 years? Indonesia has been here WAY longer than we have. We can't even get our parents to get into Twitter, why do we even bother trying to change Indonesia?

This might be a bit sudden, but let me bring our attention to the foundation of our country, Pancasila. I'm sure that we all could recite by heart each principle of Pancasila (except the very long fourth principle, I don't even remember that one either) so I won't even bother writing it here. The fifth principle of Pancasila actually implies that "all of the country’s natural resources and the national potentials should be utilized for the greatest possible good and happiness of the people". Each and every Pancasila's principle was written with us in mind (I can go step by step and talk about how each principle actually is beneficial for us, but I'm sure you guys would rather go to Youtube and stare at buffering videos since it's less boring). We should be proud of it. We should be proud of Pancasila as our country's amazing foundation.

You guys see? Indonesia is just fine. It's not Indonesia that needs to change, it's the Indonesians.

While Pancasila was based on western cultures when Sukarno first wrote it in 1945, Suharto later stripped all western elements from Pancasila. The five principles in Pancasila (Ketuhanan, Kemanusiaan, Persatuan, Kerakyatan, and Keadilan Sosial) were claimed by Suharto as purely Indonesian notions. This means that Pancasila is ours and ours only. And if we can embrace our Blackberry/iPhone, why can't we do the same with Pancasila? Pancasila is yours, just like your phones. Do you guys see those corruptors? Do you guys see those queue-jumpers? Do you guys see those exam cheaters? Those are the very people who are breaking our Pancasila. We get REAL mad at somebody when they break our phones, why aren't we getting mad when they break our Pancasila? Why?

Sure, there is nothing we can do about those corruptors (unless your dad is a corruptor, in which case you can totally do something about it). While we theoretically can actually scold those queue-jumpers, I wouldn't do it if I were you since it might provoke a fight (if your body is well-built and you're looking for a fight, feel free to scold them). The same thing with exam cheaters, while we can call our friends out when they cheat during exams, our friendship with them might be at stakes, so I wouldn't do it if I were you either.

Changing people is hard. You don't change people. People change themselves. You can only do so much as to inspire them. So let's start changing people by changing what we can: ourselves. Stop corrupting people's money (if you're a corruptor), stop queue-jumping, stop cheating during exams, stop littering, stop bribing, ... (I can do this all night long, but I'll stop here)

If I have to write down a list of things in my life that are worth fighting for, it would look something like: 1) internet, 2) coffee, 3) Indonesia, and 4) nap time. How does your list look like? Does it have Indonesia in it? Few things in life are worth fighting for, but the country that we were born in definitely is one of them. Let's make Indonesia better by changing the Indonesians, and start changing Indonesians by first changing ourselves. Start changing ourselves by treating Pancasila like our own phone. Just like we don't break our own phone, stop breaking Pancasila.

Check out Blogvolution, the reason why I wrote this post.

On being rejected.

"I'm in love with you," I looked up to her after putting all 99 roses down on the ground. "Would you be my girlfriend?"

She smiled. Just like a hunter's smile as he was approaching his dying prey right before dealing the final blow. 

Silence.

The only audible sound was that of the candle's flickering flame. The candles I put all around the 99 roses were silently melting. I nervously smiled as I waited for her answer.

She opened her mouth. I waited, but no words seemed to follow. Then, after what seemed to be a minute or an hour, she said "thank you." Her lips were still curled and formed the perfect smile. I instantly knew where this was going. Please tell me this is just a lie. Tell me this is all just one big lie. "Thank you Kent, really. I really appreciate it. You being here, on my birthday, at 12 AM. This is just... too sweet, but..." she was biting her lips, but I could still hear her words nonetheless.

I stayed silent. My eyes were fixated to the 99 roses with all the candles surrounding them. I knew exactly what she would say next and what would happen afterwards, but deep inside, I wished I didn't.

"But I can't see you as more than a friend, Kent. I'm sorry," she said.

I knew it. What she said shook me. My brain searched for words to say, my mouth gasped for response, but neither came up with anything. I smiled, or at least I tried to. "I know, this is your sweet seventeenth birthday, right? I, I knew that you would reject me. I just wanted to confess to you, I just want to... give you something to remember. I want to give us something to remember," I held back my tears with my eyes still fixed to the roses on the ground.

I cleaned up after my mess and wished her good night. And as soon as I saw her disappearing into her house, I ran back to my car and drove home. I cried and cried. And when I thought I was done crying, I cried a little bit more. I silently swore that I would be so good at everything and would not be rejected. Ever again. 

--

It's been five years since that happened and I have actually forgot how it feels like being rejected. Until yesterday. An e-mail from Purdue came with the header 'Application Decision.' I took a deep breath and clicked on it.

It's like every organ in my body stopped functioning and I couldn't remember how to breathe. The news came upon me and shook me to the very core. Before I knew it, I was laughing. I thought I was supposed to be sad, fall down and cry. But I didn't. I laughed. And laughed. I pinched my cheek, but I couldn't feel anything, so I punched a wall. My fist hurt, this can't be a dream. I punched my chest, forcing myself to cry only to find myself laughing, again.

This seemed like a bad joke. A very bad joke. I held my Blackberry to my chest, waiting for a follow-up e-mail from my school saying "HA! Did we get you? We were just kidding, here is your acceptance letter," but none came. That was when I knew this was not a dream, nor was it a joke. This was the reality. A painful one. I quickly replied to them asking what the reason for my graduate school rejection was. Fueled by anger and confusion, my fingers wouldn't stop typing. I sent it and there was no immediate reply.

I quickly resorted to blaming. I need to blame someone to rationalize this. This is not fair! I am not in the wrong! A Purdue graduate, with a pretty high GPA and a pretty high GRE score, rejected? It didn't make sense, at least not for me. The problem was, whom? Whom can I blame? None. I could blame no one but myself. It was then when something dawned on me. A revelation, an inspiration. I somehow recalled one of the two Bible verses I actually do remember.

1 Corinthians 10.13.

¹³ No temptation has overtaken you except such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it. -- 1 Corinthians 10.13 (NKJV)

Being rejected sucks. Big time. Be it rejected by your crush, or rejection in general. But when a door closes, another door opens. And there might be even greater treasures in the door that just opens. Be strong and walk, believe that everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, then it's not the end. The way I see this rejection is that He doesn't want me to go for master's degree. Hey, maybe He wants me to learn how to write better and live off my writing instead of wasting my time pursuing for a master's degree. Who knows, right? 

My next plan is to either go to Singapore to work or to China to learn Chinese, which one would be a better option? Please kindly comment and let me know what you guys think, thank you so much!

(Oh, and for those of you wondering, yes, the cheesy roses thing was for my ex. I confessed to her three times before we actually went out.)

My oral surgery: part one

"It's inflamed," he said as he jammed a metallic rod into my mouth.

At this point of time, I was like ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap, please don't let it be a surgery. Please. 

"Relax, there is no need to extract it..." He probably saw my expression and -- in an attempt to calm me down -- said so. It worked.

Thank God, I muttered to myself.

"...yet," he quickly added. Think of a small kid who had been making a sandcastle when all of the sudden, an older kid came and stepped on the sandcastle obliterating it. Imagine how the smaller kid's expression looked and you'd have a decent grasp about how my face looked at that time.

"It's your wisdom tooth," he turned off the light and righted my seat. "Yours is a pretty late case, eh? Normally wisdom teeth grow between age 20 and 25."

"I'M TWENTY YEAR OLD," I said as I lightly hit his shoulder with the back of my hand.

"Oh. I thought you were 27. Sorry," his gaze fixed on the note he was writing. "Here," he said as he ripped his note. "Take this into the lab and ask them to x-ray your teeth.

I took the notes and -- on my way out -- I glanced on a mirror that was hanging next to the exit. Do I really look THAT old? I sighed and left for the lab.

--

The lab was empty, save for some children and their nurses. So I registered for a dental x-ray and was told to wait. In a room near me was a kid whose mouth was open. I could see a young doctor pushing his long rod into her throat (okay, that was NOT a sexual innuendo for you dirty minds out there). And the kid cried. Her cry was loud and annoying as heck. I was really tempted to storm into the room and staple her lips, but I didn't bring my stapler with me. And my name was called soon after, so I went into the x-ray room. Lucky kid.

"Mr. Kent?" The operator welcomed me into the room and gestured me to take a seat while he prepared the x-ray machine.

I nodded.

"Don't be so tense," he was wearing a masker, but I could see him smiling from underneath it. "What seems to be the problem?"

"My wisdom tooth."

"Ahh.. Yes, common problem for people aged 25 and above," he flicked a button and the x-ray machine whirred intensely.

"I'M TWENTY YEAR OLD. THANK YOU VERY MUCH." I silently swore if I met someone today who thought I'm 25 or older and say it out loud again, I'll shove my driver's license in his face.

"Haha," he laughed. He laughed. HE LAUGHED. "Please step here and bite this mouth-piece. And try not to move around while it is taking your x-ray picture."

I stepped forward and bit the thing with an 'I could very well be biting you right now' expression on my face.

"Please stay still," he said. The machine started rotating around my face and made a loud-weird-annoying-continuous sound for around 30 seconds. My teeth are getting dry...

The machine stopped abruptly. "Done. Please wait outside and I'll call your name when your x-ray picture is done," he said. "You may now stop biting," he added. Apparently I was still biting the mouth-piece. I was still biting it hard.

--

I came back to my dentist with my dental x-ray picture. He opened the envelope, held the content to a light and examined it. "Yep," he said as he put the x-ray down and folded his glasses. "Looks like we need to do a surgery." I could feel cold sweat running through my back. "When do you have to go back to America?" He asked as he carefully put the x-ray back into the envelope.

"December," I gulped. "December 12th."

"Oh, that's quite... short." He glanced at a calendar sitting next to his desk and said, "what about Sunday 10 AM?"

This time it was my turn to take a glance at the calendar. Sunday, Sunday... Then it hit me. Today was a Friday night.

--

It is currently 11 PM on Saturday. And I'm having my oral surgery in less than 12 hours. Oh and by the way, I hate porridge. The slimy sensation I feel when I swallow it is just so... slimy. So if I'm not posting anything in my blog in the next few days, it's safe to say I either die from the sheer pain of the surgery or from starving to death.

That one time I stepped on a bee

For those of you who never paid attention in Biology classes: do you know that bees are only able to sting once before dying? This is caused mainly because its stinger is attached to its guts. So when a bee stings a person (or anything, it doesn't have to be a person, really), the stinger sticks to whatever it stung and its innards would be pulled out altogether with the stinger. Resulting in death.

With that being said, let me start this story by saying that I am a kind kid. My parents always told me that bees only sting when they felt threatened. I never got stung by a bee, it's either because I was a kind kid, or because I always ran like hell when I saw a bee. Let's all silently agree it was because I was a kind kid. Apparently, a lot of my friends were stung by bees when they were a child. So, really, to some extent, having never been stung by a bee was something to be proud of. Or at least it was for me who had nothing else to be proud of.

Everything changed last week though. And I could never brag about having never been stung by a bee anymore.

It was five in the morning when my cellphone I put beside my pillow rang. It was not the usual alarm tone which would never fail to force me to wake up to hit 'snooze' and go back to sleep. It was my usual ring tone. I opened my eyes for a bit and saw the caller ID. It was an unregistered number that I had ignored for God knows how many times, so I instantly knew it was my dad. Ugh, what's with him?

I left my room hurriedly. My hunch told me it would be something super important if he woke me up this early. As soon as I flew down the stairs, he asked me where the car key was. Oh sure. Let's wake Kent up because you forgot where you put your key last night. Great.

So, being a kind kid that I was, I looked around and searched for the car key. The key that he misplaced the night before. I was glasses-less and sandal-less and as soon as I entered his bedroom, my nose was struck by a tremendous amount of cigarette smoke. I coughed and stumbled forward. It was then when I felt something on my left foot. At first it stung for a bit. Just like a small red ant's bite. Then the pain became more intense. Each passing second way more painful than the previous one. After three full seconds, I took a look at what I just stepped. A bee. A friggin' bee. I just stepped on a bee, and now it hurts. Didn't take a genius to realize that I just got stung. By an unconscious bee. I fell on the floor and pulled the stinger out. If the bee wasn't dead because I stepped on it, it surely was now after it stung me. Stupid bee.

So, my first experience with beesting was stepping on a bee. An unconscious one (by the way, cigarettes' smoke destroys bees' sense of direction and in turn, knock them unconscious. Oh I feel so smart...). Which means I just stung myself. Oh, in my defense, I was sure the bee was setting a trap by lying there pretending to be unconscious.The first 30 minutes after the beesting was hell. It swelled for a bit and it hurt a lot. Each step I took sent a jolting pain over my foot which forced me to cringe after each step.

To cut the story short, I found the car key and my dad left afterwards. In the evening when he got home, he noticed that the way I walked was funny and asked what was wrong. I told him that I stepped on a bee, and he laughed as he said, "Good thing you stepped on it. Otherwise I would have stepped on it. You took the fall for the team." I was really thinking to smoke a cigarette and blow the smoke to a bee, make it unconscious and plant the bee on his chair. Ugh. Of course I didn't do it since I was a kind kid. Teehee.

Now it has been exactly 10 days after I got stung. And it itches. It itches like hell. In fact, I'm writing this with nervousness and anxiety of me turning into a Beeman tomorrow. Kind of like Spiderman, but instead of shooting web to villains, my superpower would be being able to ass-bump someone I don't like and die immediately afterwards.

I'm a Christian! But...

Have no idea what to put as the image, so here is a picture of nyan cat.

It's pretty normal for an egoist to talk about himself. And since this blog is actually just one big egoist's rant, let me talk about myself for a bit.

I came from an un-christian family. My dad wasn't a christian, and neither was my mom. So naturally, I wasn't either. But everything changed when my brother became a christian. It was a normal thing for a younger brother to look up to his older brother, and I was a normal kid back then. So I looked up to him. I looked up to my older brother a lot. It was then when I came to know there was this invisible being who created us and died for us (at that time, I didn't know that Jesus and God are different). This was during my fifth grade. When people asked me, 'hey kid, what's your religion?' I would proudly answer 'I'm a christian!' without really understanding what being a christian really meant.

Fast forward a little bit to my Junior High School moment. I had always been a smart (read: nerdy) kid back then, so when I received my Religion exam paper back which had a large '59' written in red, I nearly cried. I held my tears in and asked my Religion teacher ways to get bonus point. To which she told me that if I were active in my school's Christian fellowship, she would curve my exam score up. So I joined my school's Christian fellowship. During this, I learned that God and Jesus were different. God sent his kid Jesus Christ to die and pay for our sins. When people asked me, 'hey kid, what's your religion?' I would meekly answer 'I'm a christian, a person whose sin was paid by Jesus.'

During my tenth grade, I finally joined a church (the same church that I currently go to every Sunday). It was during this time that I started to understand that a christian was someone who personally accepted Jesus Christ as his one and only savior. I think I personally accepted Jesus on April 2007. Or 2006... Or was it 2005? Whatever.  So, really, when people asked me, 'hey, what's your religion?' I would answer 'I'm a christian, someone who has accepted Jesus Christ and believed that He died for him.'

I am seven years old in christian age. During these seven years, I have met a lot of christians. Believe it or not, I once met someone who would shun people who didn't go to church. I mean, what's the big deal with not going to church anyway? As Billy Sunday said:

'Going to a church doesn't make you a christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.' 

I was a christian, and meeting this one 'christian' greatly disappointed me. I wonder what people who don't believe in Jesus think if they actually meet these so-called 'christians'?

One thing that greatly disturbs me as well is what the Bible says about homosexuality. Okay, before you guys look at me that way. Some people think that I am gay, but trust me. I'm not. Have never been and will never be. The thought of a guy's ass perturbs me to no end. Although the Bible clearly opposes homosexuality (as written in 1 Corinthians 6:9-10), I don't. I believe that being gay is something that happens naturally and it's something that one can't control. And staying gay is their right. Imagine if you fall in love with a girl and then suddenly you're told that loving this one particular girl is a sin, what would you do?

I have talked to several christians and they believe that being gay is a sin. And when I asked them 'why?', most of them told me simply because 'the Bible said so.' As much as this annoys me, there is nothing that I can do about it. Since I have been taught that the Bible is the truth, the words that I have to follow to no end during my lifespan. I don't blame them for thinking that way, and in fact, there is no one to blame. However, I was a human before I became a christian. I don't believe in stepping on other people's happiness in order to follow a book. Even if the book is the Bible.

In the book 'The Knights Templar and the Protestant Reformation,' Stanley Jones, who was a missionary, once met with Mahatma Gandhi and asked him:

'Mr. Gandhi, though you quote the words of Christ often, why is that you appear to so adamantly reject becoming his follower?'

To which Gandhi replied:

'Oh, I don't reject Christ. I love your Christ. What I don't like is your christians. So many of you christians are so unlike Christ.'

I don't even know where I'm going with this. I guess the moral of this post is that I proudly declare that I am a christian. I believe in Jesus Christ and I believe that He had died for me and you and everyone else. He had died to cleanse us from our sins. But He does not judge. At least he doesn't until the very end of the day. So who are you to judge other people who don't want to go to church? Who are you to judge people who are gay/lesbian?

I'm a christian, but if being a christian means that I have to step on other people's happiness and opinions, I'll gladly be an atheist.

Love is just a four-letter-word.

Which by the way, so are 'shit' and 'hate.'

I am no expert in love. In fact, I broke up with my first girlfriend like four years ago, and the last time I actually experienced this so-called 'love' was three years ago. This was the last time I wondered what she was doing before I slept. Or wondered whether or not she had eaten while I was eating. Or wondered whether she had been wondering about me or not. During that month my cellphone bill went up to $104.71. Ugh.

I spent the last three years of my life not giving a damn about love. Convincing myself that I was strong enough to walk without a partner. Strong enough to ride this rollercoaster without someone next to me. But who am I kidding? I need someone. I need someone to talk to during the low point of my life. Someone who would hug me and tell me that everything would be alright despite us both knowing that it wouldn't. Someone to hold hand with so I would have someone to hold on to if I fell.

"I wonder why you still don't have a girlfriend," she said as we were walking ever so slowly behind our group of friends. 

"I wonder..." I said without even throwing a glance at her. 

"I mean, look at them." She threw her hands up front, pointing to everyone in front of us but noone in particular. "You are quite handsome. You are smart. You are pretty rich. You are funny. Compared to these guys, you are completely in another level." 

'I'm not rich, my dad is. I'm not smart, I just know how to look smart. I'm not handsome, one of my friends actually told me that I look ridiculous. I'm not funny, I'm just sarcastically mean and you guys think that I'm actually being funny,' was something I would have said, but I held my tongue and uttered a 'thank you' instead.

I was honestly wondering when I said 'I wonder...' And I kept wondering why for the next week or so when one of my friends said to me, "the day you understand that a perfect person doesn't exist, is the day that you'll get yourself a girlfriend."

I had always thought of love as something beautiful. Something fragile. Something that you needed to hide and put in a safe box in order to not accidentally drop and break it. Something that 'felt so right' at the very moment you laid your eyes on it. Something like a Cinderella's glass shoe, I would guess. Then it occurred to me that love is nothing like a Cinderella's glass shoe.

Love is so much more like a pair of sweat pants. The kind of pants that Hulk wears. The kind that always seems like it's too small but in the end it would stretch and fit no matter how much Hulk grows. It's anything but fragile, you could put it into a washing machine and it would be just fine. And the best thing is that it's comfortable. Ever since I first read the story of Cinderella, I had always wondered how uncomfortable it must have been to wear glass shoes. One wrong step and they would break. Ew.

Love is not about finding the perfect person that would fit for us. Love is about finding and being the right person that would fit into each other.

Love is just a four-letter-word. There is no exact way to define what love is, each person has their own definition of love. It just so happens that my definition of love is a pair of sweat pants. What's your definition of this so called four-letter-word?

My trip to Indonesia

I sat on the floor where there was an electrical outlet. The only electrical outlet I could actually find within 100 meter distance. I took a glance at my watch. 4:00 PM. My flight was supposed to depart like 30 minutes ago, but they didn't even bother to tell us if the flight was running late. As I was going to look back at my laptop, I saw three middle-aged women shouting in Surabayan (a dialect in Indonesian).

"Yoh yaopo toh! Kok telat iki pesawate! Aku onok mitengg ora kenek telat aku! (Why are we running late? I have this important meeting that I have to attend!)" The oldest woman cussed at the flight attendant who now looked nothing but troubled under his all-smiles face.

"Maaf ya bu. Tapi ini kami baru sempat komunikasi sama awak di pesawat. Sebentar lagi akan landing pesawatnya dan kita akan bisa mulai boarding, (I'm really sorry, but we have just managed to establish a communication line with the plane crew. The plane will be landing in a short time and we'll be able to start boarding)" said the flight attendant with gentleness. If I were him, I would probably kick the old lady in the crotch. Twice. Ugh.

Just like how the attendant promised, the plane landed in a short time and we started boarding. As I started putting my laptop and charging cable away, I took a quick glance around the waiting room and saw that there were approximately 200-300ish people. All my hopes about sitting next to an empty seat were gone. I was never really the talkative kind of person in a plane. All I want in a flight was just a decent sleep, not a freaking psychiatrist trying to ask me where I was going and judge me based on what I wanted to do. I sighed and walked to the boarding waiting line which had become a 20-meter long line.

The wait didn't feel that long thanks to the novel I held in my hands and the iPod stuck to my ears. Before long, I was finally seated in the isle seat in a two-seats compartment. 34 A. The window seat was still empty and I prayed to whomever was able to hear my prayer to let that seat be empty until the end of the flight. Just as I looked up after praying, an old guy entered the plane. He carried two suitcases in one hand and a torn ticket in his other hand. He kept alternating his gaze between the torn ticket in his right hand and the top part of each seat to check the number.

Oh God, no no. Not next to me. Not next to me. God please no. Not next to --

"TIGA PULUH EMPAT B! (Thirty four B!)" His scream managed to pierce my ears which were plugged with earphones. Crap.

I had boarded far too many airplanes to know which passengers were trouble. And this old guy was nothing but it. The kind of passenger that I always avoided. The kind of passenger that was a bit too nice. The kind of passenger whom I knew would ask one question too many. The kind of passenger that reminded me of Adobe updater on my laptop, which tried to be nice but ended up as annoying.

He was fat (ahem I know I'm not supposed to use this word since I'm like a pregnant woman as well) and he seemed like he just dipped in a cologne. A cheap one. He stopped right next to me and put his suitcase into the overhead compartment above me. I gestured that I wanted to step out so he could get into his window-seat, but he didn't even bother. He slid in with his back facing me. His back was soaked and I reflexively gagged as his clothes wavered right in front of me. GODDAMMIT OLD MAN, how many bottles of perfume did you empty this morning?

It was by no means an easy task, but he managed to finally slide in and sat down next to me. Finally I could read my novel in pea-- He poked me right on my ribs as he extended his arms and shoved me his torn ticket. "BENAR YA TIGA PULUH EMPAT B? (Thirty four B, right?)" I could feel he was trying to keep his voice as low as possible, but even his lowered voice was nothing to sneer at. I took a look at his torn ticket which had the number '34B' written in the top right corner of it and then pretended to look at the top part of my seat. I then gave him a quick nod accompanied with the most awkward smile I could muster.

I closed my eyes as I plugged in my earphones once again, lulling myself to sleep when I felt another poke on my ribs. "KAMU DARI MANA? (Where are you from?)" Okay. This has got to stop. I thought to myself for a moment and decided to play it dumb.

"Sorry, I don't speak Indonesian," I smiled and pulled my right earphone.

"OOOOHH.. INGGRIS YA? INGGRIS YA? (Oh.. So you speak English?)" His eyes widened as if he had never met someone who spoke English.

I nodded and gave him a look that said 'Did what I just say sound like Arab to you?' 

"OOOOHH. WHERE FROM WHERE FROM?" His grin extended from one ear to another as he waited for my answer.

"USA," at this point of time I had to recall what the integral of log x was in order to not burst out laughing.

"OOOOHHH AMERICA! NICE NICE. IN SURABAYA, WHERE STAY?" He raised his hand above his hand to gesture what seemed to be a turtle. Or a house. Can't tell.

"Citraland," I answered coolly wishing that he would just shut up or if he wants to keep talking to reduce his fat, talk to the window next to him.

Although these idle chatters continued for no longer than 15 minutes, it seemed like an eternity for me. Probably because I had to continue basking in his cheap perfume. Or probably because everytime he said something, his spit flew upon my face and I had to reflexively be a ninja to avoid all those spits.

It was finally time for us to take off. The seat belt sign above me lit up and altogether with it was an announcement to turn off any electrical devices such as laptops, cellphones, or iPods. Oh wait, the announcement was in Indonesian and I was supposed to not be able to understand it. So I kept my iPod on and plugged to my ears. And suddenly I felt another poke on my right ribs.

"NO IPOD NO IPOD," he shook his head rapidly as he glued both his index fingers to form a cross.

I smiled as I pulled my right earphone. "Thank you," I pulled my iPod out of my pocket and pretended to hit the pause button. My left earphone was still in and blaring with music. I'm such an asshole.

I closed my eyes and finally was able to get some sleep. I was expecting to be woken up by another poke on my ribs, so I was really surprised when I woke up to see a flight attendant (whose name, by the way, was Chiu Som Kok. I silently thanked God for not letting me be born in Hongkong) pushing a cart full of food. Like most Indonesians, the fat guy ate in peace. During this point, I stopped being aware about his cheap cologne. I didn't know whether I should be happy because it stopped bugging me, or sad because my nose started thinking that the smell was actually okay. I sighed deeply as I repeatedly stabbed my chicken and realizing that this would be the closest to breast that I would ever get (oops).

After countless number of fat guy waking me up and going to the toilet by ribs-poking, the announcement to fasten my seat belt finally marked the end of this long flight. The plane hit a turbulence and it shook like crazy for at least 15 minutes. When the turbulence finally ended, I could finally see Juanda airport. The carpet below me shook with great intensity indicating that they were extending the wheels, which was then immediately followed by a big clank and then a zooming sound (you know, the 'WHOOOSHHHHH' sound when your plane was trying its best to stop). It took us no longer than two minutes for the plane to slow down to almost a stop (but it was still moving slowly). As soon as the plane slowed down for everyone to stand up and not lose balance, everybody stood up. Okay, not everybody since I didn't stand up. But like 90% of the plane stood up. Even the fat guy next to me started punching my arm and kept on shouting "AYO AYO (come on come on)!" to which I would have replied "Oh hold on one minute, let me just break this window and we could definitely skip all this queue and go home faster than everyone else, you genius," but I bit my tongue in the end so I stayed silent and stood up anyway. Which, by the way, I had to stand up and do nothing for the next 15 minutes since the 'seatbelt'-sign was still on, and we weren't allowed to walk. Stupid fatguy.

The old women who complained to the flight attendant, the Surabayan-accent English, or an overly friendly fatguy. All those three didn't even remind me that I was actually home. When I saw everyone stood up before they turned the 'seatbelt'-sign off and when the fatguy next to me kept on hitting and telling me to hurry up, that's when I was reminded that I was home in Surabaya.

I'm home!