India Unplugged

November-December 2006

"If you visit India for a day, you can write a book. If you visit for a week, you can write a few lines. If you stay a month, you cannot write a word." (Vivek, our group leader- he "read it somewhere")

The group at the Red Fort, Agra

Taj Mahal at sunset

Lake Pushkar, Pushkar

Ghats of Varanasi

Desert lake in Jaiselmer

Lisa and I at the Taj early in the morning

Sarah, Jenna, Lisa, Andy, Tara and I on the last day in Kolkata

About to board an overnight train in Agra for Varanasi

Sunrise over the Ganges in Varanasi (view from hotel)

School childern at the School for the deaf in Udaipur

The only temple to Lord Brahma in India, Pushkar

Temple on Lake Pichola, Udaipur

The search for bangles in Pushkar

View from my balcony in Jaiselmer

Camel safari in the Great Thar Desert

The Spice Markets, Delhi

At I-India, a charity organisation for abused and neglected children in Jaipur

Bangkok and the floating markets

Gold-leafed archway to a school in Bangkok

Sellers on the floating markets, 90 mins outside of Bangkok

More produce

Billy looking "ridiculously goood-looking" in a Thai hat

Standing Buddha

Floating commerce, Billy buys bananas (cheap!)

My coffee fix at Starbucks (I was desperate), escaping the heat and crazy Koh San Road to keep the journal up-to-date

Hats for sale on the floating markets

Chiang Mai, the hill tribes & the Loy Kratong festival

Local handicrafts in the Karen village

November 2006

"Last hill" said Mr Dong, our local guide, encouragingly as we braced oursleves for what looked like the most soul-defeating climb yet. Trekking in the hills around Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand had been described as requiring a "moderate level of fitness," that the walk would simply wind its way through rice paddies and sloping farmland- there had been no mention that a good part of this trek would have challenged Tenzing. In 30 degrees+ humid and muddy conditions with heavy packs we sang, gossiped, riddled, swore and complained- anything to keep from turning around and going back. We stop once in a while, if only to reapply insect repellant in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to ward off hungry insects. This "torture" however, would only be short-lived. With every incline there is a summit, with every blister comes the wonderful relief of taking off your boots, at the end of every day there is a Thai dinner ready and waiting, a swim in cool clear rivers and the gentle and rhythmic sounds of waterfalls lulling us to dream-filled sleep. We would often go to bed at 7.30pm and luckily slept well on the bamboo slats under mosquito nets, as there was always a temporally-disoriented rooster sounding the wake-up call, sometimes as early as 4am!

We visited the Karen hill tribe. The Karen people, also known as the Yang or Kariang, live simply and now farm rice, herbs and vegetables instead of opium poppies- due to government incentives, and in the last two years, bans. Many have "converted" to Christianity if only to gain access to education for their children, but also continue to practice their traditional animist spirituality, revering nature and mountain ghosts. The children sang and in return we deep-fried some omlettes, a treat, and gave one to each child. This felt uncomfortable in a way, the children lining up for food handed out by strange foreigners, but with groups like ours passing through once per week I suppose they have encoroprated this context into their "list of things to do each Sunday." I hope they know that it is them, not the feigned altruistic element, that gives us pleasure.

Each morning the villagers would cover trees and fences in handicrafts- colourful scarves, bags, clothing and jewellery- hoping to make a little from the tourists who flash their cameras and mobile phones. There is so much poverty here, so much that is needed, but the Karen people never want for simple pleasures- the beauty of the landscape, the simplicity of a subsistance lifestyle, the collectiveness and mutual cooperation of the tribe.

"Last hill" had not exactly been accurate, but we were fast approaching the end of the trek, and while a sense of relief inescapedly washed over the group, there was also a sense of regret. The days had been strenuous but full, complete with a very touristy elephant ride and bamboo rafting, but it would be the hill tribe people, and our energetic and humble local guides and porters we would miss most.

Mr Dong and Jiab, our group leader, met us in Chiang Mai on the last night for Loy Kratong, a week-long annual celebration in Thailand to fuel good luck, education and insight. The lights (lanterns, fireworks, candles) symbolise this insight but also create a city that is electric! Bungers regularly crack under our feet, and perhaps more worryingly, under the tires of precariously balanced motorbikes. The entire city is out to watch the parade full of floats and pageants, and out to light large paper lanterns which float into the stratosphere creating a new, alien solar system. We bought floating wreaths made from coconut husks and banana leaves, covered in flowers, incense and candles and launched them into the river, the waterway burning with thousands of these offerings.

The overnight train to Bangkok the next day was rocky, long and the restaurant carriage- well lets just say I felt like I was in a very seedy gentleman's club- but we entertained ourselves with card games and tricks, books and iPods, and the time passed quickly. We slept a little and arrived to the shock of steamy, smoggy Bangkok at 6am. We had a "last breakfast" as a group and ended our northern Thailand adventure with the promise of emailing each other our photos and keeping in touch a little.


Some of the group at the Loy Kratong festival

Karen children

Ahh.. a well needed swim and bath

Karen people meet us to sell handicrafts

The group, Mr Dong and porters (Dree & "Superman")

Market food in Chiang Mai- Mmm-mmm

Elephant riding (I'm second from right)

Burning river at Loy Kratong festival

Jiab and I eating a bamboo worm (fried with chilli)

Launching my floating wreath

Four stupid monkeys

Four stupid monkeys thought it would be a good idea to drink tequila. Outcome? Never. Drinking. Again. Plus we nearly got beaten up by these wild Scottish girls whom Trace told where to go. We were saved by an adrenaline-fueled taxi driver who whisked us away faster than we could say "step on it!" and laughed so hard that Im sure the driver was about to say "Are you girls heading back to St. Vincent's Psych Unit then?" Narrow escapes came in more ways than one, a wonder we are out alive and in one piece really.

Lisa it's your birthday, happy birthday Lisa!

After carefully negotiating the stairs down to the toilets (three flights so steep someone mentioned hiring a sherpa) we would get to the rooftop and collapse into our waiting drinks. Drinking this night was for the purposes of rehydration I tell you! We were thirtsy!! Lisa, as always, looked amazing though also dehydrated from the workout.

Saturday night was Lis' birthday at the Beauchamp Hotel. Great venue, great people, some dancing at the end. I snuck into H & R's place (Block?) early in the morning, unsuccesful in my efforts to be quiet. They said they didnt hear me, kind people. Thanks for a great night guys!

Mountains, Mega fauna & Moo games

A weekend in the Blue Mountains is always a weekend well spent. There is always a bushwalk, always a log fire, always great food and wine, always a search through some antique stores and always a reluctance to leave. This time there was also some close encounters with unusually large-sized native animals (modern-day Mega Fauna) including a blue tongue lizard, a wombat and yabbies that made us think there must be something in the water. On a search for the glow worm tunnel, we did not find any glow worms, or a tunnel, but came across some suprisingly named "ruins"- really just the remains of a not-so-old shale mine near Lithgow. More exciting than the ruins (thank Christ) was the drive that day. On perhaps Australia's most corrogated unsealed roads we took city cars to their limits, cringing and bracing with every bump. It was too hot not to have the windows down, but doing so almost certainly meant the interior of the car became filled with dust, making it impossible to breath. The Moo game, a great game, happily started forcing us to take our minds off the conditions. The aim is to moo so loudly outside the car window that resident cows look up from their grassy meals. The number of cows you can get to turn their heads from all the mooing decides the winner. Genius.

Thank you, as always, to Niel for inviting us up to his beautiful Blackheath home and no-longer-so-secret garden.

My first time

Liv and Matt at their local




It was magical. It was more than I had imagined... It was my first time in Melbourne. I finally managed to catch a plane south for the weekend to visit friends and explore Melbourne and its surrounds.

From the moment I arrived, I had the uncanny feeling that I had been there before. The city felt so familiar. More than the sense of familiarity I would have gained from watching Kath and Kim and the Secret Life of Us, though aspects of these shows admittedly crept into the weekend. Whatever it was, this was a place I was happy to be reacquainted with.

Melbourne CBD is deceptive. With its prerequisite number of highrise and commercial buildings, it is like any other city. But pleasure is never far from business in Melbourne. Also within the city, hidden, are old cobblestoned laneways, footpaths lined with alfresco eats and coffee shops, talented artists creating museums on the streets, and horse-drawn carriages ready to take off towards the Yarra River which lazily snakes alongside the metropolis, markets covering its banks on weekends. The famous green and gold trams easily pick us up and drop us off whenever we feel the urge.

The people are so well dressed, though fashion does not seem to be effortful here. In Sydney, I so often feel that there is a nervous insecurity that drives the fashion industry. In Melbourne, looking good is all about expressing the art and culture of the place. People, themselves, are walking statements- not of power or position, but of subculture, youth and artistic freedom. The barrista guessed I was not from Melbourne. Oh no, I thought. Do I look that unfashionable in my cargo pants and thongs? Do I scream "tourist" with my camera? No, I had said "skim" cappucino, not "skinny" he offered reassuringly. I was not convinced.

St Kilda was swamped with trendy locals enjoying the line up of cafes, retro bars and- wait for it- practically a whole block of European patisseries! I lingered too long outside one of the cake shops and then realised that I had caused a human traffic jam. To get out of the way, I ducked into the little shop. The sight of the pastries, cakes and breads had been bad enough. Now I was hit with the smell. There are few smells in the world that force a person to think of their future, mostly smells remind us of the past. But whenever I am hit with this smell, my future flashes before me. Maybe I will live in a little flat above such a shop, maybe I will enjoy my breakfast and coffee each weekend surrounded by these perfumes, maybe every special occasion will be marked with a ritualistic drive to buy these treats. I happily left with a fresh poppyseed strichtel in one hand, a "skinny" cappucino in the other.

Next was the nearby Yarra Valley with its melange of vineyards and boutique wineries. We stopped at a couple. At Chandon we ate our fill on platters of cheese and antipasto washed down with a bubbly glass of sparkling rose, it's light pink colour resonating well with the arrival of spring in the area.

The restaurants, bars and clubs were warm and friendly. Melbournites had alot to show-off- they boast an international culture- the food, the music, the art, the mentality. But inspite of this, or perhaps because of it, the city welcomes the newcomer with modesty.

The club we went to took two taxi rides and half an hour of wandering and asking before we found it, tucked away in a dark ally behind some rubbish bins. By the time we arrived, we felt that the city had not intended us to go there, that there was a secrecy behind its friendliness. But we realised that even the locals had not known where the club was, and with possibly the nicest bouncers in Australia welcoming us in, we soon felt that the search had been necessary, that Melbourne wanted to give up its secrets, but only to those who perservered. We walked into what felt like a house party- half indoors, half in an outdoor urban yard- grafiti, metal and bricks looked beautiful here. And the music! I cannot describe it. Just go there. It's called St Jerome's.

Driving towards the airport on my last day I realised Melbourne had been a fusion of what I loved about Australia and what I find so magical in Europe. I had tested out my backpack, but more importantly I tested out this country. A little test before I leave it. Melbourne passed with a high distinction.

Mountain high, mood low

I had to write something for my travel writing course...

This happened to me in 1999. The story is- for the most part- fact. How we managed to get back to civilisation however, has been sprinkled with a little fiction.

Food trails in the French Alps

The passion for the region’s cheeses, breads and pates has long been alive in my family and, like finding the source of a great river, I wanted to explore the origin of this food, to uncover its secrets. The emotional and physical pull of this food was the first secret I would learn…

We were lost. We’d been lost for the last hour or so but no one was brave enough to say it. The cold and thirst were our physical threats. The hunger was both a threat and a lifeline. All we could think about was food.

I’m cross-country skiing in the French Alps, near the Italian border. I left Les Saisies, a tiny resort town in the foothills of Mont Blanc, almost four hours ago. The Mont Blanc (white mountain), standing at 4 808m, is the highest mountain in Western Europe. Today, its thick and perennial white ice peak flashes in and out of view behind white clouds. When the peak can be seen, a postcard-perfect background frames my first cross-country skiing experience.

Lucie and Olivier, a friendly French couple from Lyon whom I met at my hostel, accompany me. Between my broken French and their broken English, we understand each other. They tell me a little about the region, particularly their love of a small town nearby- Beaufort and it’s Swiss-like cheese of the same name. They give me tips on my skiing technique- “move forward” I hear a lot, assuming it means, “lean forward,” though they may just be berating my slowness on the trail.

We would simply stick to the clearly marked trail, right? The trail looped around like an oversized athletics track, so that we would predictably finish where we began in no more than two hours’- back before dark.

But the trail stops. We have not come across a marker for some time, and turn back only to find the light snowfall was not light enough- our own tracks have been buried under a fine layer of powder snow. Cold air from the Mont Blanc has descended into our valley and it is difficult to see even five metres in front of us. Patches of forest, and- more worryingly- changes in slope and snow cover can no longer be anticipated.

A team decision, and we give up trying to retrace our steps and opt to press on, hoping that another marker will direct our way soon- then it could not be more than a kilometre before arriving back in Les Saisies. Through squinted eyes, we see no marker.

It is snowing heavier now, and we can feel our skis are sinking further and further into the snow, making it almost impossible to move more than a few centimetres with each step. The temperature bites suddenly, as though it has dropped 20 degrees in minutes, and snow has managed to find its way inside our boots, turning our feet into heavy iceblocks.

Lucie and I begin to panic. Between chattering teeth, Lucie curses something angrily in French. I begin to imagine the search party that would find us the next day, too late, our bodies sacrificed to the Mont Blanc. It would be a typical “tourists underestimate weather” story that puts all fault on the stupidity of the travellers, sympathy coming only from our families. I think of the two burly St. Bernard dogs outside she ski-hire shop. They are too old now to rescue us with a barrel of rum around their thick necks- they are retired and serve only as a pseudo-tourist attraction for the town.

Only Olivier remains calm and optimistic, assuring us that the town could not be more than half an hour away, that we would soon be drinking steamy chocolat chaud and dipping soft white bread into a bubbly, velvety mixture of cheeses, the prototypical fondue for which the region was famous.

With this, we step up the pace. A snow-white rabbit, sensing our hurry, skirts out of the fog into view, only to disappear into a patch of forest. Olivier begins to talk about food again- rabbit and red wine stew (ragout de lapin) his mother makes on special occasions.

My mind firmly on being alive long enough to taste such a wonderful dish, I follow the rabbit’s own trail towards some conifers. A hallucination- I see lights coming through the trees to our left. Lucie and Olivier agree- I am not hallucinating- these are lights. We are soon met with the sight of a farmhouse.

The residents- a dairy farmer, his wife and son- quickly usher us in from the cold and we are instantly hit with the warm smells of a Savoie kitchen. The family try, without much success, to hide their amusement at our ordeal. Lucie is in histrionics and Olivier looks relieved but also amused at Lucie's exasperation. I have removed my boots, hold one foot at a time in my hands, and look around the kitchen- there are pots bubbling away on the stove, flour dusted like snow on the benches, bread baking, and mouldy cheeses stacked to the ceiling along stone walls. The farmer tells us we are not in Les Saisies but in Beaufort. As though reading our minds, he mentions that the mouldless cheeses are kept in another house altogether, ripening patiently. We would not be allowed to leave until we had had our fill of his family’s produce.

As we are revived by the cheese, bread and cassoulet- a dish of white beans, pork stomach and duck- rich by design to provide energy for peasant farmers working long hours in cold conditions (or perhaps lost and forlorn travellers!). I wondered at the powerful magnetic pull this food had offered. Food had never tasted so good, but the thought of it had been it’s ultimate gift.

Psychologist on hiatus

I am officially on hiatus. I have submitted my thesis and never want to see it again. In reality, I probably will see it again when the time for emmendations comes in a few months. I will also need to write a couple of papers and present at a conference in October but apart from that, I am done. Im also done-in.

Travel is coming as a very welcome reprieve not necessarily from psychology, but from university at least. I dont think I can escape psychology now that I have been "psychologised." I say it like I have been "brutalised." I haven't. There are just the normal hazards of accepting the cons with the pros, the Yokos with the Johns, the hangovers with the champagne, the Starbucks with the "only place open that serves coffee."

Others in the profession may similarly curse the day they learnt of personality disorders, the day they uncovered their own deep and painful core beliefs, the day they realised whole-heartedly that the world is not fair, the day they wondered how they would possibly be able to bring up kids in the minefield that is life before them, and the day they realised having a "good day" sometimes meant no one got considerably worse.

If you can get through all that without offending friends and loved ones because you dont always say the right thing, or because you dont want to talk or listen to anyone once home, you're doing alright. If you can get through that without being paranoid about pathologising instead of realising that most facets or life are too complicated to be boxed in any way, without hearing the words "you should have handled that better- you're a psychologist," and without neglecting to find the necessary time and inclination to continually work on your own "stuff," you're doing well. Really well.

I hope the time away will be a chance to work on my own "stuff," a chance to meet weird and wonderful people and a chance to experience a true sense of independence. I dont mean economic independence, I mean the chance to get to know the world, to take my time with it, to feel all the ups and downs and get through them with my own resources, off my own bat. I want to dishelve expectation, mostly my own. I want to be a visitor. I have no unrealistic expectation of getting to know the world without giving something to it. What that is, Im not yet sure. But I have to be open to anything.

I read somewhere... be careful what you wish for- you might just get it. Right now I wish for the hot sticky air of Thailand, the colourful and aromatic markets of India, the warm and comforting feel of Christmas in France and the rushed, cant-stop-to-even-take-a-breath chatter of my sister. Hmm, I better be careful what I wish for.

Feliz Aniversario Ana!

Friday night was spent celebrating Ana's birthday down at Bungalow 8, King Street Wharf. I think I can speak for everyone when I say that the night was a success- lots of drinking, dancing and generally mucking up around town. Not too many accidents, though I did walk smack-bang into a pole. For some reason, despite the force of the impact, I did not feel a thing.

While still somewhat sober, and well before my intimate entangle with the pole, I took a moment to absorb the evening. Friends relaxed and comfortable with each other, lights shining off the yacht-filled harbour, the familiar smell of salt water coupled with sausages sizzling, a blimp with a huge television screen floating above, and the warmth of the outdoor heaters (not really needed despite it being the middle of winter). There was no pretense, no angst. It was the perfect Sydney night.

I could not have thought of a better way to party with our Portuguese girl on her birthday. Ana, you are gorgeous, dont ever change. Hope you had a great birthday.

Two parking tickets in two days

"Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes" Oscar Wilde

Lately, Im feeling very experienced. My judgment failed miserably on two occasions in as many days, and I literally paid for it. Now I cant possibly buy that great digital camera I saw on eBay, instead I'll be buying the "ok" one. I have a feeling that the reason my judgment failed, and why subsequently 6 megapixles turned into 5, and then dwindled into 3, is due to two forces: Optimism bias and magical thinking.

Optimism bias, a theory first proposed by Kirscht et al. (1966) states that people consistently believe negative events are less likely to happen to them (e.g. heart attack, injury in a car accident), and that they are more likely to experience positive events (e.g. have a gifted child, own own home) compared to people otherwise similar to themselves. This effect has been found in events that are perceived to be both in one's control and out of one's control, though the amount of perceived control over future events does effect the degree of optimism bias (more perceived control over a negative event, more tendency to believe it's less likely and vice-versa). Interestingly, I read somewhere... that people with depression are more accurate when rating their chances of some event happening- they are less likely to experience optimism bias. So it's not that depression causes people to be more pessimistic, but in fact more realistic about the future. The rest of us are, for the most part, deluded.

On both occasions I knew I was capable of receiving a ticket, but I severely underestimated the chances of this occurring. Further, magical thinking, a style of thinking most of us occasionally engage in (and is present in some psychiatric conditions such as OCD and pathological gambling) played a part. It is best described as our superstitious tendencies, our perceived ability to make judgments about events- decrease the likelihood of adverse events and increase the likelihood of positive events by utilizing some unsupported technique- an old proverb, a good luck charm, a ritual or compulsion (internal or external), or some other constructed unsubstantiated belief. I truly believed that by receiving a ticket the day before, there was NO chance I would get one the next day. I was inclined to believe this even though the car was parked at two different locations, knowing only too well that parking inspectors do not get together of an evening and describe which cars they booked the day before, agreeing to take it easy on some people.

I think my "world should be fair" belief came up, even though I know that the world is in fact not fair, and that on both occasions I was, well, wrong. At the very least, this sentimental longing of fairness should be reserved for times when one is not breaking the law- the most objective measure of what our society has deemed fair. Still, I felt it was unfair. I wish I could "magically" make the tickets go away, maybe by avoiding cracks in the pavement for the next (insert any odd number that can also be divided by 3) days? Maybe they will forget about me down at the Infringement Processing Bureau, it's not like they would send me to court and then to jail if I ignored the tickets. That would not happen. I see I am doing it again! Oh well, I'll keep chalking it up to experience.

PS> I read somewhere... that optimism bias may play a role in the so-called "environmental paradox"- that despite increasing concern for environmental degradation and the knowledge that the impact of humankind on the natural environment may ultimately threaten life on the planet, commensurate adoption of pro-environmental behaviour is lacking. If everyone exercises optimism bias here, it makes sense that the individual is not spurred to act. Problemo.

Apple pancakes anyone...? Anyone...?

Warum? Warum ist die Banane krumm? ~ Why? Why is the banana crooked? German expression, used when a question has no answer.

I doubt Jack Johnson could sing about apple pancakes with the same nostalgia, I know that a smoothie now requires thought and construction, I suspect that Weet Bix has counter-intuitively become less healthy and more boring, and I downright oppose the notion of carrot bread for breakfast. That's right, the banana drought in Australia is very much upon us, with a myriad of unseen repercussions. It's turning breakfast on its head, causing cafes to change their tried and tested menus, reducing lovers of the fruit into "let's do breakfast" weekend recluses, and causing me to curse at anyone named Larry. I miss them!!

While still available at exorbitant prices (exorbitant for bananas anyway), the decrease in average intake of this once common, lowly regarded fruit must come at a price.

I read somewhere... that bananas contain tryptophan, a protein that converts to the neurotransmitter serotonin. Low serotonin is associated with low mood. While it's not like antidepressant medication sales are going through the roof at present, including tryptophan in your diet everyday for over 20 years, as I have, and suddenly not getting your daily hit could potentially affect a person. Though it might be nice to blame Monday morning grumpiness, PMS and any shameful chocolate binges on a natural disaster and protective import policies.

Age-old proverbs like "You dont know what you have until it's gone" or "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" might be replaced with "You dont know how much you like a fruit until a cyclone hits" and "Absence makes the stomach grow louder."

I was worrying what I would tell my grandkids, with no experience of war or economic depression, no "we had to walk 20km in the snow with no shoes in the mid of winter to school" stories. Now I have the "Great Banana Drought of '06" to remind them that life used to be a lot tougher, that breakfasts used to be a lot plainer. While they complain about eating their own breakfast I will remind them that banana pancakes were once considered an unforgivable extravagance, what with all the (banana) starving children in the country, and that they "don't know how lucky they have it."

No longer can we say someone "is going bananas" with a cheeky smile and good intention. The phrase has taken on a more ominous meaning. Bananas are going and things are not the same.

And they thought Galileo was crazy

It's true, the universe does not revolve around Earth. Click here.

I thought this was a lovely example of grasping an abstract idea, understanding something on an intellectual level, but still not "getting it." I tried- I looked up at the stars, I imagined I was a grain of sand, I thought about being up in space looking down on an ever-shrinking planet, I said to myself, "We are a cosmic accident," I thought about the Big Bang and all those algae-like life forms, and how the earth has been around for a fraction of the time the universe has, and also how in an eyeblink of that time we have managed to completely and thoroughly stuff it up, then I got too pessimistic and distracted myself. But I tried, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn't understand. Not really.

There are a couple of things in life I find similarly difficult to understand, no matter how hard I try... Hunting, anorexia and Tom Cruise are up there.

(Thanks to Aaron for the link!)

Blind luck

"What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies" ~Aristotle


Blue Steelin' it at the East Sydney Hotel- me, Blake, Hel, Rosco and Neil

The DCPers, last day of the course

Kritsin, me and Bron at Liv's birthday

Trace and Ana on the ferry


Me, Lis and Blake in the Blue Mountains, happy hours before Lis' accident ;o(

Rosco, Hel, Neil, Ana and Lyndel at Trace's BBQ

Me and Sal at the DCP Ball, Centrepoint Tower

Kristin and Phil, a favourite picture

Blake, Rosco and I at the DCP Ball

Ana and Niel on Pittwater

At the office- Belinda, KT, Blake, Sadhana and Ana

I am nearly there. I can see the finish line for all its promised freedoms, can smell the scent of living life on the other side, can hear the bursting exhalation from family who have- till now- been holding their breaths, can feel the proverbial weight lift from my collapsed shoulders, can taste the yeasty bubbles of that celebratory glass of Bollinger... yet, for some reason I hang on.

I have no reason to stay in this limbo, I have been here too long. But something, and I suspect, some people, are giving me reason. I read somewhere... that true friends are hard to find. Not for me. I walked blindly into the most arduous three years of my uni "career," expecting nothing and noone. Ok, I expected a huge academic learning curve, I must admit. I expected an outcome that generally saw me becoming a psychologist, a job that has- and still does- give me not only work- but life-satisfaction (as well as keeping me firmly on a "scenic path" that will never cross the highways of the corporate world). I got all of this.

What will I remember? What will I be forever grateful for? I walked blindly into a group of people who have opened my eyes to the unconditionality of true friendship. A group of people, who without knowing it, have showed me that life should be smothered with laughs, albeit peppered with tears. A group of people who reassured me that when there are tears, they are nature's way of calling on your friends.

I never used to drop to the ground from laughing.

I think I walked blindly into me.