The morning during which I stood under the expansive sky of Vancouver, as if in response to my curious gaze, it smiled back in its big, sweeping way, something the sky of Los Angeles had not done for me for a long time.

The 7:40 am flight from LAX required waking up before the prevalence of day light, but the bulbous crowd at the airport gave testimony of people's eagerness to travel on the July 4th weekend. And seven hours after the landing at YVR, my legs are tired and hurting from a full day of walking and hiking. Each step I take is a reminder of my sedentarily wasted days and months working at a company I think not much of (also a sign of thinking not much for myself). At Blenz, The Canadian Coffee Company, a cup of Royal Tea Latte, at C$3.30, is working magically in its persuading my brain not to bother with the aching. As theclichehés goes, A painful day of traveling is better than any day in Los Angeles.

This is my first landing in Canada, a vast country so close to the States that one is certain to forget about. Aside from the occasional jab by comedians on TV poking fun of its northern neighbor, and the not-so-often newspaper articles on Canadian politics, I have no conception of what this beautiful, diverse country represented, as Vancouver serves as a small slice of the whole of Canada.

The public transportation is excellent, even without an extensive system of underground trains. From YVR to University of British Columbia, where my lodging is, it took about 40 minutes, including two transfer, one at Broadway and Granville, and another at Airport Station. Along the ride, with which my mind was jubilant at not having to drive, I took in as much as humanly possible of the street scenes of this foreign city, not letting go even small details such as the postal box and gasoline prices. There were quite a few travelers and backpackers in the same bus; we each smiled awkwardly to one another, but desist from inquiring more.

I decide to spend the first day exploring the campus and surrounding areas of UBC. A typical college town, if not for its situating in the midst osnow-cappeded mountains and renowned beaches, it did not impress too greatly in term of its architecture. The nearby Wreck Beach, a short hike away from the campus, is an experience I will not forget for a long time. Setting out for the hike with an innocent intention of capturing the beach scene with my camera, the beach offers a swath of naked sun-bathers whose pubic hair and private parts were one with nature. I wasn't sure which way to aim the camera at.

(It's with great difficulty to find a wireless internet connection near UBC, except by paying C$10 for access to the campus' wireless connection for 24 hours. Nearby Blanz's connection just doesn't work!)

Tags: Travel, Canada, British Columbia, Vancouver, UBC

The oppressing summer heat showed no signs of letting up as the clock hand strive toward seven in the evening. Behind the French window I sat alone at a small table, concentrating on the New Yorker that had just arrived by mail. On a Friday evening it is almost impossible to find a lone coffee drinker in the air conditioned Starbucks. I just found myself.

"Tall Tazo Green Tea Frappuccino Blended Cream with Melon Syrup," bellowed the barista behind the counter. A handsome Japanese couple went over and claimed their purchase.

My choice is simpler: "Regular coffee in short size. In my own thermal cup, please." $1.25. No embellishment. Just lukewarm coffee. In an air conditioned room.

After reading few paragraphs I habitually lifted my gaze toward the world beyond the wide windows, loitering for just few short seconds, fearing something may gone amiss without my realizing it. Although nothing ever happens. I took a small sip of coffee, and at the corner of my vision, a middle-aged, slouchy woman sat down at the table on the other end, normally a sight of no significance, however, her simple manner of enjoying the coffee I was unable to avert looking. On her table there were no books, magazine or newspaper; she had no interlocutor, the cup of coffee serving as the sole entertainment. Sitting with her back facing the sinking sun light to the west, her silhouetted profile looked refined, her ways of sipping as if she were savoring the precious dark liquid like a connoisseur. Occasionally, too, casting her gaze beyond the window, her brooding way of looking about made reflections that were as if looking at my own shadow.

"Tall Caramel Macchiato" was all it takes to snap out of my semi-trance.

Then I recall something I wrote down from The Book of Laughter and Forgetting: "Litost is a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery."

The middle-aged, slouchy woman left. Then a noisy group of teenagers occupied her place.

Tags: Starbucks, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, Litost

The hollowness returned as soon as I concluded the lively phone conversation with B., a hollowness that in recent weeks in particular has attributed a poignant sense of unhappiness that I find unbearable as the days progress in their droning movement. Nevermind. I motion to return to the pages of The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, in which I find temporary escape from the mundane, from the helplessness that one ought to feel in my current context. Gazing over the pages, my mind, like a film wheel, revisited the phone conversation in a nuanced swiftness. Despite her carefully masticated words, hints of disbelief and sorrow that were hidden so well were excavated from the depth of her voice and emotion, as they are directed toward my predicament, toward the BREADTH of my ennui.

Nothing is more true than this blog in conveying the sentient mind. In speech, as in the phone conversation, the pressure is on the speaker to present ideas in a coherent, comprehensible way, so as for the interlocutor to reciprocate the correct sentiments that are fitting for the occasion. However, in ways I can't explain quite well, the process somehow loses its original intent, for the process itself is polishing the content and hurrying out the ideas in a timely manner. No, it has less to do with polishing than it is with getting the crude idea across to the other person. The spoken words are thus akin to manuscripts without proofread or merchandise without rigorous quality control. As a result, the main ideas are presented but the nuances that are central to the idea are gone missing and the interlocutor is left with an understanding that is not quite consistent with what the speaker was trying to say. I was never a gifted speaker, in public or private.

The din of airplanes can be heard occasionally in the evening as they travel in and out of LAX, and the sound of them rattles my placid, uninspiring life to a point where I fancied about dropping out of everything and take the path of a world wanderer. Of course this is just all fanciful thinking: What will I do with my books and belongings? My IRA? 401K? My social obligation to my mom, myself, my landlord, bank account, school and the cat I will be adopting once my financial foundation is lain? I am simply too worldly a person, still shackled by the things I somewhat loath; and those aspirations I secretly harbor in my daydreaming mind set are simply too chancy for my temperament to undertake.

Sadly, I am unable to convey even just one percent of the abovementioned statement to B. over the phone; it seems to me pretentious to be talking about the impossible. By the same token the chance to make speech has ruined many a times worldly opportunities that I sought. Seeing myself through her eyes, I am a lonely person living in a desolate city, waiting and waiting for my break, my futile hope that somehow in the next instant a thunderous roar will break open the great mountain that is obstructing my path. But in truth, I have no desired path except to escape it all by jumping over the fence and take life as I see it, though the unreality of it is sober enough that I dare not to heed the call of the wild. In compensation I assuage my feelings by living in a parallel universe in the novels, blogging, and my periodic traveling away from Los Angeles. I am quite content with my own unhappiness. Your pathos will be better received elsewhere.

Tags: Life, Los Angeles, self-examination

After a steamy shower sweat started pouring out of the back skin, soaking the fresh T-shirt to an uncomfortable stickiness. The electric fan hummed continuously in the background, at once mingled with silence, then it became the silence, an silence that was needed in order to finish the New Yorker that just arrived in the mail today. The spinning fan kept down the stifling heat only to a bearable level. It is still warm, the T-shirt sticking to my back reminds me the hatred I have of this summer weather. I put both elbows on the windowsill, facing the semidarkness outside. The evening air felt cool to the face, but somehow the window demarcated the coolness from entering the room. I go back to reading the fascinating article on Oriana Fallaci, a woman of both courage -- she had "balls" -- and silliness.

The heat just won't go away, and the warm air congealed into an unmoving mass that hovered about the room. The coaster, already soaking wet, sits under a big glass of ice water that needed refill every thirty minutes. When the heat gets unbearable, I would put the big glass of ice water next to my cheek, roll it around carefully, a sensation much like diving into a swimming pool, except on a far smaller scale. By the pale light of the lamp, sitting on a mat on the carpet, line by line I took in each word as carefully as possible, going from the magazine to Marguerite Dura's The War. Life isn't so bad, as long as you have got the strength and concentration to read. A particular passage in the book grabbed my attention: "It's wrong to move too much, a waste of energy, you have to save all your strength to suffer."

The next day I was again awoken by the morning heat. The sun pour through the window blind in a wholesale fashion. When my feet touched the carpet, it was warm from the sun light. I shut the blind with one angry pull, dive into the bed, trying wholeheartedly to dream again, but to no avail. I am no longer 18, where it was easy to go back to sleep in the morning. Gradually reality -- and my bladder -- swallowed every bit of dreaminess; sleep was chased away completely. I pull on the blind angrily to open, revealing the typical Southern California sky, where the speckless blue sky smiles down at you with its enormous breadth. It's really beautiful to look at, only if I could have it without the temperature. I thought about taking out a cigarette, like they do in novels, only to realize I don't smoke.

Tags: Los Angeles, Marguerite Duras, The War, New Yorker