GMAT AWA Samples

All articles here were timed under exam conditions of 30min. So please excuse the typos, grammaticals, and sometimes convoluted logic.

1. Some believe that students are less well-equipped for college than they used to be. They say that present-day students are inadequately prepared to express themselves in writing or perform tasks that entail quantitative thinking. But they do not realise that college-bound students are trained to think creatively, and use resources, like computers, which did not even exist a generation ago.
Which argument do you find more compelling?

A school of thought believes that students are not as good as they used to be in previous generations. They are unable to match up with their previous generations both in language and logic, and are thus not as prepared for college. Instead, I find the counter-argument, that students are actually more creative than ever before, more logical and compelling, for reasons I will elaborate on.

We live in a defining era--the age of Information, heralded by the birth of the Internet. History has shown that whenever there was a breakthrough in the proliferation and dessimination of information, culture and society would blossom. For example, the invention of the printing press in the 1400s by Johannes Guthenburg resulted in the Renaissance. The Age of Information, where we are now, is no less momentous. With such a wealth of resources at the tips of our students fingers, it is natural that they should be more creative and resourceful than ever before. The Internet, together with the immensely rich content of witty blogs, cutting-edge videos and anthemic music, is testament to this fact.

Secondly, we cannot compare between different generations, and then judge them on subjective skills like thinking and writing. It is true the previous generations seemed to be more prolific and creative, but possibly we are looking into the past with rose-tinted glasses. The Jack-Keroac inspired Beat Generation was a movement in response to the 'hippie' culture, but the main reason there is no equivalent Jack Keroac in our present generation is we do not need one. We have instead, technological whiz-kids and scientists who continually define the new frontiers of science. The quantitative demands of a physicist is more gruelling than ever before. It is difficult to argue that the previous generation of students was possessed of better quantitative thinking skills.

In conclusion, the present generation of students are equally, if not more creative than students of the previous generations. And rightly so, for they have so much more resources and information to tap from, unthinkable only one decade ago. Also, we cannot compare between different generations. Each generation had their own demands, the baby boomers with the social issues, and now, our generation, with technology. Certainly, our present generation are well-equipped to tackle college and life after college.

2. Human nature, no matter how selfless is appears, is selfish. Discuss.

The author asserts that there is no such thing as altruism in human nature, and that we are inherently selfish in everything we do. Human nature is too complex an issue to make such generalisations, but upon deeper analysis, with support from philosophy and neuroscience, I agree with the author.

People tend to struggle with an emptiness in life. Philosophers from the school of thought of Kiekegaard term this inherent emptiness "existential loneliness". Some immerse themselves in a religion, start a family, embark on world adventures, while others seek solace in volunteering. All these are alleged to be manisfestations of the phenomonon of "existential loneliness". When we observe a selfless act, we can trace its roots back to the person struggling to find a meaning in life. His act of volunteering or committing altruism is his way of filling that emotional void.

Doing good and selfless often makes one feel good about himself. Developments in neuroscience has discovered that the act of committing altruism may release certain chemicals into the brain which can get people hooked, much like what romantic love does to the brain. So if you need a rush of high, you can always go out and do something good. These chemical reactions are inherent in us, and we are often unaware of them. Once the scientists have pointed this fact, it becomes clear why people are addicted to altruism.

But how about Mother Theresa? Hasn't she dedicated her whole life to helping the underpriveleged in India, so far away from her safe haven in Ireland? Mother Theresa is invariable a shining example of altruism. But people look no further than the 2nd hand accounts given by what the media wants us to believe. Some scholars who have studied her life have controversially pointed out that she was obsessed with her public image, so much so that she only granted interviews to "cordial" reporters. She made timely public appearances in a show of ultimate devotion to her cause. In short, she knew the world needed a "Mother Theresa" figure, and she boldly set out to claim her role as that aforementioned "Mother Theresa", thus writing herself into world history.

In conclusion, there are lots of basis to claim that human nature, no matter how selfless it appears, are inherently selfish. It is difficult, and understandably so, to break away from how we are wired up in our mind and body. Still, altruism can be considered to be a form of benevolent selfishess, definitely more welcome than the strain of selfishness we normally encounter. Be selfish, and help save the world!

3. The study of history is largely a waste of time because it prevents us from focusing on the challenges of the present.” Discuss the extent to which you agree or disagree with the opinion expressed above. Support your point of view with
reasons and/or examples from your own experience, observations, or reading.

The author asserts that the study of history detracts us from our present problems, and is thus largely an exercise in time wasting. While it is true that our attention and resources should be focused on the problems of now, nevertheless there are much to learn from our history. Therefore, I disagree with the strong stance of the author.

History repeats. Much of history is littered with amazing stories and lessons from which our present society has much to learn. The success of UN stems largely from the failures of the League of Nations. Ronald Reagan, probably aware of the doomed appeasement policy to Adolf Hitler, refused to stand down to the Soviet Union's arms race in the 1980s, ultimately culminating in the arms treaty pact signed between the two superpowers.

On the other hand, politicians who refuse to heed history's lessons too often find themselves walking down the slippery path of failure and doom. Geroge Bush has been forewarned of the problems caused by an invasion of Iraq by Vietnam war veterans who knew better. Despite international condemnation and warnings of another Vietnam in the making, he went ahead, and got the US stuck in a largely unsuccessful and costly operation. Ethnic cleansing in history have always been shown to be a disastrous policy, yet in our modern society, we are still forced to witness the horrors of mass slaughter based on racial prejudice from Serbia to Rwanda.

In conclusion, the study of history is still largely relevant in our modern world. A leader who is astute and wise would do well to listen to history lessons and forge policies with history in mind. Otherwise he risks committing the mistakes of his forefathers. For the sake of progress, history is still an important part of our modern world.

Math Humour

The Dot and the Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics

...and a string of random jokes by mathematicians for mathematicians.

Why do programmers always have Halloween and Christmas mixed up?
Because OCT 31 = DEC 25.

There are 10 kinds of people in the world, those that understand binary numbers, and those that don't.

An inchworm is defined as 2.54 centipedes

Lastly,

Photos of the Norwegian cycling trip up!

>Memoirs of an artic cyclist

Check out these great places for cycle touring:

Pakistan

Scotland

New Zealand

Norway (my trips were inspired by this post)

...and the geeks shall inherit the earth

What happens when a bunch of college geeks decide, for once, to put down their books and pick up the guitars? Pop music, stripped from all the outer veneer of avant-garde progression and crass commercialism, finally reveals its form--true and pure.

Please give it up for the Maths and Physics Club, wonderfully named no doubt as a tribute to all the engineers who toil hard in silence to keep our crazy world afloat. Come on now! Let's all pick up that guitar and sing along...

(Capo the first fret, and strum to C, C7, F and G...check out the vid)
I’m still waiting for your answer
These four walls keep closing in
When you say I seem like a stranger
Well I guess that makes two

The sun is setting down
The fireflies are out
They don’t make a sound
With no one else around

And I have no doubts
You’re still angry
Baby, we can work this all out

I love it when the coals burn way down low
Slide up next to me
So sweet so
I wonder just how far tonight we’ll go
Darling won’t you please come home

The sun is setting down
The fireflies are out
They don’t make a sound
There’s no one else around
It’s you and me now
And I have no doubt
That you’re still angry
Baby, we can work this all out

I love it when the coals burn way down low
You slide up next to me
So sweet so slow
I wonder just how far tonight we’ll go
Darling won’t you please come home
Darling won’t you please come home
Darling won’t you please come home

Macau--Small in size, big on charms (Part 3)

Wandering around Macau, I was in awe of the generous acres of space, especially around the waterfront. I was overwhelmed by an inner urge to roam, to run, to to yodel, to be free. Macau may be a tiny enclave, but she is the perfect antidote to people from Hongkong and Guangdong seeking respite from urban claustrophobia. I haven't been to Portugal, so I cannot quite pinpoint who were responsible for the city layout, but kudos to the planners for creating such a unique dash of space in an urban setting!

Apart from being politely accosted by ladies of the night near Avenida de Joao IV, there was absolutely no trace of the sin city image Macau has been unfairly tagged with. Instead, Macau has an undeniable charm for everyone, from history buffs to avid gamblers. While there is still much to be done--witness all the empty apartments in Taipa (not to mention the absence of Texas Holdem in a self-proclaimed gambling haven)--the Portuguese are justifiably proud of Macau. As one official puts it,"In Macau, we have the chance to write a nice ending to what once was a grand empire." And he wasn't just referring to the egg tarts.


Macau is a city of wide open spaces...


...and bold boulevards.


A cup of tea, a few slices of bread and a table of friends...start your day the Macau way!


A beautifully claustrophobic sight greeted me from the window of my apartment. To be frank, the building I was staying in didn't look to have passed fire safety inspection and I already made out my escape route just in case.


Lady in red waiting at bus-stand in red, presumably for the bus in red.


The Paris mayor would do well to follow Macau's example and implement public toilets for dogs.


Casino Lisboa, looking a tad tired and run-down, is relinquishing its role as the premier Macau casino to swankier American ones.


Trishaws around the Guia Hill.


There is the Commonwealth Games for the English, and there is the Lusofonia Games...for the Portuguese.


The fortress of Guia stands sentinel over the city.

Macau--Small in size, big on charms (Part 2)

Getting a room in the swanky hotels was out of my shoestring budget. I knew (through http://www.augusters.de) accomodation was affordable in the old city districts--only obstacle was in locating the exact place. Navigating narrow winding streets, I finally came upon a rather dingy apartment that had a signboard spelt "Augusturs Lodge--Floor 3J".

It wasn't that straightforward to locate Floor 3J, whatever that was, as there were a few staircases leading to different "Floor 3". On one such foray, I was greeted by a grumpy old granny who, together with the apartment on offer, could have walked straight out from a Wong Kar Wai 60s film set. I made out through her thick cantonese accents that she had quoted me HK$20 (S$4)-- nirvana to the miser in me. She grew edgy as I fished out 2 HK tenners, and jabbed 2 fingers into my face while mouthing "leong baht leong baht!". I said no, firmly believing that Augusturs Lodge would have a better offer, and left, leaving behind a fuming old lady who must have thought me mathematically and financially challenged.

I finally made the correct staircase (leading to Floor 3J), and came upon the steps of the elusive Augusturs Lodge. A Filipino girl was sitting behind a counter in an apartment that finally looked more like a tourist lodge. Her friendliness and English tongue made me feel right at home, even more so when, upon signing the guest book, I noticed many Singaporeans had previously left their trail in it. Quoted HK$50 for a private room, this was truly a steal.


Augusturs International (Floor 3J), a big hit with Singaporeans who know how to sniff out gems from the Net.


This room, with 2 double-deckers, a fan, TV and a table, gave many a traveller respite for the night. The view was not great, facing the back of yet another dingy apartment block, but what more could you ask for with HK$50?

With my accommodation worries out of the way, I started planning to spend the rest of the night hitting casinos and UNESCO sites in equal measures.

I consider myself a Texas Holdem fanatic. At least I could fold my hands properly, hiding my disgust with the nonchalance of a hand flick -- just like a pro. Desperately wanting to get some poker action, I first approached Waldo, then Sands, asking if there were any "Texas Holdem" tables. One time, I was given the quizzed look, the other time, a firm "There is no Texas Holdem in Macau...yet." sufficed.

Still, I managed a peek into Sands. Call me uninformed, (euphemism for "suaku"), but I had never seen the business of gambling on such a large scale before. I was bowled over by the number of jackpot machines lined up, stretching as far as the eye could see. Every machine held the complete attention of a frayed soul hunched over it. The table section was no more impressive, of which Blackjack was the predominant game. The Chinese take their gambling seriously. Those seated at the tables rarely spoke to each other. They wore studied countenances and cursed politely when the need arose. The more boisterous tables had European and American tourists who were there simply to soak up the atmosphere.

I too, badly wanted to try my luck at the tables. Unfortunately, the cheapest table, at HK$100 per hand, priced me out of any fun. Choosing the next best thing, I grabbed a complimentary milo and cup noodles which came my way, proceeded to enjoyed a good free supper, and went off in search of my elusive poker action.

I went into Wynn next. I found no poker action there, but was seriously stunned when a pair of the most exquisite eyes looked back at me as I spoke "Excuse me, do you have any ......". The pretty girl may not have an inkling of what I was asking about, but it didn't matter. A million questions were racing through my mind. "Are you free for supper tonight?" "Have anybody told you you looked vaguely like Cecilia Cheung, only prettier?" "I am a movie director, and I would like to cast you in my blockbuster. Let's discuss somewhere more private." I chose, not instinctively, but wisely, to say, "Thanks", flashed a goofy smile and slithered away.


The ubiquitous McDonald, found in every city in the world, so why not Macau?


Fruitseller by night


The city planners have done a tremendous job in keeping the old while ushering in the new, resulting in a unique blend of old and new architecture in casual co-existence.


Macau is embracing herself with the onslaught of visitors. Rapid changes are inevitable, whether the old world romantics like it or not.


Built around Mount Fortress, the old city with its narrow streets and steep slopes, is mildly reminiscent of HK's Lan Kwai Fong district.


The Ruins of St Paul is to Macau what A Farmosa is to Malacca is to what Merlion is to Singapore.....not!


In the mood for love? Grab a lover, steal a kiss, right under this colonial lamppost.


The Macau government obviously deems it necessary to coax more polite greetings out of Macauese. They aren't actually particularly rude. In fact, they seem to smile more readily than their HK counterparts (which isn't saying much).

Macau--Small in size, big on charms (Part 1)

Macau, the former Portuguese enclave tucked in the western corner of the Pearl River delta, has always been languishing in the shadows cast by her much more illustrious delta neighbour HK. Macau was returned to China in 1999 with as little fanfare as HK's 1997 return was momentously celebrated. For many, Macau was the Sin City of the East, its "anything goes" anarchism attracting all sorts of lowlifes reeking of desperation and cigarette smell. HK movies, of course, played up this seedy stereotype by sending their screen criminals to Macau whenever the plot called for some arms or drugs smuggling to be done. That's the story of Macau, a story no one outside of the gambling fraternity really cared.

But Macau is determined to shed its unseemly image. With the entire region booming, prosperity and buzz has crept into this once-sleepy territory. Foreign investments are repositioning Macau as a MICE (Meeting, Incentive, Conference and Exhibition) centre of international clout, while at the same time, Macau is being rebranded as a family oriented entertainment centre not unlike Las Vegas. Singapore should take heed, for results have been nothing short of phenomenal. Revenues have since outstripped that of Las Vegas Strip, making Macau the premier gambling centre of the world. 20 million visitors flood the territory of half a million every year. UNESCO, tellingly, granted the World Heritage Site status to Macau in 2005. A new chapter is being written, no longer with the blood of slain gangsters, but with the glittering gold of tourist dollars.

Which is the true face of Macau? The only way to find out was to pay a little visit to its fair shores. So when presented with the chance, albeit a very snap decision devoid of any logistical planning, I grabbed at it.

My logistical worries turned out to be unfounded. Snap trips in northern Europe leave you stranded in cold nameless towns. Snap trips in Macau leave you a comfortable cushion seat on one of the many ferries plying between Macau and HK, such were the frequencies of the ferries that they run round the clock all year round, for a mere HK$200!

Arriving at the ferry terminal on a balmy evening, my first concerns, as were in any foreign lands, were to locate a free map of the city, access the suitability of waiting lounges as makeshift hotels, and to check out availability of food. All concerns were ambly addressed. Tourist friendly indeed!


My first sights of the city as the ferry steams into harbour-- the neon lights from the casinos lending the harbour a shimmering and strangely comforting feel.

It's very easy to find your way around on foot. The waterfront perimeter, from the harbour in the east, all the way to the west, spans no more than 5 km. All self-respecting casinos, including Wynn and Sands, are located in this prime property. Wide boulevards (avinedas), all with Portuguese names, line the city. One such boulevard, Avenida de Amizade, links up the ferry terminal to the town centre.


Walking along Avenida de Amizade, I caught the silhouette of a nocturnal angler against the backdrop of Macau "The Floating Casino" Palace. I was to find the entire perimeter of the waterfront filled with anglers, young and old, but predominantly men, lying stealthily in wait for their catch. The Zhuhai must be teeming with fish, either that, or the local TV channels aren't terribly exciting.


The Macau Colosseum, a monument built in worship of the tourist dollar.


Before Vegas casinos appeared on the scene, old school casinos of smoky parlours and tough-looking pit bosses ruled the land. Here, the facade of Wynn squares off rather arrogantly against Casino Lisboa, the grand dame of the "nostalgic" era.


Wynn marks every passing hour with a resplendent display of water and fire works, and changes the face of the Macau gaming industry with a Vegas-style entertainment centre.

A Walking Oxymoron

A walking oxymoron is having an otherwise blissful and much needed Sunday morning sleep rudely awakened by a call from your friendly army officer asking that you be "activated for the Silent MOB" by xxx GMT in some faraway army camp.

A walking oxymoron is an army personnel not really coming to terms with his status as an army personnel (albeit for one day only).

A walking oxymoron is not knowing if a greenish sack, found among numerous other sacks in the forgotten corners of the storeroom, could indeed be the Full Pack listed as one of the major items needed for MOB.

A walking oxymoron is having to confirm the identity of the said Full Pack, standing at a mere 33cm, complete with photos via MSN, with a surprisingly patient friend. Anyway that's what friends are for, helping you sieve through full packs from mere rubbish. Thankfully, his message after seeing the photo was, "OK! All ready to go!"


One can never be too sure. I had always remembered Full Packs to be big macho backpacks modelled after those mountain climbing Deuters. Here, a Full Pack is seen with a shoe and my beloved Crumpler side by side for perspective.

A walking oxymoron is having to spend 1 hour of packing, 30 min of swearing, another 30 min of cab journey, 10 min of trekking through vast army wasteland, before acknowledging and completing your activation in...5 seconds.

A walking oxymoron conscientiously packs all the required items below:
• No 4 shirt/ trousers x2
• PT short/vest x1
• Shoes x1
• Slippers x1
• Green socks x2
• Shoebrush/kiwi x1
• Grease x2 (not too sure the army caller meant briefs instead. Anyway I reckon lubrication to be more important than anything else in the world)
• Toothbrush/toothpaste x1
• Soap x1
• Torchlight with AA batteries x1
• Insect repellent x1
• Field pack x1 (what is that?)
• SBO x1
• Water pouch x2
• Toggle rope x1
• Jack knife x1 (for opening up jackfruits, doubtless)
• Ammo pouch x1 (WITHOUT BULLETS PLEASE)
• Helmet with army camoflauge

only to realise that he could just as well pack pockets of air and nobody would care.

A walking oxymoron prefers to be safe than sorry but ends up feeling sorry for himself, after learning that the "market rate" for a silent MOB with Full Battle Order actually means a half-pack of Full Pack, complete with 8 Days, FHM and an iPod with batteries. No helmets or SBO please, unless you want to look like a moron.

A walking oxymoron is a soldier in peacetime, a weekend activator, asked to be ready for combat at the snap of fingers, tasked to defend his motherland against imaginary foes, and you wonder why he always ends up looking like a moron.

A memorable farewell to Kallang Stadium

It was a balmy evening, one of those purple nights when you don't know if the weather would hold out. Arriving half an hour before the match, it was already turning out to be a logistical nightmare, especially if you're trying to communicate over the network. The air waves were literally jammed with frantic SMSes destined never to reach their intended recipients. With a little persistence and a huge dose of luck,





my group of friends and I were able to settle into a clearing with a great view, facing the grandstand and directly in line with the goalline. Well, at least we could weigh in with truly expert views on those "Did it cross the line?" debates.

As soon as we settled down, and inspected the equipment, the familiar strain of Majullah Singapura came on. What was unfamiliar was the way the words were belted out with so much pride, causing even the most hardened, antiauthoritarian taxi-driver to have those patriotic lumps in the throat, I'm sure. Now, why doesn't this happen in school assemblies and army parades?





And so the match is underway... I looked on in despair as a friend whipped out his 70-300 zoom and fired away. This was the best my 17-70 Sigma could muster.





Suddenly there was a lot of action at the Thai penalty box, with the ball ricocheting back and forth between the Thai defenders and the Singapore players, before rolling into the net. Er....was that really a goal? Can't blame us, everything happened very fast, and worse, there was never going to be a replay.



Judging from the cacophony of cheers and feet stomping, I guess Singapore must have been one-nil up. Switching my viewing channel to the scoreboard,



Ahh....that was reassuring indeed! 1-0 up, and I started jumping for joy, along with the rest.





After the goal, the play generally settled into the type normally played with coconuts in a kampong village. There were 50 yard passes to players 30 yards away. At least these bobbed away harmlessly. It was on one of those 3 yard passes to players 5 yards away that Thailand finally capitalised. Breaking from midfield, the Thai players were swift, perhaps too swift and swiftly rounded our poor Lionel Lewis. It must have been a wretched feeling to be rounded like that, even more wretched if you witnessed the whole thing right before your very own eyes.





The crowd became much more subdued after that. My friend and I soon launched into a debate on whether Thierry Henrys of the fantasy world or the Thonglaos of our world were faster, as the game was fast petering out to a 1-1 draw.

Then came the defining moment of the night. Suddenly out of a harmless looking cross in the 81 min. the referee seemed to be pointing to the spot. PENALTY! And for Singapore too! Wooohooo! In harsh times like this, fair play is the last thing to worry about.

Unfortunately the Thai players had something up their sleeves. They felt that they were unjustly penalised, and for justice to prevail, they simply could not continue the game.
Of course, the partisan crowd of 60000 could not have disagreed more. Amid jeers of "Thailand BAPOK! Thailand BAPOK!", which of course I participated with perverse delight, the Thai players marched off the field.




Now this game was fast degenerating into a farce. Many of us were bewildered at the bizarre turn of events. The crowd were getting seriously impatient and restless, and spontaneously launched into those famous Kallang waves for entertainment.



The wave coming nearer...



Even nearer...



Oh no! What shall I throw up in the air? My mind was racing and my eyes were darting. Grabbing my D70, I gave it a second thought, decided against it and took this shot instead.




The Thais finally decided to play ball instead of masak-masak, and trudged back rather unwilling to the field. It's a dreaded feeling Saddam Hussein would concur on his way to the hangman. The crowd sympathesied, and encouraged them with random cheers of "Balik kampong", "chao agua", "thailand bapok", and of course, our national slogan, KNNBCCB.




Our Fahrudin Mustafic, Serbian-born foreign import, as close to a German penalty machine as Singapore could ever afford, slammed home emphatically!




What a farewell to the Kallang National Stadium. The 2-1 victory was to be the first, and last time Singapore beat Thailand at Kallang (or anywhere else, for that matter).



And all around the Kallang stadium, the tribal victory dance began.

Poland is a state of mind

The image from the Pianist that is etched forever in my mind: that of a devastated Warsaw, lifeless and weary, the flow of revolutionary blood long run dry, and the low moon gazing helplessly upon the ruins. Chopin would have wept in his grave.

From this land we barely recognise as Poland, flourished great musical and artistic geniuses: Chopin, Konrad (Joseph), Kieslowski, Polanski, eminent figures who transcended their respective fields, and their tortured motherland.

The recent passing of Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski prompted Neely Tucker from Washington Post to pen these eulogies:

"Maybe there's something about those brutal winters on the high northern plains of Eastern Europe, stuck defenceless between Berlin and Moscow, the peasant huts and concrete arpartments smelling of dank clothes, boiled cabbage and lost hope....
Kapuscinski used his Polishness as a lens to look at the rest of the world...and translated its effect on the soul to the the Third Wrold Nations he wrote about, and thus is both the source and product of his insight."

And the ballade is my take on what it's like to peer through this elusive Polish lens.
http://www.pianostreet.com/smf/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=23126.0;id=2685

Pieces of April

So, being a huge Stephin Merrit fan, it's inevitable that I start checking out movies he graciously pens the soundtrack for, based on the somewhat flawed "If its Merrit-endorsed, it must be good" theory. With that in mind, I eagerly anticipated Pieces of April.

The title proves apt, as the dialogue is pretty sparse for a movie shot in New York. Instead you get to piece April's life together, through snippets of her very believable interactions with the people around her and snapshots from a Nikon SLR running parallel in another story. Charming little product placement, noted this very biased reviewer, himself a proud owner of a Nikon SLR.

At the deathly early morning of 7:00am, April struggles to wake up to a special day--thanksgiving in fact. She's supposed to prepare the feast for her family, who hails a day's drive away from the suburbs. But she's not particularly adept at it, and when we find her to-do list having only one item, "1. Pre-heat oven.", we know she's in for some adventure.

The simple premise could very well be frivolously centred on Katie Holmes's Gothic persona when the universe conspires to spoil her day. There was much light-hearted humour involving her turkey, who had the unfortunate experience of being roasted in no less than 4 different stoves. But as the story unfolds, the human insights and the emotions that come with it start to cut much deeper than is expected of an amiable light-weight comedy.

Running parallel to the culinary adventure is the road trip that her extended family, together with all their dysfunctionalities, took to New York. April's character is not very well developed. Instead we feed on scraps of information about her through the conversations and bickerings from the road trip. The gravity of the thanksgiving dinner is slowly revealed to us in the Nikon snapshots provided by the avid photographer in her brother. April and family had not been in the best of terms, she of the wild ways estranged from the deeply religious mother. The mother is dying, and the family is spiritually compelled to make good this last dinner, whether they like it or not.

Peter Hedges has written a very heartwarming tale of redemption, shot and directed it with a few dollars, a digital camcorder and a whole lot of heart. He is ambly supported by his casting, which makes for a very realistic story-telling. Contrived scenes there were a few, especially the ones involving a British neighbour who, with his posh tastes and immaculate manners, leave me wondering how could he have accepted dwelling in the derelicts inhabited mostly by the marginalised. Nonetheless, a big fan of his other work, a screenplay adaptation of Nick Hornby's About A Boy, I am ranking him alongside Richard Linklater as the American names to look out for.

Weird, funny, honest, intelligent, and very very touching, it's a typical Stephin Merrit song translated onto the silver screen. What's more, running at just under 80 min, it's the perfect movie if time's not on your side (for the day, that is!).

Rating: 7.6

Next up, through the lenses of Peter Hedges again, What's Eating Gilbert Grape?.

Random Quotes

On Business Travels
Spend half the time in tedious airport queues, and the other half alone in gawdy hotels...that's business travels for you. But of course, if you're afraid of the dark, you can always purchase some company for a small fee.

On Travel Spending
Consumer habits of tourists are limited not by the buying logic but by how much local currency they have left in the wallet. There is a compulsion to clear the currency to the last cent. If I have HK$18.50 left, and a cheeseburger that I normally wouldn't touch pass by cost exactly that, it represents a huge moral victory to my finances.

The Japs
The Japs infuriate me. They strut about in their business suits and ties, looking so prim and proper under the summer sun, that I am envious while feeling sorry for them at the same time.

On SMSes
Clearing the backlog of SMSes on your mobile is much akin to reliving the past few days of your life, depending on how backdated you are.

On Logistics
Logistics is the Archilles heel of the modern world, and terrorists are fully aware of it. How many more years can they afford to screen through air luggages so thoroughly before one bomb finally slips through?

On Logistics #2
If I miss out on indexing even a single title to my burgeoning DVD collection, it's as good as I had never owned it.

On Gifts
Why do you need to shower your loved ones with gifts? Sometimes that's all they will ever remember you by (if they don't happen to dispose of them).

On Assumptions
It's impossible to make head or tail of the world without making any assumptions. So let's assume assumptions work.

On The Little Prince
The world loves sentimental drivel like the Little Prince and Tuesdays with Morrie simply because they are fantasy--everybody wishes everybody else behaves like this, but nobody dares to make the first move, and risk being labelled self-absorbed and sanctimonious idiots.

Memoirs of an Artic cyclist

Figure shows cycling trail in green. Started from Trondheim via Heimdal and ended in Trondheim via Flakk.
Approximately 200km total.

3 day 2 night trip around Trondelag.
...3 days 2 nights, that's the sales pitch of a typical tourist agencies marketing the latest weekend get-aways, and this is anything but!

A journey of superlatives! How could I ever forget my brush with the cold trondelag night, which left me with the bone chilling mind-numbing experience of my life. The scenery was spectacular, as usual. Miles and miles of Trondheimsfjord can dull one's senses a bit, blasphemous to say! Hope I don't utter too early, but do I regret this journey one bit? NO.

Feb 14 (Fri) 2003

7:30am:
Set off from Moholt Alle. Took off from Jonsvannveigen (as usual) and got down to Holteammsveien. The conditions were extremely wet for a cyclist, which was rather daunting. My heart wasn't set for such adventurous ideas as skating on ice, just yet. Confidence is key in such uncertain times. I reckoned I should walk quite a bit.

8:00am:
The road to Heimdal was surprisingly smooth, and so beautiful.. Here I was, cycling down slope, with about 1 m of snow piled up on its sides, and a stream flowing parallel to the path. I felt like an artic squirrel, burrowing my way through snow. The air was crisp, and smelt of spring. The white kingdom beckons.


Nice house? Think again. The nearest amenity (aka hawker centre) is miles and miles away.


My mitigation plea--The D70 wasn't yet invented back then! Classic example of how snow glare can ruin a photo.

8:15am:
Had a near collision with another cyclist who was coming head-on. KEEP LEFT? RIGHT? LEFT? RIGHT.....ARRRRGH! My mistake. I was supposed to keep right, or rather, as much right as I could in this narrow burrow, but didn't. A barrage of unfriendly Norwegian went my way, but this is a lesson for me to bear. KEEP RIGHT AT ALL TIMES!

8:30am:
Reached Heimdal! With sky high confidence! I thought if I could clock 10km in less than an hour, I could cycle to the end of the world. Grand visions about travelling to Hitra then to Brekstad came.
Travelling along Heimdalsvegen was perfect. Started referring to the map, and reached Burvika soon enough.

9:00am:
On the road to Orkanger (around 30 km), while the sign, somewhat comfortingly, proclaimed Alesund (or was it Kristensand) to be 250km away.
The start on E39 was great, contrary to what some websites say. Traffic was going Trondheim, and as usual, I got my morning timing spot on. It's always easier to cycle on the side of the road with few vehicles.

10am:
Visgja came soon enough. I knew the road to Orkanger was 60% complete. Started taking pictures at regular intervals.

10:30am:
Nearing Orkanger, my bicycle chose the most inopportune moment to dislodge. Having totally no choice, I had to fix it back, while cursing the Sykkelbua guy who fixed my bike mutteirng under my cold breath. It was surprisingly easy, but got my hands soiled with grease, and what was I to do but to deposit as much grease and as fast as I could in the snow. Bare hands in snow, not a good idea. Also, the 3rd gear seemed to be totally dislodged.

Took pictures of a kitty and soon forgot about my chain worries.


The cat must have thought me nuts to... Cats are always contemptuous of humans regardless of what we do.

Turned in 710, which was to be the crux of my journey. Gruelling 54km. A nice lady wished me, "God tur!" when I asked her where Valset the ferry terminal was. She mentioned 54km away. I wondered how could she have gotten it so accurately measured, until later when I encountered a road sign stating Valset was 54 km away. She must have driven on 710 before.

4:00pm:
reached Valset. Replenished water supply at toilet.

4:15pm:
Boarded ferry. Tried to bargain for a student discount, but the man good-heartedly rejected with NEI.
22 kr for the trip. So far so good.

5:00pm:
When I touched down from the ferry, Brekstad seemed like a foreign land. The weather suddenly took a chilly turn, a forewarning of what was to come that night.

5:45pm:
Explored the small town of Brekstad a bit. The cafes sold delicious hambergers, which I could certainly do with, but they were priced at 100 kr++(S$25++). Instead, I settled for the next best thing, 7 kr worth of bananas from Coop Mega.

6pm:
Sky was getting dark, very dark. Panicking, I went out in search of Austrått. Unfortunately I never made it. It was so dark and so so cold.

6:30pm:
Unable to withstand the bitter winds, I took refuge at a bus shelter labelled Skaun, which i was to find out later, had neither seen a single bus nor much shelter. It was strewn with rubbish, but that was the least of my worries. At least I thought it kept me from the wind, but to my horror, not from the cold!

Shivering....shivering....I had never shivered so much in my life before....my mind began to race in pulses....tried to build a fire...laid in shadows....discovered my buckle used to strap my stuffs on the bike broke....worse...it was entangled with the wheels...decided to unentagle it....

Bad idea. Took all of 10 min grappling in the dark and a lot of my body heat trying to unentagle it. Some bad beat.

Tried to sleep...but it was impossible. I wrapped myself up in layers of clothings and blankets. Just when I though I had triumphed with the next layer, that apparent warmth evaporated into the icy air, and I had to scrample for another layer... My ears were ringing, and my hands numb. This battle with the cold went on and on...until I...

3:00am:
...almost shivered to death. Had to leave my temporary abode and find somewhere else.

4:00am:
Found road to Austrått. At that point in time, it could have been Auschwitz. My hands, if I could even see in the complete darknes, (gloved of course!) were frozen to the metal bike handles. Trempled too much to balance on the bike. Had to walk.

Was there anyone who could help me out here? Ok...I realised my huge mistake in wandering off into the Artic night at a time like this. Please somebody just take me in!

Tried knocking on a few doors. No responses. Finally stumbled onto a deserted horse range, and inevitably a horse shed, which was twice as big as the bus shelter. Approached with trepidation, luckily there weren't any horses in them. Bus stops with no buses, and now, horse sheds with no horses. Anyway, I had to take it. Immediately, I was greeted with an unpleasant smell, but what choice do I have?

Parked my bike, and buried myself with the stacks of hay inside. Drifted in and out of consciousness. Dreamt about my family back in sunny Singapore, and what was I doing out here inside a stack of horse hay.

Think I even managed 2 hours sleep there.

7:00am:
Set off for Austrått. Was rather disappointing. What? I had struggled so hard just to make it to a deserted camp site? But the thought of spending the next night shivering in cold was enough to set me off to Rorvik at once!

8:00am:
Could not bear to leave Austrått. Still lingered there, even found time to deposit my Coop Mega bananas.. They came down shaped just like bananas, which I find amusing. Not so amusing was where I chose to deposit them. I wondered if the camp site people would be delighted with a early round of spring fertilizers for their garden flowers.

Was hoping to catch some spectacular sunrise photos, but they never happen in winter I guess. The sun goes down in sunrise and rises in sunsets? When you are way up north, the celestial stars simply stop behaving themselves.


About the most cheerful sunrise you can find in the North.

9:00am:
continued the 710 journey.

12:00am:
710 ends, and I took 715.

12:30pm:
Took 718. Great scenic route, spent my film trying to capture it. My sole aim though, was to be back in Moholt Alle enjoying a hot pizza watching movies on my comp! Time was not my side. Had to rush!


Yet another ferocious waterfall? *yawn*

3:00pm:
Took 717. The first sight that greeted me...a huge climb that took the fight out of me ON THE SPOT. Now, how high was that? I have no idea. It would be fun to know, but I know my pizza dream was ebbing away.

4:00pm:
Cycled aimlessly up, awaiting my doom. By now, I know I have to get settled by 5:00pm, or before you know it, darkness would have already swallowed you up, trapping you helpless and defenseless against the deadliest of all monsters, the Artic winds.

Saw a church, Stadsbydha Kirke, and tried my luck. Voila! A fine modern toilet in the midst of nowhere. Trust the church goers to treat themselves well! No doubt this toilet is the high of my journey. I'm spending the night here. Went a mile further to a quiet suburb and bought some foodstuffs there, following directions by a man in his 40s who jogged faster than I could on my bike! Was grinning from face to face, all because I had found a toilet which I could bunk in.

10pm:
Penning this whole entry from the comfort of the toilet. Gonna sleep soon. After cleaning and washing all the dirty linen, the bad horsey smell still cling on to my pores. Had to throw away a blanket, and lots of cloths that were making me ill. Anyway, this Stadsbyddya Kirke has certainly renewed my faith in bicycle trips.
Total spent to date:
22 + 7 + 29 + 24 = 82 kr = S$21!

Worth it?
Not a doubt.


Comfy hotel room. Though I must admit the layout is rather strange, with the toilet placed as the centrepiece of the room.


Farewell to Hotel Lavatory


Fancy being miles away from civilisation with not a single soul in sight? Then Norway awaits you.