 
THE LONGEST HONEYMOON

By

Izni Zahidi

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Izni Zahidi on Smashwords

The Longest Honeymoon

Copyright 2012 by Izni Zahidi

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For Rafiee - at the end of the day it's not where you are but who you're with that really matters.

For Ayah, Mama, Hilmi, Aisyah & Sarah - my favourite people who stand by me without flinching, every time.

For my best friends (you know who you are, and if you're not sure then you're probably not one of the precious few!) - thank you for the support and getting people to buy this book.

For all characters in the book - either good or bad, you inspired me.

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THE LONGEST HONEYMOON

Chapter 1: This Is How It Started

Chapter 2: And How It Almost Ended

Chapter 3: I Hate This Part Right Here

Chapter 4: The Grass is Greener In Europe

Chapter 5: Okay, Maybe Not That Green
Chapter 6: Stranded, and a Costly Escape
Chapter 7: Happiest In the Priciest Country

Chapter 8: Cheaper Hidden Gems

Chapter 9: Five-Second Fame, Eternal Embarrassment

Chapter 10: Between Illegal Immigrant and Landlady from Hell

Chapter 11: The End ... Not!

Chapter 12: Epilogue

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Chapter 1

In the days when photos were kept in flower-decorated albums (mostly red roses for that extra cheesiness), I often opened those in my parents' sanctuary to see their lives entwined in Great Britain and their many backpacking trips abroad around Asia, the United States and Europe. The twelve-year-old mind found them so romantic, but as far beyond my reach as the honey-roasted nuts my dad hid in the top drawer and used as a bargaining tool for me to eat more greens (typical, but I can't say it didn't work!).

"Mom, can we go and live in the snowy place, like you and dad did?" I asked my mom on one of those scorching hot days when you just feel like shoving your face into the freezer.

"Do you think money grows on trees?" she laughed. Cliche; my grandparents always said that when I asked for more _ang pows_. "I studied hard, went to a couple of interviews and then managed to bag a scholarship."

"How much money do I need to go there?" _There_ meant anywhere that looked like a scene from _The Sound of Music_ where the young Julie Andrews happily sang the day away.

Mom thought for a second. "As much as you need for a house in Kuala Lumpur."

Of course I didn't know how much exactly that would be, but I knew that anyone who could buy their own house must be earning some serious money or lots of _ang pows_. Neither fit me. I needed a scholarship.

From then on (and probably earlier, after watching so many Disney classics), I had the dream of going abroad. While it started as just an innocent wish to feel the snow with my bare hands, it grew into the golden opportunity that all my friends yearned for. Years later, I was accepted into a boarding school with dozens of bright-eyed peers. Most of us had the same ultimate goal: to study abroad. I don't know if the exams are getting easier or kids these days are getting smarter, but every year there are grumbles from displeased parents whose children have obtained top scores but failed to be shortlisted for a scholarship.

Imagine the pressure. For two years I worked towards the dream of going to Europe, with family shedding proud tears at the airport and friends writing me farewell cards. It was almost the only thing worth studying for and for that, we all knew we had to get as many As as possible, if not all. I particularly wanted to go to France, simply because everyone was talking about the country – sophisticated technology, elegant Monsieurs and Mademoiselles and the language of love.

The moment came and went like one of those flash floods in the city. You feel overwhelmed for what seems like forever but when it has passed, you can't remember how it really was. I poured out my two-year effort, everything I'd learned and memorised (who are we kidding really?) and I could only hope it would be the door to my dream.

As fate would have it, my hopes were shattered as my result slip displayed a few Bs. I cried a little, knowing that I now had an even slimmer chance of being called for an interview so I stopped hoping. The funny thing about hope is that you can't really control it. Weeks later, I got the letter and my hopes came right back up.

I was feeling confident on my way to the interview and nothing was going to dampen my spirits – until I reached the interview place in a local university. There were so many hopefuls and they had all dressed to impress.

"How are they going to choose who gets in?" I found myself wondering.

I remember looking at my dad and he said what every child needs to hear when they are not sure of themselves. "Just try your best. Besides, I won't let you go anyway if you happen to get the scholarship." He flashed his pearly whites in a wide grin.

Let me introduce you to my dad, a conventional Malay man. He is still as protective as ever and even when he imposes a lot of bans for those living under his roof, he doesn't impose his hopes for his children, so basically you can never fail.

My mom, similarly, never aggressively pushes the children, but she herself is an inspiration. Superwoman, I always call her. She left home at eleven and marched on bravely through a top boarding school and Nottingham University where she met her better, and quieter, half.

Back to the interview. The group discussion was already a total blur only seconds after I'd exited the room. There were the expectant me and a few other enthusiastic students sitting in a circle while the interviewers fired one question after another and prompted us to have a discussion. I obviously didn't leave a promising impression because a week later, I got a rejection letter.

I moved on with a broken heart and went for my so-called Plan B. All my friends went off to their colleges and, pretending that everything was alright while throbbing pains were playing a musical inside me, I saw them going off to France, Germany, Japan and even the neighbouring Indonesia, one by one.

The second opportunity came soon afterwards and squashed me silly even faster. They were looking for candidates to pursue a language course in New Zealand. Never mind that it was nothing close to the engineering that I'd aspired to do, I just wanted to go abroad. It sounds surprisingly inane now but at that time it seemed like the only second chance I would ever have. I don't even remember how my interview went, probably because I didn't even pass the preliminary test.

I felt doomed to rot like an old lady who could have had the love of her life but didn't try hard enough. But Earth didn't stop moving and people didn't pause to sympathise and so I moved on, again. If you think of life as a roller coaster, mine was broken, and stuck at the bottom with no sign of recovery. I closed the chapter and for the next five years, I followed the same path as most of my peers did.

Despite the title, this was not supposed to be another corny chick flick but love was undeniably a huge part of my journey afterwards. I met someone who thought highly of me. I couldn't see what he saw in me and though it took me some time to believe he was not just being funny, he actually made me believe in myself again. Slowly I felt the need to justify his faith in me and I simply stopped giving up.

As a result, even without a definite blinding light at the end of the crowded tunnel, I did my best in my final two undergraduate years and it was the best thing that I could have done for myself. My roller coaster was going uphill at a speed I'd never thought it could reach with such an old engine. It made squeaking noises here and there but it never reversed.

Later I earned a terrific internship in a multinational engineering consultancy company. I attained a Dean's List award and upon graduation, my thesis won the best civil engineering project of the year and my work was published in a reputable journal paper. I wasn't exactly working towards going abroad per se but I was doing it for myself, because it made me feel good.

It didn't surprise Rafiee at all; he said he knew I'd had it in me all along. If I wasn't in love at the time, I was definitely falling hard like Alice into the rabbit hole. I could instantly relate to Celine Dion's _Love Can Move Mountains_. I knew he was a keeper.

At the same time, I got to know an assistant lecturer in the same department from whom I found out that all might not yet be lost.

"Listen. This government scheme is amazing," he whispered to me during class, like the Joker plotting an evil scheme, sans the makeup. "You become an assistant lecturer in a local university, do your Master's degree for a year or two and then you can do your PhD anywhere you want to. All expenses paid. There is a quota for the United Kingdom and Australian universities though, so you have to be quick."

"I want to go to France," I interrupted him. I surprised myself. I hadn't realised I still thought about my childhood dream.

"Okay, France; whatever."

"What's the catch?"

"You're bonded two years for every year they sponsor you. But it's okay if you want to be a professor because you'll work in some university anyway after your studies. Do you want to be an academic?"

"Yes sure, it sounds fun!" Like most undergraduates, I had no idea what I wanted to be in the future. Who cares, as long as we get to earn big money. Sure, most of my friends were already coming back to Malaysia with their overseas experience and insider jokes that I couldn't understand even with the help of my trustworthy know-it-all Google, but that didn't deter my will at all. I'd found a purpose in life again, the same one I'd left buried at the back of my mind.

The assistant lecturer smiled. "Then start applying. It will take some time but at least you'll be on your way."

Chapter 2

Okay, when he said it would take some time to secure the assistant lecturer position, I didn't think that it would take half a year. Good thing I was already working for a property developer in the city the day after I submitted my winning thesis. I even had my own name cards: Izni Zahidi, Project Engineer. It sounded so good I felt like handing them out to strangers.

I liked my job, I really did. I had my own computer and working area, which was actually a cubicle where my boss could see what I was up to every time he walked by to get to the washroom. I also had someone serving coffee twice a day. Granted, everyone had the same thing but I was twenty-three and it was my first real job. Also, I'd just got engaged to Rafiee and we were getting married in six months' time. Everything was perfect, like a career–minded Cinderella and her happily-ever-after tale with her Prince Charming.

A few months into a routine in which I couldn't differentiate one week from another, I looked around the office and the world became ... silent. All I could see was people in their forties and fifties sitting in the same cubicle as when they first set foot in the building, punching numbers and talking on the phone like ... robots. We urged the contractors to meet the deadline and they would argue, saying that we stayed in an air-conditioned office all day while they had to deal with the authorities and problems on site. We would push them, and then the same old cycle repeated itself, again and again. I wondered if I'd be able to live with myself if I woke up ten years later realising that I had wasted all those years of life, waiting.

I knew the answer in a heartbeat. No.

There and then I grabbed my bulky mouse and, looking behind to make sure that the boss was away, I clicked on every Master's programme with any chance of funding. I couldn't wait for the offer to land in my lap, I just had to do something. All the programmes asked for an English language qualification. I had to fork out a few hundred for the course and examination but I figured it was worth every cent.

Come to think of it, my endearing boss Mr Ong could probably tell I had another agenda but was too kind to ask. I took three half days for the course (what kind of healthy single women go on leave for three half days consecutively?). I studied French in the office (perhaps he thought learning a third language that wasn't Chinese or Tamil would help our business) and I was always writing something on the office computer that looked suspiciously like an essay.

To top it off, I was always leaving half an hour early every Tuesday and Thursday for the French language course. Often I would bump into him, completely changed, with towel-dried hair. As an effort to save time, I brought my change of clothes and showered at the office before going to class. All the while, he never asked me questions, although he did raise his eyebrows now and then. It was like I had a secret life, which was true but it wasn't half as exciting as Superman's.

The French language course cost an arm and a leg and I was already losing one each for the English test, so I had to borrow money from my dad for the course while at the same time trying to save as much as possible for the wedding and honeymoon.

An alpha male friend of mine told me what I'm sure lots of people were thinking: "You women always want it all. You want to get married, have kids and become a CEO... in a big company!" They all said I couldn't have my cake and eat it too, which I found mind-boggling. Why couldn't I eat the cake that I had made myself? I was determined to prove them wrong.

I was never sure what my dad thought about the whole thing – getting married and going abroad – but it couldn't be that bad because he did loan me the French tuition fee (or rather, gave the money away as I never got excessively rich enough to pay him back without asking for a discount). Nobody could say for sure I was going to get a scholarship, let alone be able to go to a French university, but my dad didn't care about that. He knew how much his spoiled brat wanted it to happen and if a language course was going to bring it closer, he would pay every cent without a fuss.

Two interviews and half a year after I left the university, I finally got an official offer to join my old university again as an assistant lecturer. The one I'd met a year ago had already left for his PhD in Holland, lucky fella. I told Mr Ong that I was going to pursue a Master's degree in France and he took it in his stride. I think he would have been more surprised if I'd said I was going to work overtime for a week (a further proof that he'd known all along). Endearing as he was, he even took me out with some colleagues for a farewell lunch and told me about his Europe trip.

"Which part of France are you going to?" he asked, looking genuinely interested.

"Um, the west part, called Nantes." It was one of the universities that I'd applied to.

"You know, they have a lot of budget airlines over there in Europe so you can fly almost every day to, say, Holland which was where I went for my last holiday." He inhaled, signalling a lengthy story ahead. "Holland is amazing. Everyone cycles, and they have these canals ..."

I was lost in my train of thought. My mind was already wandering to Europe. I prayed hard that I would get a scholarship to France as I took a spoonful of the fried rice, and nodded as I listened with half an ear to Mr Ong's story. What would I do if I failed and then bumped into him later? I would have to pretend that a lookalike had been using my identity to fool people into thinking I was leaving the country.

It wasn't easy. I applied to so many programmes and got an offer from all of them but none was willing to sponsor an insignificant young Malaysian graduate. One university agreed to partially fund my education so I made an appointment with my Faculty Dean to ask for the rest of the funding, as if I were a valuable one-of-a-kind asset that people should be rushing to sponsor.

Oh how much I really wanted it! All I could think of at that critical moment was that this could be my last and only chance of doing something I wanted to do instead of becoming another rat in the race, and I wanted to make sure that I was doing all I could to make it happen. Between the money spent on my scholarship application and the wedding, it was indeed a crushing disappointment every time I was rejected for the funding. I kept feeling smaller and smaller with giants hovering over my head, laughing at my hopes.

"Why don't you do your Master's degree locally and continue your PhD overseas like everyone else?" a friend asked, after putting up for months with my whining.

"I've been waiting for years." I tried hard not to sound frustrated but you can't say those words without sounding at least slightly desperate. "I want this now. I don't want to be everyone else."

She didn't get it and I didn't blame her. The Malaysian education system was on a par with some of the best universities in the world. We were getting endless supplies of foreign students and there I was, wishing to leave.

"It's all the same out there. Look at those people who graduated abroad. They have the same position and salary. Why do you want to waste a couple of years when you will eventually come back and do what everyone else does anyway?"

"Maybe it's the same. Maybe I'm not missing anything. But I want to be able to say to myself that yes, I've been there and done that and it's all the same. I don't want to hear it and take it from someone else."

She sighed. There was no point arguing with someone's dreams.

If you've ever had dreams, you'll know that they might mean little to other people but to yourself, they're an integral part of your whole being, and that's huge. Especially if you're like me, and you've wanted the same thing since you can remember. You know you can't rest easy until you get it, or at least until you know you've tried every possible thing.

It wasn't difficult to gain admission. The fee for international students was on average ten times what it was for home students, so education was a good business. Getting the funding was of course, a pain in the neck. But I stayed true to H. Jackson Brown's quote highlighted on the notebook cover that Rafiee gave me: "Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do." More often than not, people tend to give up at the first sign of failure. It's human nature to think that if it doesn't work out this time, it most likely never will. It's not so much the failing part that's stopping people but the sense of failure, of investing time, money and hopes in something, only to be turned away at the end.

Somehow along the way, I got hold of a French education agent based in Singapore. He was responsible for getting a number of Asian aspirants onto various programmes and scholarships and I thought I could use all the help I could get. He helped me with my documentation for a funded course on renewable energy and even set up a meeting in Kuala Lumpur while he was there on a business trip.

I was as nervous as a healthy turkey on Thanksgiving. This man didn't have the final say but I felt the need to impress the only connection I had with my dream country. I peeked from the lobby room, pretending I was reading some intellectual magazine which could've been upside down and I wouldn't have noticed, because I was too busy trying to find the Frenchman whom I called Monsieur Dupont.

Then I saw him. A tall man in his forties. Nobody could've missed him even if they'd tried. I spat out my chewing gum, straightened my semi formal outfit and walked confidently towards him.

"Monsieur Dupont?" I could feel my neck straining, trying to catch his eyes.

He frowned and eased into a smile when he realised that I wasn't a little girl trying to get something out of his fat expatriate wallet.

"Yes. You must be Izni?" Even his accent made me flutter.

" _Oui. Bonjour et enchante._ " A corny attempt at making an impression.

He seemed pleased with my French because he started to ask me questions in French. Unfortunately he overestimated my ability.

" _Pardonnez–moi?_ " I tried.

He repeated his question, albeit slower this time.

Laughing nervously, I had another shot. " _Comment?_ "

"Well, have you been waiting for long?"

Drat. Of course he would ask that question. "Not at all. I'm sorry, I'm still new at French."

Needless to say, we didn't speak any French for the rest of the interview. The interview was more like a conversation between an academic advisor and his student. It ended after just fifteen minutes. Before we parted company after our first and possibly last meeting, he told me to apply for other programmes as well. He could see the desperation in me, and that I was putting all my eggs in one basket. Perhaps he was thinking I had no chance. Urgh! – a literal laughing giant.

I found another programme that sounded right for my background and interests. I wasn't really thinking about what I wanted to do but I knew I wanted to combine my existing engineering skills with nature, and water resources management was the closest thing to that. I sent in my application.

Months went quietly by and I was still applying, and pleading with the Dean to sponsor half of the tuition fee for the university in Holland. I no longer restricted myself to France because the chances were slim and I figured I could always visit France once I got anywhere in Europe. Hadn't Mr Ong mentioned something about budget airlines?

A few months later I received an e–mail from the renewable energy course administrator.

I'd stopped counting the giants, but I failed again.

I couldn't understand it. Rafiee had believed in me. He'd made me believe in myself. I'd passed all the requirements. What had gone wrong? What more could have I done?

By this time, I had my mind set on doing my Master's degree locally and my PhD in Europe later. I already had an offer from a local university, so I was ready to move on.

However, a higher power thought I finally deserved my break. One day I opened my inbox to find an e-mail from someone named Jean Pierre, which was undoubtedly a French name. My blood came rushing to my head and I couldn't breathe. I'd finally got it. It was for the water resources management programme, the one I hadn't thought of at all since I'd mailed my application. They were offering me the chance to study in four different European countries for two years, and guess where was I going for my very first semester in Europe? _Oui_ : France. _Bonjour!_

I couldn't believe it was really happening and I had to read the e-mail a few times before the truth dawned on me. I WAS GOING TO FRANCE! Finally! Everything I had done, every feeling I'd experienced prior to that moment, replayed in my mind simultaneously. For years I had only imagined how I would react at that moment. All the composure I had daydreamed of just went out of the window. I started screaming and pulling at my mom – who was in the living room watching her favourite musical _Mamma Mia_ (again) – to come and read the e-mail while I ran upstairs to wake my dad, who usually fell asleep a couple of hours after sunset.

"Dad, wake up!" I shook him, rather violently.

He instantly looked worried. He was probably expecting to hear that someone was dying; what else could be urgent enough for someone to wake you up in the middle of the night? Or in his case, at 9pm.

"What? What?"

"I got a scholarship! I'm going to France!"

My father muttered something that sounded like "Really? Good for you. Good night," and returned to his interrupted slumber. I don't think he had any recollection of that moment, as I had to repeat the whole thing the next morning.

I was still standing next to him, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm going to Europe ... " It's like I had to repeat it so many times to start believing it.

Downstairs, my mom was reading the e-mail, word by word. She was a supportive mother, but she was shocked at how good the deal was. "Don't get too excited yet. This could be a scam. I've never heard of such thing. How can you go to a different university every semester?"

I could tell she was thrilled at the possibility but she was from the generation that don't believe the Internet can replace letters and banks.

"This is the Internet. Strangers can e-mail you anything they like. There's no official offer letter here."

"Ma, see that attachment? It's the scanned copy of the official letter."

"Oh." She carefully examined the official stamp, like Horatio in a _CSI_ crime scene, minus the cockiness and sunglasses, and then turned to me. A huge smile appeared. "So you're really going to Europe."

My eyes twinkled. "I am, ma. I'm going to Europe!"

Chapter 3

March 2009 was a great month for yours truly. I got married to the love of my life and I got to tell our guests we were going to Europe in six months' time for our second honeymoon. How long for, they asked. Oh, just a couple of years, I would say nonchalantly – although I was betrayed by my huge smile (it could put a professional clown to shame).

I was so thrilled, I think I must have told everyone. My family, his family, our friends, our lecturers and even the young lad at the petrol station who was kind enough to help me fill my tank despite the self-service signboard. Excited and nervous as we were, everyone else had doubts. To begin with, the offer seemed too good to be true. To be handed €42,000 to spend two years in four different European countries with no contractual obligation to serve any government? People have been bonded for life for less than that! How could that be possible?

To be honest, being fed by other people's uncertainty, I became sceptical as well. Haven't we all learned that nothing is free in this world? My experiences with salesmen told me the same thing. No, there is no obligation. No, you don't have to buy anything. We just want to give you a free gift for being our loyal customer. So you go to their office to pick up the mystery gift which is apparently too huge for the postman and suddenly you find yourself with other loyal customers listening to a two-hour promotion, just to get a trashy pen that spills its ink on your finger.

A couple of days after our wedding, Rafiee and I flew across the Java Sea for our honeymoon in Bali. It was actually my first time overseas. Well, it didn't actually feel like going out of the country apart from that time when the Customs officer stamped my passport. It was still hot, the food was still delicious and the people could still understand my mother tongue.

Still, Bali, being the only Hindu part of Indonesia, has its unique lure. We engaged a tour guide and aspiring lawyer – adorably called Pak Mega – and he drove us through villages and mountains for four days. He must have done it hundreds of times but his passion was infectious; it felt like it was his first day in Bali.

We stayed in Seminyak, opposite the wonderful Bali Strait. The decision came after considering the cool surfers'-paradise of Kuta and the luxurious beach resort in Nusa Dua. None of us surfed (I couldn't even swim) and my bank balance didn't really favour Nusa Dua. Seminyak was perfect for us, a cross between the two more popular spots. Although it was supposedly a typical, romantic, beach honeymoon, our days were jam-packed with mini travels; it felt like we were in a milder version of _Amazing Race_. We had no one to blame, we deliberately hadn't chosen the spa-and-massage honeymoon package (if we'd wanted to sleep all day and be touched by strangers, we could've stayed in Malaysia). For all Pak Mega knew, we could have been married with two kids, trying to get away from the diapers and the crying.

The houses seemed to have their own shrine constantly attended by family members and since we had come during their biggest festival, the Galungan, it was like stepping inside a joyous beehive. It is held throughout Bali and the people believe that all the Balinese gods will descend to Earth for ten days. Thus there were a lot – and I mean A LOT – of offerings of fruits, flowers and even cigarettes everywhere – and I mean EVERYWHERE – and we had to watch our step. The women, tightly dressed in sheer _kebaya_ , gracefully carried huge pyramids of fruits and flowers on their heads. I couldn't even balance my wobbly straw hat when the wind blew; I would be responsible for wasting a week's worth of food if I had to carry one of those. The men, on the other hand, attended cock fights as part of the blood sacrifice. Long gone the days when human blood was the only thing that could satisfy the powerful, bloodthirsty gods.

Either the whole of Bali was beautiful or Pak Mega only took us to the beautiful spots, because we fell in love with the place immediately after the sunset performance of the Kechak/Monkey dance in Uluwatu. The Jean-Claude Van Damme lookalikes were chanting, vibrating (hold that thought) their bodies and clapping fiercely in harmony to the Ramayana tale. It was an evening to remember ...

... until he took us to Jimbaran Bay to have a succulent, fresh, Balinese, grilled seafood dinner. Then the enchanting dance we had just seen thirty minutes before evaporated with each molecule of smoke coming from the grills. We didn't even pay much attention to the local band playing the guitar and singing, until some of the tourists decided to make it more exciting by getting on the table and performing a dance I didn't recognise. Must have been something from a remote African island.

It was a fantastic honeymoon, from day one. Bali couldn't help being romantic. My favourite places would have to be Ubud and Kintamani. Ubud is a little cultural town where the locals display their handicrafts, like batiks, silverware and wood carvings. I'm not a shopping person, a rare sub-species of women, but I had to get some of those for people back home. They were too beautiful to keep for myself. We never got to Nusa Dua but passing through Kuta one afternoon reminded me of a scene from _Baywatch_ , only more sophisticated. Everyone looked like all they did all day was surfing, swimming and getting the perfect tan. Those from _America's Top Model_ could have easily blended in. If I were single and coming to Bali, I would learn to swim, and stay in Kuta for ever.

The highland of Kintamani is the home of the active Batur volcano, which I later found out was also the name of the native dog breed. Unfortunately, I can't be sure which came first. Not to have realised that a place of natural beauty like that wouldn't have streaming locals shoving their crafts in your face was naïve of me. Pak Mega sturdily blocked them from us while we tried to reach the safe comfort of our coach. This must be what the _Twilight_ cast feel like whenever they're out, I thought.

But then I saw the children. Shouldn't they be playing in the dirt with their friends? How selling five pairs of earrings daily at 1,500 Rupiah each (equivalent to 0.18 USD) can help them survive, I have no idea. If I were some filthy rich tourist from the Middle East I would've bought everything they sold, but would that be a good long-term investment for the people? It remains an age-old debate.

We sampled so many local cuisines throughout our vacation, but the flying Gourami fish was definitely a favourite. When I saw the menu, I naively thought we had to try catching this flying Gourami before we could eat them. All those walks left me starving, so attempting to catch a fish, in the air no less, wasn't the most attractive idea at the time. Luckily it came fried, ready to savour on a plate of rice, a smashed fried chicken, fresh vegetables and chillies. The fish was crispy and arranged in such a way that it looked like it had wings (hence 'flying') but it didn't last long before it flew straight into my drooling mouth.

The vacation seemed like it ended abruptly. Isn't that the worst part of going on a holiday? You wait for what feels like ten years before your boss approves your leave, another ten years until your departure and suddenly it all ends in a few hours! Then you come back to work to wait for another ten years. I aged tremendously when I was waiting for our move to France, as everything around me seemed to be moving in slow motion.

I thought the hard part was over and boy, I was as wrong as the sky if it had been green. I had major decisions to make now that I was married. Rafiee had been working for two years and he was making his mark in the company that he enjoyed being with, so I couldn't ask him to leave ... could I? Wouldn't it be selfish of me?

We had always idly discussed what we would do if I got an opportunity to go abroad, even while we were both still sleep-deprived students eating instant noodle for dinner, imagining all the adventures that we could have together. When the time came, however, it wasn't that easy. In an ideal world where Romeo was reunited with Juliet and they all lived happily ever after, we could just leave the country and do what we wanted to do. Ride a camel in the Sahara desert! Hunt with the Inuit in Arctic! Back to the real world, we had to think about paying off loans, our ageing parents and whether we would find jobs again when we came back.

We've been led to believe that what we do for a living defines us. Ever since we learned how to spell (that means from the age of two, for some of us), we've also learned that we have to gain excellent grades to get a really good job; the sort of job where your contribution makes more money for the corporation. Then of course you have to teach your children the same thing too – preferably _before_ they start to spell.

So now that we were in that comfort zone that people outside the bubble wanted to crash into, was Rafiee really going to leave his dream job to be with his student wife living on only one income in the most expensive continent in the world? Why, that sounded so absurd!

It was surprising how people could have so many opinions. We often got unsolicited advice from those who had never encountered a situation in which they had to part with their significant other. We listened but grew more confused. If you could have entered my mind, you would have been throttled by the entangled, loose wires of my thought. Even our families couldn't help us towards a conclusion. Some thought two years would go by before we could say goodbye (G-o-o-d-b-y-e. Nope, it was still 2009). They excitedly suggested that Rafiee stay with his job and we could visit each other twice a year. Some, on the contrary, strongly believed that husband and wife should stay together. And no, not all of them were born before the sixties.

Making the decision based on rational thinking was extremely tough. Based on how we both felt, though, it was crystal clear. We wanted to experience this together. Two years without each other was bad for our health and we all know that without health there's nothing. Were we financially ready for it? We weren't sure. We weren't sure what snow would feel like, let alone how to manage our new currency. So were we worried that we might go bankrupt before we even reached our first destination and we had to call our parents to buy us two homebound tickets? A little bit. But we decided to take the plunge. We figured where there was a will, there would be a way.

Rafiee, being the financially savvy one in our household, started to create a budget plan and we decided we could live together on the scholarship, provided we cut out a few things such as movie dates and settled for cheaper food and other items. No more eating out unless we had something really big to celebrate, like winning a new car; not just any car, but a Jaguar or others in the same league.

Now that that was taken care of, there was the social pressure to have a baby immediately after the wedding. Doesn't it annoy you when people start asking merely one month afterwards, "So-o-o-o, do you have a bun in the oven???" and you just feel like playing dumb "Why? Do you smell something? I don't think so, I hate baking." Some couples would love to have a year or two on their own, enjoying each other's company before the little bundle of joy arrives and colours your world outside the lines, but people generally frown upon the idea.

Rafiee and I agreed without hesitation that having a child at that time wouldn't be wise; practically, financially or emotionally. I would have to postpone my studies for a year, which would make me really irresponsible for not having considered it before giving my commitment to the programme. That was something we never argued about. Rafiee, being a man and blessed with no biological clock, wasn't really pressured but I on the other hand, had never felt so selfish.

I felt like I was neglecting my responsibility to produce and nurture another human being, just because I wanted to travel. It sounded self-centred even to my own ears but digging deep down inside, I knew it was because my wishes weren't the traditional ones. Friends were getting married and having children without as much as a single pause to go on a honeymoon and some even had two children in two years. I would be lying if I said that that didn't bother me at all.

But I also knew that different lives and paths are mapped for each person. No two paths are alike but they always work for the best. I just had to pursue my childhood dream before I could start realising someone else's. I knew I had to take one step at a time and at that moment, it was the right time to get on the plane and embark on an adventure of our own.

Next on the agenda was to book the flight tickets. I'd never gone anywhere further than Indonesia so I had no idea how much it would cost. I learned to use the cheap flights multi-search to find the most economical option and imagine my surprise when numerous and unheard of airlines came up. There were Aer Arann, EasyJet, Vueling, Wizz Air and the like. Mr Ong wasn't exaggerating; they had some really cut-rate airlines over there.

I found that all the direct flights were too pricey so we agreed to take the cheapest although it would take two days just to get to Paris. Then half a day at the Paris airport before boarding the UK's EasyJet to the destination of my first semester: Nice. Transiting for one night in Sri Lanka wasn't all bad, as I found out later that the airline provided a hotel with dinner. Up to that day, I'd never really thought about Sri Lanka but it was like a free honeymoon, so they could've sent us to Mongolia and I would still have been as excited.

The next worry was finding a place to stay in Nice. The university hostels were out of the question as they didn't cater for couples, and at that time Jean Pierre didn't know I was bringing my husband and I didn't want to freak him out, just in case he found some concrete reason to withdraw my application. Finding your own accommodation from a thousand miles away in a country where people don't speak English is like trying to figure out if the salesman in Shanghai is telling you the truth about that odd-looking branded watch. That was until I found a website for expatriates in Nice. Everything was in the universal language (though the French may disagree) and it seemed like lots of people were renting out their place after the peak season of summer subsided.

My mom of course didn't like the idea of using the World Wide Web and after exhaustive searches and rigorous negotiations that I'm sure Donald Trump would have approved of, I found our new place. The owner was French but he had engaged a British agent, James Walker, to get foreigners because as I was told later, the French make horrible tenants. The extent of this claim has not yet been backed up by solid evidence but as Mr Walker put it, "You'll be happy to know that none of your neighbours will be French."

Confused but slightly more confident of the deal after his phone call, I promised to deposit the money via international bank transfer. I don't know why I had to go and tell my mom; I could've caused her a heart attack when she learned I was going to give a few thousand to someone I had only talked to once, and on the phone, no less.

"What if it's a scam?" she said, as if the very thought had never crossed my mind.

"Mom, there's no choice. We don't know anyone there, we can't just stay in a hotel and look for a place once we're there. That would be really expensive and besides, the website looks trustworthy." I showed her Mr Walker's website but steered away from the Contact Me page, as his outdated photo with the mullet didn't actually help his case.

Convincing my mom was actually more like convincing myself. I had never done such a thing before, so to say that I was just a little bit anxious is the understatement of the year.

"I can't look. Don't tell me when you're going to the bank. Let's pretend this conversation never took place." Understandably her defence mechanism kicked in.

I made the bank payment, paid the bank surcharge and prayed hard to the Almighty that the whole arrangement was for real. I e-mailed the receipt to Mr Walker and when I got his reply, I was convinced he was genuine. Naturally I had also Googled him and checked his every single credential. He later sent us photos of our future home and it looked cosy (which we all know is another word for small). Everything was moving as it should be and so off we went to buy bigger luggage and our first-ever winter clothing.

Being travelling virgins, we packed far too much, as if we'd suddenly forgotten there were shops in Europe too. I even packed a couple of bulky textbooks (e-books seemed to have escaped me) and most of my work outfits (for my internship in two years' time, apparently without questioning if they would still fit). Being Malaysian, we couldn't possibly leave without our essential supply of spices and dried food. No matter how much we resisted, the mothers made us take the precious chicken floss, dried anchovies and all the heavenly dried food that would alarm the drug dogs at the airport within a 500-metre radius. Using the typical weight scale to measure our bags was a little less convenient than the more fitting, digital luggage-weight scale, but to our shame we didn't even know it existed. We didn't always travel with the Titanic-of-all-luggage. 20kg was the limit and we came to our senses when we realised we might as well rent a small plane to carry it, considering what we'd have to pay for those extra kilograms.

Some people prefer taking everything with them, so the wise choice is to fit as much as possible in a huge, formidable wooden box and put it on a cargo flight. Rafiee and I decided to start our little adventure by travelling light; you don't see Indiana Jones dragging enormous, bright-red Samsonite luggage through the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Yes sure, we had dried food in our cases but even Indiana Jones has to eat at some point in his crusade. Skype was installed on our laptops and all PCs at home. My dad and I even tested the application while I was staying at the in-laws' house, pretending that I was getting frostbite in the coldness of France, forgetting that we would be greeted by the harmless autumn in September.

The preparation was real fun, like Disneyland fun. It felt like an endless holiday awaited us. No more waiting for the boss to approve the leave, no more sunburn just by driving from home to work. The move was all I talked about for weeks before leaving. I even purchased a guidebook for each country that I wanted to go (France, UK and the rest of Europe) and made Rafiee look at the photos with me as if it was something that the trustworthy Google couldn't do. I even made him memorise French words every night before we went to bed. But it turned out, it didn't hit the man until he wrote his resignation letter.

"Am I really leaving my job for two gap years?" He looked at me as if it had just dawned on him that it wasn't a dream.

"Ye-e-e-e-s, to support your beautiful wife in pursuing her childhood dream." I put on the cutest smile. "It's like an extended honeymoon! Who doesn't want that?"

"Wow, can we really do it? Are we really selling our cars, leaving our families and staying in Europe for TWO years?"

"Two WONDERFUL years! Don't worry, we'll breeze through this new chapter together and before you know it, it will be over."

Oh my, he was freaking out. I was hoping he wouldn't change his mind; we had bought double of everything. The bags, winter clothing, shoes and oh don't remind me of the studio apartment. To my chagrin he started to laugh. Oh no, he was definitely freaking out. "I wish we could've gone sooner. I still have to deal with that dreadful contractor tomorrow."

Everything was definitely going to be okay now.

I knew the currency rate was incredibly high but nothing had prepared me for the heart-breaking moment at the money exchange booth in a mall near our neighbourhood. There I was, double-counting the fat pile of Ringgit Malaysia notes, making sure my nervous system wasn't playing a trick on my eyes, only to be handed four Euro notes. I could have counted them with one eye closed. I suppose I can see why many Malaysians who graduate from abroad stay there and those who already have jobs in Malaysia choose to find another outside the country. The money is really tempting, like the forbidden fruit must have been to Adam and Eve. I would be lying to say that I didn't consider that thought – the money, not the forbidden fruit. My own country hadn't helped me get there (a selfish thought but I'm sure I'm not the only one), so why should I care? But as John F. Kennedy put it, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country", and at that moment of enlightenment I vowed to return and start giving ... as soon as possible (which was a safety clause in case I was lucky enough to get a really good offer to stay in Europe for a little while).

I'd thought going abroad was everything that I had hoped for but I started to realise that my mom was right when she said you can't have everything when, after watching an episode of _The Flash_ , I told her I wanted to move so fast I could be in two places at the same time. As a teenager I used to wish upon a shooting star that I could live somewhere else that had no dad to nag when I was coming home late and no mom to order me around in the kitchen. When I finally got my wish and my dad even bought me a car to make my life simpler, I kept driving back home every weekend because I simply missed them both.

It somehow hadn't occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to see them in person for two years. It probably crossed my mind (like when I was Skype-ing my dad 20km away) but I most likely shoved it all to the back of my mind, trying to buy as much time as possible before the truth hit me like a lightning bolt in the middle of the day.

The last night in Malaysia was spent at my parents' and I rented a DVD, a routine I developed when the DVD store opened a couple of years back, and watched some horror flick with my mom and younger sister, Aisyah. We debated the degree of stupidity in the movie and complained about my mom's tendency to close her eyes when the serial killer was lurking behind the blonde girl. It was just like every other weekend, as if it wasn't to be our last time together for a very long time. When we finally went to bed at one in the morning, I remember staring at the ceiling, thinking that it was my last night in Malaysia. I would be looking at another ceiling tomorrow.

Anything can happen in two years. Crazy, but what I deemed rational thoughts were running through my mind. What if my parents got into an accident? You see, my dad can seriously beat the _Fast & Furious_ blokes. Don't let that innocent, geeky look of his fool you. He controls the road but, knowing perfectly well that he can't possibly control other drivers, I worry about him all the time when he's on the road. My not being there didn't bring me any relief.

And what if my baby sister, Sarah, forgot me? When she was three, I was already in my first year in the university. When I came home after four weeks, she pulled away and started to cry when I tried to hug her. My heart broke into a million pieces. She hadn't recognized me, after only a month. I was afraid to think what it would be like after twenty-four months. She would probably file a restraining order, if she could write more than 'Shaun the Sheep', her favourite cartoon. Would she still adore Shaun and his flock when I got home? Or would she start watching _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_?

I was afraid of so many things but most of all, I was afraid of the unknown.

Was my dream worth leaving everyone and everything I'd known for twenty-four years? What if I started to miss my home in the middle of a stormy night? What if I couldn't cope with the competition and I had a nervous breakdown that would get me admitted to a French psychiatric ward? What if somebody planted packets of cocaine in my backpack without my knowledge and I got arrested, sentenced to a lifetime in jail? Or worse, imprisoned where I wouldn't be allowed to have Malaysian food for the rest of my life! What about the peer pressure that we're all cursed with from the day we turn six? Friends who graduated the same year as me would be climbing the corporate ladder on their way to purchasing a mansion and a fancier car while I was taking notes in a classroom.

All I was aware of at that moment was my fears. The morning of our departure though, I must've bumped my head hard or had an unremembered manifestation of divinity during the night because I suddenly realised that I would have more 'what ifs' if I didn't go – and we all know that in the years to come, we seldom regret what we've done but often what we didn't do.

Well, there was only one way to find out if it was the right choice and I'm glad I went through with it. I knew the risks were all ready to pull me down and laugh at my scared face but what I didn't know was how the journey was about to change me and my life. I didn't know I was going to view the world differently. I didn't know I was going to encounter so many interesting people from every background on the spectrum, with their own stories to tell. I definitely didn't know I was going to sleep in a deserted train station in Italy with the homeless, at three in the morning. I didn't know I was about to enter a National Geographic scenario. For the first time in my life I wasn't just watching someone else's adventure.

Still, it was hard to say goodbye. Hugging my brother, Hilmi, and sisters at home because they weren't sending me off at the airport made me cry a river even before leaving the living room – and Hilmi and I usually couldn't be in the same room for more than an hour before getting into a fight about some stupid, random thing. It finally hit me that I was about to leave everything that made me happy.

I felt a hand touching my shoulder. It was Rafiee and he smiled, comforting me as if to say I wasn't alone. I'd almost forgotten he was also leaving his loved ones to be with me. Strong emotion can make you selfish at times.

Holding back the tears before they burst again, on the way to the airport I avoided talking about leaving. Even after we'd checked in our mammoth luggage (no extra weight, yay!), I kept talking about irrelevant subjects like my neighbour's new car, just to avoid facing the cold truth. No way was I going to cry; I knew I wouldn't be able to stop.

Leaving my dad and little sisters was honestly the hardest thing. I wasn't worried about my mom and Hilmi; they were always the strong ones. But I've always been really close to my dad. He makes me feel like a little girl all the time, and I like that. He makes me feel like I have nothing to worry about because he will always takes care of things for me like he has done all my life. No wonder I am such a cry-baby.

I overheard him telling my aunt, one day before my wedding, that he would always think of me as his little girl. How could I be so selfish as to leave him? Even after I became someone's wife, he would still call me at least twice a day to see how I was doing at home and in the office. I felt like I had to tell him wherever I was going so that if anything bad should happen, he would be the first person to find me.

And now that I would be thousands of miles away from him, who was he going to call when he was stuck in a traffic jam or when he saw something that reminded him of me? I needed him as much as he needed me.

I hated leaving my baby sisters for a different reason. Aisyah was in her adolescent phase. I was going to miss her obsession with boys and it was possible I might miss the moment she met her first boyfriend. Growing up, we had fought all the time. I would team up with Hilmi and bully her into doing what we were too lazy to do, like grabbing the television remote control a metre away. But as we grew older and Hilmi realised that hanging out with his friends was more exciting than listening to his elder sister talking about wedding preparations, Aisyah became my best friend.

I was leaving her when she would need her big sister the most. Any sane person would probably think that it wasn't a big deal but I wasn't exactly the sanest person in our family. Also I knew how much I was going to miss her. I was afraid that she would find out that she could live without her big sister just fine, and that thought was killing me.

My little Sarah was eight at the time so she was growing up. She was the baby of the family so it was hard to leave her. She was having a lot of first times, like her first time playing sport, first time camping, first time going to the dentist, first time going out with her friends, etc. I wanted to hear all about it. I was also afraid that she wouldn't love me as much because she barely knew me at that young age.

Since I'd started wanting to study abroad, I'd never thought about those things, those feelings. Nobody ever told me that it was the worst part of leaving the country. I had always thought that the excitement would overwhelm any sadness of leaving home. I thought that two years wasn't that long and it would be like going for a holiday instead of leaving. In real life, things change and what that didn't matter then could be the only thing that matters now.

It was so hard for me to go, and my family did their best not to make it even harder; apart from when Aisyah started to cry, I was doing just fine! My mom kept telling me stories about her good old days and my brother ... well, Hilmi was my macho brother. Right before we went inside the departure hall, he sent me a text saying that he would miss me. I'd lived with that fella for 21 years and not once did he ever say anything like that.

My friends and I promised to keep in touch, with e-mails and social networking sites. It's getting easier to stay connected and with the fast pace of life these days, nobody in their right mind wants to wait for two weeks to get a letter in the mailbox.

One of my close friends from the university promised she would see me off but I never saw her that day. It was so dramatic, you may think I'm ripping this off some Hollywood romantic movie but I swear I'm not! She'd had to stay late at the office and while her fiance was driving at top speed, she called me to ask me to wait for just a few minutes. But it was time and I couldn't wait for another few seconds, let alone minutes. She ran so fast that she even tripped and sprained her ankle, but she got up and continued running. She arrived merely five minutes after I'd gone in, and we both cried on the phone. That was the only crying I did at the airport.

When it was time to go inside the departure hall, I braced myself for flooding with tears but strangely enough, I didn't shed a single tear. It wasn't because I wasn't sad; I was beyond devastated. I felt like my heart was being punched repeatedly and it was trying its best to stay attached while cracks started to form. I guess I had replayed the scene over and over again in my head so that when the time finally came, it still felt unreal, like a fraction of imagination far away.

Yet that didn't make me feel any better.

Chapter 4

We took the plane on 1st September 2009 heading to Paris with a stopover in Sri Lanka for a night. I didn't think much about it because – this will make me sound ignorant but at least I'm being honest (and honesty is always the best policy, right?) – I didn't know much about the country. It was seldom, if ever, featured on local media and I naturally assumed it would be like a smaller version of India (not that I've been to India, but it was often shown on the Travel & Living channel so I knew as well as the next person what it was like).

The airport, with its off-white wall and musty chairs, seemed like it had seen generations crying farewells and happy tears so it came as no surprise to learn that it had been standing loyally since 1944, during the Second World War. But that was nothing compared to when we stepped outside to look for our designated coach. It was like entering a portal of time travel, hundreds of steps backwards that landed us right into a war zone. Soldiers equipped with heavy rifles were scattered about and other normal-looking people looked on as if it were another ordinary day. There were two possibilities in my uninformed blank mind – 1) somebody was filming another Black Hawk Down or 2) we were on a wrong plane headed to Afghanistan. But there were no cameras and unless Colombo was also a place in Afghanistan, the likelihood was remote. And these people didn't look like Afghans.

I was at the time oblivious of the fact that following the civil war between the Sri Lankan government and Tamil rebels known as the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, the soldiers had been deployed to maintain the peace. However, a number of those that the civilians should be able to trust were sometimes the worst enemy as reports revealed how the battlefront armies killed and raped, and even the children were not spared. The government, however, had denied any involvement with the war crimes.

"Mr Razak and Ms Zahidi?" A small dark man approached us while we were still in a daze.

"This is really Sri Lanka," I gasped, still in denial that we were not surrounded by firearms. We got what we paid for – extra security.

"Yes?" The husband still had his senses.

"Welcome to Sri Lanka. Come with me." It sounded so rehearsed and detached, like a disguised invitation to be shot and buried in an unmarked hole.

The soldiers were suddenly fixated on us. Gulp. You would think that with so many tourists going to Paris having to stop in Colombo, these armed men wouldn't give us a second look. We were just a boring couple and we were not even white, but they all looked at us like they were ready to chew us before the big swallow. Oddly, our shifty driver didn't seem to realise that and if he did, he did a great job at maintaining a poker face.

He didn't speak a single word more, not even as we passed the barrier gate and the armies started to scrutinise us through the glass window – pretending the coach was locked and the window was bulletproof was the only thing stopping me going berserk, screaming, "Just shoot me already!" The men – some looked so young they should have been in bed for school the next day – gave me various types of smile; none made me feel any less paranoid. Rafiee held my hand tight but I could tell he was ready to grab one of the rifles should any of them come too close to me. Our driver was really quiet; he might as well not have been breathing. It felt like ages before they finally let us go.

Trying to ignore the soldiers who were either patrolling the roads or safeguarding from wooden lookout towers, I did my best to enjoy the sight of the capital city, which I had a feeling didn't represent the country justly. With only about twelve hours there, we had time to visit neither the city centre nor the beach. What we did get to see was the families living in villages on the way to our hotel. Our coach was moving so slowly it seemed like we were on a real tour but with the driver's silence that we'd started to get used to, it wasn't a typical all-smiles package deal.

It seemed to me that the place was a beautiful gem in the midst of dusty chaos. Children playing and laughing with twinkling eyes showed no recollection of any dark episodes but the jaded look on their elders' faces as they stared into the air was as obvious as the sun during the day. There were really stunning landscapes in Sri Lanka that we missed because we didn't know about any of them. It was too bad that the unrest and controversies surrounding them became dark clouds hiding the sparkles of the country.

Snapping back to reality, we finally arrived in our hotel in slightly less than an hour. The hotel was nothing I expected from Sri Lanka especially after the depressing view I had acquired a while ago. It was a charming wooden chalet with a huge living-room and a lavish bathroom that actually worked! We couldn't make out how big the whole area was because it was getting dark. There were a few other chalets not far away from ours but they all looked deserted. Were we the only guests?

When we went back to the receptionist for our complimentary dinner in the hotel restaurant, the empty restaurant sparked our curiosity. Where were the other tourists? Those people sharing our plane couldn't all be heading to Sri Lanka, could they? I honestly didn't mind being kidnapped; if that was where I was going to be held for ransom they could have me as long as they wanted. It was really bizarre at that moment to see that such an amazing place was unoccupied but I suppose the perennial civil war might have had something to do with it.

"Excuse me sir, we have to leave early in the morning. Will the driver pick us up as well?" I enquired of the receptionist. I think the driver did mutter something before he dropped us off, but I didn't want to encroach on his comfort zone.

"Yes madam. Don't worry." He beamed his friendly receptionist smile and looked at a spreadsheet. "You'll have ample time to reach the airport."

I was still worried. Malaysia is about three times more developed than Sri Lanka but people still don't respect time. How many times have you found yourself waiting for someone who's 'on their way' or 'coming in a few minutes', only to be waiting for another half an hour? If I made my own forecast that was based on that regularity, wouldn't this driver be late by at least one and a half hours? I decided to trust our smiley receptionist. He looked confident and despite being the only guests there, I presumed we couldn't be the first ones from the airline so they would know by now how late they could be. For the time being, our candlelit dinner was ready.

We were asked if we preferred to eat inside or outside. Outside seemed like a better preference in relation to the honeymoon atmosphere the place was diffusing so our personal waiter moved our starters and drinks to the poolside table. He was soft-spoken and ready for anything we asked for, including a toothbrush. It had skipped my mind that we were staying overnight in Sri Lanka and brushing my teeth in the morning would require, well, a toothbrush. My organised husband had packed his own toothbrush and toothpaste so I did what anyone in my situation would do – send a waiter to buy one.

Mind you, I wasn't being a snooty Asian tourist wearing leather boots on a hiking trip, making sure I had all my make-up intact. I just wanted clean teeth after an enormous meal and a good sleep and apparently the shops were not within walking distance. The kind young man offered to go out and get one for me and as bad as I felt, I knew I would feel worse talking to people with morning breath while pretending I didn't smell anything fishy.

The cuisine was really fancy. None of the courses would be out of place on Gordon Ramsay's menu. The waiter who stood by our table was a bit of a nuisance but it was probably part of his job. I could tell he was trying hard to blend in with the palm trees which were far enough for us to whisper sweet nothings but still within hearing distance if we decided to ask for an extra napkin.

Apart from the shady figure standing side by side with the palm trees and also the mosquitoes who feasted on our bare legs, we had one of the most romantic dinners ever. Having the whole hotel to ourselves (by this time we had concluded that we were the only guests) was like having our own little Maldives sans the beach. Safe and comfortable in our dreamy land, we immediately forgot about the rifles just outside the gate – which clearly describes Sri Lanka. There are two sides to the country, so extreme and so alien to each other that it should be the world's eighth wonder as it is.

We didn't want to go to bed because the place was too lovely to miss but it was also so serene that we fell asleep anyway. If it wasn't for the husband's loud phone alarm clock, we would've missed our flight to France. Kissing the door of our charming chalet, we were immediately greeted by the silent driver in the lobby. We were ten minutes early and he had been there ten minutes already! Thank goodness for my warm Asian complexion or everyone would witness the reddest blush of all, out of embarrassment for questioning that poor man's punctuality.

On the way back to the airport, we thought we were spared the tight security but apparently the armies were still wide awake in the wee hours. The coach was stopped at a barrier gate and this time the driver was ordered to open the door for them to see inside.

Now imagine this scenario. You're the only woman in a land where you stand out as a sore thumb and there are five armed soldiers opening the vehicle door, removing the only wall protection there is and inspecting you with their wary eyes from top to toe. I could've peed in my pants and I wouldn't have noticed. Horror scenes were playing loudly and vividly in my head. That's it, I'm going to die in Sri Lanka. I will never see the Eiffel Tower.

I never knew what they were thinking as they gave me a sly smile and moved towards our indifferent driver. They exchanged a few words with him and finally let us go. And I still don't know what they were actually doing. They didn't search our bags and they didn't as much as glance at our passports. Perhaps they were bored and just wanted to see us up close like when I visit a zoo (lions really fascinate me).

The next flight felt like the longest in my life – which it probably was, at a distance of 8,500km. Having in-flight movies, music and delightful but extremely fiery Sri Lankan food that I knew I'd have to pay for when we landed made the journey easier to bear but not faster. We finally reached Paris one afternoon (I lost track of the date at the same time as I lost any physical sensation; I had to pinch my legs to be sure they were still working).

Exhausted, like waking up from a dream of running a marathon of 60km, I felt dehydrated and starved just thinking how we still had to wait for half a day before boarding our third plane to Nice. But who cares, I was finally in France! _Bienvenue!_ I was having goosebumps as I emerged shakily into the French–speaking crowds. That was it, my dream was becoming a reality and in no time I would be walking with my nose in the air, forgetting how to speak English and ... hang on ... dang, the Sri Lankan curry karma had finally caught up with me.

Having lived in Malaysia all my life, I was so used to having a water hose in the loo. It's one thing to do number one without water but to do the big number two? Now that's ridiculous. How does anyone else do it? My mom reminded me about this before, but I must have been too engrossed in my French dictionary because under the urgent circumstance, my mind went blank. Dear Lord, I am going to die blasting into a million tiny pieces! Then suddenly, I remembered.

I ran towards the nearest _tabac_ , a small red kiosk selling papers, cigarettes, gums and what I needed most – water bottles. I had no time to practise my French; I never thought I would have to speak English with my first Frenchman in Paris. I grabbed the biggest one there was, handed the money with the fakest smile ever seen and rushed back to the lavatory. All this while Rafiee steered clear of his wifezilla, smart man that he was.

I will spare you the gory details of the rest of the experience but suffice to say that after that I never left home without an extra water bottle. In fact, I would walk all the way back if I'd left my new survival item at home and it wouldn't bother me half as much if I forgot my phone. Isn't it amusing how life shuffles your priorities after just one banal occurrence? I'm sure it happens to everyone at some point in their lives, though not necessarily like in my case.

Back at the airport after I served my karma, when I could finally absorb what was happening I started to giggle. Suddenly it seemed funny that I would Google French articles and radios to keep myself acquainted with the language at work and now everything was in French.

I went back to the _tabac_ , this time to get a prepaid SIM card and that was my first time speaking French with a Frenchman in France. Alright, it was just _"Bonjour"_ and _"Merci beaucoup"_ and I cheated when I asked _"Combien?"_ and looked at the screen of the till (I wasn't good at numbers bigger than 10 in a real Parisian accent), but it was my first big step in assimilating into French society.

The SIM card cost €40. Forty-freaking-Euros! That's RM200; I could get twenty new numbers in Malaysia! I wondered what this €40-worth of SIM card had to offer. Free movies for one whole year? Or a free breakfast in a Michelin restaurant? Never mind, I thought, it's Europe (that became my classic excuse for anything that I failed to grasp).

I called my dad and mom, almost screaming "We're in France! _The_ France!" just seconds before I remembered they had both been to France twenty years before, so it was nothing new for them. Last time I checked, the Eiffel Tower was still standing strong and the Louvre was still the world's biggest museum. I also sent a text message to Mr Walker informing him that we had safely arrived in Paris and would be on our way to Nice later that evening. He replied with minute details of the bus and where we were meeting him. That was so British of him.

Having to wait for five hours at the airport, I decided to fit in better by changing my sneakers to my new pair of dark brown boots, the latest birthday present from the man. He knew how much I wanted to dress like a European and I don't know about you, but wearing knee-high leather boots in Malaysia is not that comfortable. Plus, I have a feeling people will look at you funny.

"Do I look good, sweetie?" I showed off the boots by pacing in the waiting-lounge.

"Uh-uh, but don't you think they look odd with your capri pants?" A frown formed on his forehead.

"What do you mean? Nothing looks odd, IT'S EUROPE!"

He didn't look so sure but then what did he know, he wasn't a European. I'd learned enough French to think of myself as one. I then ignored my non-French-speaking husband and strutted confidently to see the city of love outside, which might have been a little too silly because the airport was miles away from the city centre but I didn't care. I just wanted to literally step on French soil. Against his better judgment, Rafiee joined me and as typical Asian first-time tourists we took lots of photos in front of signboards and posters that had Paris _le mot_ boldly emblazoned. The taxi drivers threw a knowing glance once in a while; they had obviously witnessed even more embarrassing foreigners.

You can do many things in five hours. I spent mine people-watching and not just people, but French people. I lost interest once I heard them speak another language and please note that I'm not discriminatory in any way. I just preferred the French. I was deeply captivated by what they liked to eat, how they dressed and how they talked to each other. It was like being in Area 51, but instead of creepy insect-like creatures I was surrounded by creatures with colourful eyes and hair dressed in impressive couture.

I was, like most visitors, star-struck and experiencing culture shock. I didn't know this back then but I soon found out that there are five stages of culture shock. I was in the initial phase – the honeymoon. Everything was fascinating and perfect. There was no flaw and even if things were different from what I was used to in Malaysia, I thought that it was we who were doing them wrong.

In the third hour, there was a commotion of uniformed officers around us with the word SWAT attached to their backs. It looked like a scene out of the, um, _SWAT_ movie. Except that it was in French with no subtitles. We figured they might have received a bomb threat, but it was more likely to be a labour strike. The French are known for their persistence in having strikes. It's something that they live for, apart from their prolonged summer holiday and two hours' lunch break. Nicolas Sarkozy even promised (though not in these words) to tolerate strikes as long as the workers inform their employers two days in advance that they're going on strike. One of the reasons of course is that the managers need to know who's going to be at work so they can maintain productivity with fewer men. Yes, only in France.

There's always something that they have to protest about, despite having the best salaries and longest holidays, the best public transport and medical facilities. Just as they safeguard their language, they fiercely protect their laws and refuse to allow most things to be changed. _Par exemple_ , they said loudly and clearly (but gracefully nonetheless) that the unemployment rate was rising and they refused to work a day over the age of sixty. More than one million striking people poured onto the streets and even students joined in. Public transport was disrupted and half of flights were cancelled. It's true, the French make protesting their annual activity but only because they are really good at it.

Three hundred minutes have never gone by that fast. Next thing I knew, we were on the plane heading to Nice, our first European home. Nothing worth mentioning happened on the plane and even if it did, I probably missed it. The excitement had finally taken its toll on me. I closed my eyes the moment the plane took off and the only reason I opened them was because the plane was shaking; it was touching down. I had totally blacked out for the whole two hours.

Walking out of the airport – dragging our 20kg of clothes and dry food – and into the number 90 bus (as instructed by our Mr Walker), I had my second French interaction with the bus driver. " _Bonsoir._ Je voudrais aller a Alberti." I spoke with such pride, given that I had rehearsed those lines repeatedly.

Looking indifferent (either my French was impeccable or he was so used to non-native speakers coming out of the airport trying to practise French with him that he didn't really care), he gave the simplest answer in the world for every language: " _Oui_."

" _Pourriez-vous me dire quand nous sommes la?_ " I asked if he could tell us when we reached our destination.

" _Oui_."

Maybe he was simply not a "no" person. But I felt good anyway about my French. I felt like I wasn't one of the ignorant expatriates who migrate to a non-English speaking country but refuse to acknowledge there's another language worth learning (no offence, dear husband).

On the way to the city centre, we passed a long stretch of road beside the Mediterranean Sea called Promenade des Anglais. Before you start to question why it isn't called Promenade des Francaises instead, let me explain. Thanks to the mild Mediterranean climate, it was a popular holiday getaway for English aristocrats in the eighteenth century (it's still a favourite sunny corner for the people from that gloomy land but no longer restricted to the aristocrats, of course). And that's why the city's main seaside walkway is called Promenade des Anglais.

" _Madam, nous sommes_ a Alberti," the bus driver shouted and we instinctively exited the bus. The chilly autumn wind brushed our skin but it wasn't half as freezing as I hoped it would be. I think at that moment Genting Highlands was even colder. It was a busy bus stop with loads of people getting in and out of the bus. We called Mr Walker but nobody picked up. Ten minutes and multiple missed calls later, it crossed our minds that we could've been scammed. The thought stunned me. I had spent RM3,000 on the deposit. My mom wouldn't let me hear the end of it. While debating with Rafiee the possibility that it was a scam, we were approached by an old man with a briefcase. In a tourist spot where briefcases were basically non-existent, it could only be one person.

"Izni and Rafiee?"

He had barely-there grey hair but was dressed to the nines. He wore glasses, which was normal for his age, but he had a rugged leather jacket on and looked ready to jump onto a Harley Davison and ride into the sunset. His eyes were always squinting as though he never stopped thinking and when he spoke, he enunciated. At first I thought he was doing it on purpose because he assumed English was a fairly new language to us. Later we learned that he went to an elite school in Britain throughout his childhood and he was trained to speak the Queen's English. That's why he sounded like the people on the BBC News.

"Mr Walker? Hi! We called you many times but you didn't pick up!" I shouted to beat the noise of the crowd while we shook hands.

He flashed me an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. I left my phone at home and I thought you would take the next bus, considering your flight itinerary. And also ..." he still had the apologetic smile. That couldn't be good. "... I will have to put you and Rafiee in a hotel, just temporarily. Remember I told you there were some renovations going on, and the furniture was not yet ordered?"

Yes, two months ago. But I smiled politely and braced myself for what was about to come.

"Well, the renovations are still going on and the furniture is still not ordered yet."

As he apologised profusely and explained that French contractors work at a snail's pace, I was already panicking. I was about to start my first day of school in a couple of days and I could really use one less thing to worry about. Instead I said, "That's okay. I'm sure you're doing the best you can."

He let out a sigh of relief – but what else could I say? It was Europe.

The walk to the hotel took only about ten minutes but try carrying 20kg of luggage and 10kg on your back – it feels like years. In just a short time since walking away from the bus stop, we gathered that the cobblestone street definitely wasn't good for the luggage. At this rate, we might have to buy a new set before the second semester. None of the books I'd bought had mentioned this.

We were led to a small but really nice hotel called Ajoupa at Place Massena, which is Nice's main square and quite impressive. There were palm trees and stone pines and it was bursting with colourful events and street performances. Even when nothing was happening, people could be seen strolling on the square as shopping malls were just literally around the corner disguised behind the Italian architecture.

The hotel room was big enough; we even had our own kitchen. The toilet, however, was so narrow that it was impossible to shower or even to pee without coming out bruised from bumping our elbows on the wall. It would be fatal for those suffering from claustrophobia. Mr Walker said he would keep us updated and that we would be moving to our home sweet home in no time.

We called it a night. It had been an extremely long journey. That was it; only pleasant things could await us from then on.

As if.

Chapter 5

The day was sunny and beautiful. It was not what I'd expected at all when I bought the white furry cardigan. Oh well, I thought, that will have to wait. Dressed in a summer outfit (read: whatever we would wear in Malaysia), we took our first walk in the city. We walked along the nearest narrow cobblestone street to find a small market. We decided to buy our groceries for the week there and then, just in case there was no bigger supermarket. It was uncanny that we didn't think about Carrefour ...

The price for a packet of biscuits: €1.50. A loaf of bread: €0.80. Wow, I thought, it's cheaper than in Malaysia where a similar type of biscuits typically costs RM3. Forget conversion. If you convert to Malaysian Ringgit every time you're buying something, you will end up buying nothing, as in the case of my frugal husband. After two stores, he finally gave in and purchased his poison: Coke. The truth is, if you earn the same figure in Europe in the local currency, the cost of living is not bad at all.

When I handed the storekeeper a note of €50 for what we owed, which was less than one fifth of that, he lifted the banknote and started to inspect it. I didn't know what to make of this. Was I so underdressed that I looked like I couldn't afford my groceries? I knew I shouldn't have worn the vintage tracksuit. He definitely didn't look like he was kidding. Handing us back the change, he told us in broken French that many tourists got fake money at some point and that money was transferred to the vendors, so they had to make sure.

As someone who even reads product labels (I spend more time reading about the products than doing the actual shopping), I'd inevitably done my research on the city before coming. Everything was as I expected. Nice is pronounced as n–i–s instead of n–a–i–s (that's okay, you're not the only one), and it's the second largest French city on the Mediterranean coast. Interestingly, it wasn't always French. It was initially an Italian dominion before becoming part of France in 1860.

Having heard about the place only when I was applying for the scholarship, I was surprised to learn that it's the second-most-visited city with the second busiest airport in France after (where else?) Paris. The cool part is that you can get a tan by lying half naked on the beach (not an unusual sight, so you can easily blend in) and go skiing in the Alps on the same day. The fact that the bus ride only costs €1 each way makes it even better. I couldn't have chosen a better location for my first stay in Europe.

If you like architecture, you may want to know that the largest Russian orthodox cathedral outside Russia is in fact in Nice. The cathedral itself is called the Russian Orthodox Cathedral and was funded by the last Russian emperor, Tsar Nicholas II, in 1912. Apparently the emperor was enchanted by the nice climate (pun intended) and decided that he should leave his mark. Nice is one of the places that can have that effect on people (though not everyone can afford to pay for a majestic building to show their appreciation).

Those guidebooks, however, left out the homeless-people part. I had always thought that Europe was so rich that nobody would live in a shack, let alone have to beg for money. Turned out there were more of them than in many of the streets of Kuala Lumpur.

You can find abundant street-performers who are probably just doing what they do because if one can earn extra money doing what one loves, then why not? But there are also a lot of Romanians, enough to make President Nicolas Sarkozy risk his reputation among the European top guns in order to send them back to Romania. They are not just Romanians but also Romanian gypsies, a group that has been held in low regard since the start of its existence.

The origin of the Romanians who are scattered mostly around Europe can be traced to the Indian subcontinent. Myths have it that most of them practise really strong witchcraft. I'm not sure if this was before Dracula but the Romanians, with their striking eyes, can have you handing them money, just to get them to stop staring at you.

The thing that I wanted to bring back from France was their manner. They are so polite even during arguments. They use _vous_ to address people that they barely know or those of a higher rank (like their bosses and parents), and _tu_ for others, but even as they're arguing with the person who's just hit their car, they still maintain _vous_. Bus rides and random walks are pleasant, as the driver and strangers exchange _bonjour_ , _merci_ and _au revoir_ accompanied by a friendly smile, as if we're all invited to each other's Thanksgiving. An Indian friend was so amazed that he literally gasped for air, out of bewilderment. People don't even queue in India, he said, I can't imagine them saying hi and thank you on every bus ride; they'll be trampled to death if they just stand still for two seconds!

That weekend, we decided to check the bus schedule, since school would start in a couple of days. We saw an office full of tourists and thought we could ask there. They have to be able to speak English, I thought. So we went in, the lady smiled, we said _bonjour_ , she smiled wider and said a few things in French, and we asked the most frequently used question in France: "Do you speak English?"

I have never seen anyone's facial expression change as fast as that. Suddenly Ms What Can I Do For You? transformed into Ms Don't Talk To Me If You Can't Speak French, as she repeated herself louder and louder every time: "No English! No English! N-o-o-o-o-o Engli-i-i-ish!" The other sympathetic tourists looked at us as if we were the stupidest people on Earth for even daring to ask that. _"Au revoir!"_ Mechanically she bid us farewell with a hint of civility but not enough to save us from embarrassment. We dashed out as quickly as we could, all the while apologising and thanking whoever was listening. I don't know what we were apologising and thanking for but seemingly, we were not supposed to speak a word of English inside the office. How were we supposed to know? Even if they'd had a signboard written in neon red, warning the travellers from all corners of the globe, it would still be in French.

Thankfully we got to know a couple of Malaysian students a couple of weeks before we left. One of them went to the same university and offered to go with me on the first day. One problem down, dozens to go, as I soon realised.

It was the induction day, the first day of the spring session. I followed Joe, one of the Malaysian lads, to the lecture hall with another Malaysian girl and for the next hour or so, I listened to people speaking French and nobody looked confused. When everyone started laughing at the jokes every single time and I was left smiling awkwardly, it started to hit me that I might be in the wrong place.

"Joe, are you sure we should be here?" I asked my new friend.

He laughed; the elderly man I suspected of being one of the professors must have made a really funny joke. I faked a laugh; boy it was really getting tiring. How do politicians do it? "What? Ha, yes, all new students are supposed to be here. It's the induction."

Something wasn't quite right but I stayed anyway. I didn't know where else to go. Eventually I concluded that I was the only nerd from the programme who'd come to the induction day, while the rest of them had decided to skip the boring stuff and hit the beach. I was excited just being with the local students who were so foreign to me. I was living my dream.

After what seemed like a day with Martians, all of us got a free T-shirt and diary. Now who cares if you have to sit for an hour listening to a foreign language while everyone laughs appreciatively, if at the end you get a free T-shirt and diary? Freebies never hurt anyone.

As we walked towards another building where the new students were given free sandwiches and coffee, I overcame my excitement and decided to look at my schedule that I'd printed earlier. I was supposed to have been in room 346 in the same building fifteen minutes ago so off I went after finishing my second cup of coffee, with my free egg sandwich tucked safely in my bag. Opening the door, I almost didn't go in as I realised the room was almost full of more foreigners who didn't look French. They were all so quiet, listening to some guy who looked like Santa Claus. I could tell they had been there for quite some time. I walked in as quietly as I could, but suddenly all eyes were on me.

"Sorry," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else, "please continue."

On the whiteboard, it said "Water Resources Management Induction". What the ...? How could this be? There were two different inductions and all morning I'd been in the wrong one? The thought of getting another free T-shirt and diary immediately dispelled my anxiety.

Perhaps the French do love their language of _l'amour_ so much that they're generally loquacious. All my French professors made a lengthy speech, so I was in time for the introduction. The French (and most Europeans) usually go by their first name, so forgive me for leaving their title out when I write about them. It's not the same in Malaysia where you can't get away with disregarding the title even if it's triple the length of the name.

My programme co-ordinator was called Reynold, a confident middle-aged man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. He wasn't someone that you'd want to mess with. You will agree with me by the time you finish reading this book.

The programme secretary was of course Jean Pierre, an older man but that doesn't mean he was any less sturdy. He was in charge of the administration part of the programme, which meant he was the one we went to when the scholarship money was late or someone got pregnant (spoiler: not me!). The other professors were in the same age range with white hair, cute French accents and lots of charm. Reynold and Jean Pierre were to remain prominent characters in the two years to come. When I was taking the French language course, I thought my French teacher sounded so endearing, speaking English. She would say "the" as "dze" and "where" as "wergh" to name a few, and I would feel star-struck. Now that I was surrounded by lots of them, the appeal was magnified. I never knew English could sound so different yet still be understandable. This was before I heard Irish and African.

That very same day, I got to know my fellow classmates who'd had the same dream as I did, to study in Europe, but for many different reasons. For the next six months, I would be sharing the classroom with Hasan and Laila from Pakistan, Kyla who's half Canadian and half Trinidadian, Mika who's half Slovenian and half American, Rashed from Bangladesh and Kent from China.

Kent was the baby, being the youngest of the lot. A Beijinger, he was also the only child. People had no reason not to like him. Hasan and Laila, like oranges and apples, couldn't have been more different even though they came from the same country. Hasan was an old soul who found using the laptop tricky and suddenly found himself in a compulsory programming class; you can only imagine his horror and all the little questions he fired off in class. And he read hydrology and hydraulic textbooks for fun. Laila, on the other hand, was an unassuming, career-oriented woman. All of us thought she was a genius, because she'd missed some classes after confusing the dates, but still got her work done when the rest of us were still struggling both in and out of class.

You know the over-used phrase, "don't judge a book by its cover"? Well. I've tried not to use it but I just have to for Rashed, who didn't utter as much as a single hi to me for a week. Granted he did smile a lot but at some point, I realised that he was even smiling when he was using the French computer keyboard. I'm telling you, nobody non-French can operate those keyboards without swearing (and in so many languages I've heard it all) so that was when I knew I had to get him to communicate verbally. But boy oh boy, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Once the guy started talking, he wouldn't stop. It was effortless with him; I didn't have to think of interesting topics to get the conversation going.

Mika was a striking figure even though she was smaller than what I thought Americans ought to be, but she was only half American so that might explain it. She had cowboy boots that screamed "I'm American!" and she seemed unsure about me. My guess was that most adore white people and maybe she thought I had the same obsession. Ah well – insulted, but I did admire the boots. In no time, however, we bonded over the matter of spectacles. I know: some people warm up because of the strangest things.

Kyla's first word was an inexplicable gasp when one of the professors announced that he was a geologist. I knew right then that either she had a history with the old professor or she was a geologist herself. The latter proved to be correct, as she told me herself on seeing at my confused look. As she was from the smallest nation ever to qualify for the World Cup Finals – in 2006 – we started talking about the beautiful game and how Trinidad and Tobago had come a long way. Football does bring people together.

Disclosing to Jean Pierre that I was married and my husband was with me was a delicate issue. On my application form, I'd said I was unmarried, which was true. I married Rafiee three months after sending in my application form. I would've kept it to myself if I could have done, but all of us had to register together for the residence permit, or _carte de s_ e _jour_ in the local _pr_ efecture. It's compulsory for non-EU nationals who wish to stay in France for more than three months without facing certain deportation.

After the briefing about how everyone must meet in the city hall next morning, I strategically cornered Jean Pierre somewhere I could speak to him in private, but where the nearby French crowd would mean he'd have to suppress his angry outburst.

" _Bonjour,_ Jean Pierre." I started with the most common greeting and got straight to the point. "I got married."

He looked surprised, but pleasantly so. "That's great. Congratulations!"

Oh no, he thought I'd left my newlywed husband in Malaysia! "He's here with me in Nice ..." I tried to say, as gently and casually as I could.

His facial expression changed. Not good. Not good at all. "Wait, did you put your married status on the application form?"

"Not really, because I wasn't married at the time. But it's no big deal, right?"

"No, not at all. I just have to inform all parties that your status has changed and hmm, let's see ... that means the UK, Hungary, Germany and Spain." I couldn't tell if this was sarcasm but I was hoping it was some kind of French humour. "Well, you can take him to the beach, or Cannes."

" _Merci beaucoup."_ The beach and Cannes were not a priority. "What about the residence permit registration tomorrow? Should I bring him too?"

"You mean he's staying for the whole semester?" His voice was a little too raised for my liking.

"Er, yes. And also the rest of the year. We'll have to see if that's possible." I was telling the truth. Even though we, like any other couple in love, obviously wanted to stay together for the whole two years, we would have to change our plan if the scholarship money turned out to be insufficient for two.

"Oh my God," – which I later learned was his favourite introductory phrase before setting off on a long, repetitive lecture – "this is not good. He should go back to Malaysia and work. What is he going to do here? He can't work. _Mon dieu!_ "

"I know, I know. We'll see. But first the residence permit." I didn't want to prolong this uncomfortable conversation.

"Okay, just bring him to the _pr_ efecture tomorrow. So he also has the same visa period as you?" He started to calm down.

"Yes, six months," I said confidently, thinking that it would make him feel better.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

"What? Only six months? Didn't you read the offer letter? You were supposed to apply for a one-year visa. How are you going to apply for the UK visa when your residence permit is only valid until February?"

I was as clueless as you are right now. It took some time before I realised that I had made a truly stupid mistake that would cost us money, time and definitely trouble. I needed to be a valid French resident for the whole year so that I could apply for the UK visa from January to June. Neither Rafiee nor I would fulfil the requirements if our French residence permits were valid only up to March: half the period.

Jean Pierre and I agreed to cross that bridge when we got to the river because there was nothing we could do at that time. We could only renew our residence permits two months prior to the expiry date, which wasn't until December.

In the meantime, Rafiee was walking about in the city centre looking for things he could do for the next five months. He even posted an advertisement on an expat forum and one kind Irish man responded. He was about to open a bookstore and he could use some help. In exchange, he would teach Rafiee French. Not a bad deal at all for someone who had absolutely nothing to do. What he didn't expect was that not only would he be learning French and the art of opening an English bookstore in a French city, he would also start to learn about the Irish too. They are known for their jolly drinking (Guinness was invented in Ireland, after all), and Vincent was not an exception. He was always drunk but not too drunk; some memory lapses now and then but he always got through the day.

For the first few days we would eat panini, originated in Italy but available everywhere in the world. It was the cheapest and easiest option, but even with the varieties invented by the Algerians, we soon got tired of eating toasted sandwiches. Well we could've bought something else, say pizza, something that you could find on almost every block, but that would have set us back €5 every single time. That was a lot for us at that time.

"Honey, we should start cooking our own meals. We have limited cash and we're not sure when the scholarship money will go into the bank," I suggested to the husband after one panini too many.

He was all for it. He loved cooking and he loved saving money; not particularly in that order.

The hotel owner came later that evening to throw us out, and into another room because the first room was booked from the next day onwards. We moved to another smaller room but at least it still had a double bed. Little did we know that we would have to move to a single bedroom in a couple of days, so small that only one person could walk round it at any one time. Needless to say we spent most of our time lying on our backs watching French television.

We had been homeless for two weeks now. We were getting fed-up with Mr Walker's everything-is-on-the-way text messages and calls so we insisted on moving to the apartment. Anywhere would be better than this store-room. He gave up arguing and told us to take a look at the apartment before packing.

We walked along another very narrow, cobblestone street which was sandwiched between colourful old buildings, with the smell of coffee and fresh bakeries lingering in the air. I felt full just by getting a whiff of them. We had to watch our every step because people walk their dogs all year round – if it gets too cold, the dogs wear mini-sweaters (sometimes they look even nicer than their owners) – but some find it degrading to pick up poo after their dog. Never mind if it's very close to the edge but when it's right smack in the middle of a street, one can't help but utter _merde_ in one's own language.

We eventually reached a rusty building next to a cathedral and after much effort to turn the key in the highly corroded keyhole, we stepped into what felt like a haunted Frankenstein building. It was a seventeenth-century structure with a suspicious-looking basement that I have no regrets about not exploring.

Our studio apartment – a popular form of holiday accommodation in Nice – was situated on the third floor. We didn't bump into anyone when we took the stairs up, and I started to worry that the studio was a deserted old thing. If what I had seen so far was any indication of the room, we were doomed.

I was totally taken aback as Mr Walker ushered us around. The whole apartment had been renovated and looked like a modern American place. Well, I had never seen American decor before but that was how Mr Walker described it in his advertisement so I took his word for it. Even with the promising progress that had been made, it wasn't ready for habitation unless you were a rat. On that note, we unanimously decided that we would leave it to Mr Walker to judge the right time for us to move in.

We led a routine life until the apartment was ready a week later, but we had to sleep on a mattress on the floor. Apparently Monsieur Furniture was running a little bit late, by two months, as summer had started a month ago. "That's normal in France. They take their own sweet time," Mr Walker explained. He was obviously not amused by the French pace of working.

I started taking the bus to the university on my own after the first day and was running on autopilot in no time. Normally the class started at 9am so I left the haunted mansion at 7.45, when it was sometimes still dark, and walked down the cobblestone maze towards the bus station, which usually took ten minutes if I didn't stop occasionally to see if anyone was walking behind me. Upon exiting the little old town, I would be greeted by free newspaper distributors so I took one every time, then I'd be one of the first to board the bus and would spend the next forty-five minutes decoding one French article or a Sudoku game. On the way was a huge, fancy building facing the Mediterranean. It looked like a carnival and turned out to be Le Negresco, possibly the most popular hotel in Nice; and rightly so, after a century displaying its bright lights after sunset.

I had my first French lunch at the university cafe. For €3 you got an appetiser, a baguette, one main dish and one dessert. It would take a whole book to talk about the food but if there were two things Nice could claim are solely theirs, they would be socca and salad Nicoise. At one glance, socca looks like a coarse, failed crêpe. It is actually a chickpea pancake and one of the easiest things to make by using chickpea flour, water and olive oil. Season it generously with salt and pepper and _voila_ , dig in with your fingers! Salad Nicoise is equally easy to make. Just mix various fresh salad ingredients like you normally do with an ordinary salad but throw in some tuna, hard-boiled eggs and anchovies, and drizzle with vinaigrette. Now who says salad sucks? Definitely not the Nicoise.

Being the only married couple in the class was a little daunting because we didn't know what to expect and who to refer to. One day at school in the French language class, I got to know a young Columbian couple. They were in the same situation – only one of them got the scholarship – except that the wife also joined the programme, but self-sponsored. They smiled meaningfully to each other when I asked if they had had any major problems, and told me to be really careful. They'd had to rely on their parents the year before as they had exhausted their source of income by summer.

Well, imagine my paranoia. Rafiee and I quickly revised our finances and I started taking my own lunch to school. Most of the time Rafiee packed me sandwiches and oranges and he made spaghetti in many variations for dinner. We had chicken only on Saturdays and survived on salami for the rest of the week. Basically, from being young engineers with our own cars, eating out every weekend and living in a sizeable, serviced apartment, we became poor immigrants carrying an old shopping trolley given to us by Vincent, walking everywhere that was less than five kilometres away and living in a small studio where the bedroom, study area, living room and kitchen were essentially all one. When an old Romanian lady asked me for money, I had to tell her that I could use the help myself.

Our cost of living didn't exceed €50 a week so even though we could've saved a lot, the studio apartment accounted for almost half of our expenditure. There were so many others who lived in direr straits than us, but coming from how we used to live, it was a deprivation. The beautiful thing was we never fought about money or stressed about it. Somehow with a life so simple, we found no reason to argue.

Trying to save as much money as we could, we didn't even top up our phone credits. So one evening when I was stuck in a horrible traffic jam on my way home due to a downpour and Rafiee started to worry, he scoured for coins and searched for a public telephone in the rain to call me. That would never happen back home.

One great thing about renting a place in Nice (and there isn't much that's suitable, being either too small or too expensive or both) is that almost half of the rent is subsidised by the _Allocations Familiales_ organisation, better known as the CAF. By end of the semester, we'd saved as much as we would have done if we were both working in Malaysia. We were not expecting this. The exchange rate had finally worked in our favour.

Apart from our closest neighbours (so close that we got to listen to every movement they made, including on those drunken nights ...), we didn't know anyone else in the building and at one point we seriously decided that we were the only tenants in the old four-storey building. That was until we got to know the old lady staying below us. It wasn't the perfect introduction, I'll give you that.

She came knocking on our door furiously one day and we opened the door to an angry old lady who was yelling all sorts of things in French. In addition to the rocket speed she was going at, I don't believe I'd ever learned those words in my French language course – but we knew it was nothing pleasant. She continued making weird gestures like a chicken on fire, until they eventually made sense to us. Turned out whenever we showered, the water somehow leaked into her ceiling and flooded her home.

We instantly called the only person who could help but even though Mr Walker assured her he would send someone to put everything back into working order, she refused to leave us alone. She insisted we went with her to see the extent of the damage. Saying no was not an option as she pulled us downstairs by our hands. Rafiee only had a split second to lock our studio as she carried on her prattle. It didn't matter that we couldn't understand _un mot_ , but we soon found out why.

Firstly, we must have been the only human being she'd talked to that day or perhaps that month. As soon as her door was opened, we saw three cats and then five, and I lost count after ten. I think I saw a dog too, and there might have been more but the apartment was so crowded with cats that everything else was just a blur. She stopped now and then to converse with her feline friends, who looked unperturbed by it all. Secondly, the flooding was as bad as she'd tried to tell us. The water level was almost up to our ankles in her bedroom and two rooms had been wrecked by the water. I just hoped she wouldn't ask for some kind of compensation because some of the weird-looking antiques did look pretty expensive and rare.

Mr Walker's contractor came less than an hour later, which saved our ears from bleeding. Boy that woman could really talk. As she switched her attention to the contractor, we silently went back to our studio and tried not to use the bathroom for as long as we could. He must have fixed the problem for good because we never heard from her any more. Unless, of course, the contractor lost his temper and conveniently drowned her in the indoor flood. We would never know.

Shortly after we settled down, it was Eid al-Fitr and we would be celebrating the Muslim holiday for the first time as a married couple. The fasting itself was tougher, that part of the planet being longer and drier, but still do-able. Joe called us before we got the chance to feel depressed about spending the day alone, and invited us to their annual Eid celebration with the rest of the Malaysian students and their French teachers.

Not expecting anything big, I was blown away by the jolly faces in the student accommodation. Part of me was expecting the younger students to be crying and the older ones to be trying their best to keep their cool. The truth is it was even more festive than what we have in Malaysia. They'd cooked together the night before and they had put up some decorations on the wall and ceiling. All of them were wearing colourful traditional outfits and even the French teachers looked as excited as they were. I suppose when you only have each other and the thought of celebrating one of the biggest festivals without your family brings you to endless tears and misery, you have to get together and make it a celebration you'll never forget.

And that's exactly what we had. No staple food was spared. They had chicken _rendang_ , beef _rendang_ , _nasi himpit_ , chicken _satay_ , beef _satay_ and well, I meant what I said – no staple food was spared. I was unashamedly one of the first in the queue but that boldness was well worth it. My tummy was filled, with no void at all, and I came home happier than I'd ever been since I got to Nice.

At school, the classes went pretty quick. The schedule wasn't fixed so we had to be on our toes all the time. They could give you only a couple of days' notice to come to school and nobody would care that you had to take a 45-minute bus ride.

On rare occasions when the schedule was determined way ahead and we could plan a getaway to keep our sanity intact, Rafiee and I decided to go to Paris – dubbed the City of Love – for one week. By a financially advantageous coincidence, Rafiee's brother had a friend in Paris who happened to be going away for that week, so we were able to borrow his apartment. No stay in France would be complete until you've seen Paris with your own eyes so naturally it was our first choice and apparently the rest of the class's too, as we kept bumping into each other in France's biggest city.

What we saved on accommodation was even less than what we saved on transport. Having one whole week just for Paris, we were going to make the best of it. So what we did every day was to walk in just one direction, so basically we went to all four quarters of Paris on foot. We covered the whole city in four days. Provided you wear comfortable running shoes and you don't go into every single museum, anyone can do it. The city itself is like a giant museum so if you're an amateur art lover like yours truly, I doubt you will miss much.

To describe everything there is in Paris would take the whole book (and you can easily find such books in your local bookstores, since Paris is in the top four European destinations, as declared by _Lonely Planet_ ) so in no particular order, our favourites were the world's biggest museum – the Louvre –, the gothic cathedral of Notre Dame, the popular Eiffel Tower and the artist village of Montmartre.

We were in the Louvre for only a few hours and to see everything she has to offer, you'd need a lifetime. I know a lot of people who keep going back every year to continue where they've left off, and they still haven't finished the tour. Nonetheless, art lover or not, you have to go in, or at least see the massive palace. I can die happy now that I've seen Da Vinci's Mona Lisa right in front of me. Granted there was a barricade that separated the priceless painting from the visitors by a good few metres and rumour has it that the one in the museum is not real, but honestly I wouldn't know any better.

I wasn't keen on visiting the Notre Dame Cathedral after the hundred-or-so other cathedrals we had seen around Paris (okay, I exaggerate but they do have plenty!) but the view from afar was enough to pull me in. Its theatrical spire and towers were breathtaking. It's not surprising why Victor Hugo chose the location for the setting of his tale _The Hunchback of_ _Notre Dame_. The inside was dark, mysterious but regal. It was almost like a castle made for the Queen of the Damned.

The Eiffel Tower was the first tourist attraction we visited, being only five minutes away from the place we were staying. You can understand why we have photos of the tower during sunrise, sunset and in between. Gustave Eiffel would be beyond flattered. It's hard to believe that the Parisians hated the iron tower when it was first unveiled in 1889. The tall tower sparkles every hour of the night with its festive lights. You could easily mistake them for the flashes of the many cameras aimed at it.

Montmartre is a place no amount of tourists can spoil. True, it's a long climb to the highest point in Paris where the painfully white cathedral of Sacre Coeur stands, but it's worth every bead of sweat and every grumble. The village has an artistic air to it, or maybe it's because dozens of artists can be found painting beautiful landscapes or dreamy tourists who don't mind parting with some Euros to have their faces sketched (it can be really expensive; or not, depending on your bargaining skills, but be sure they are genuine artists!). I could almost imagine Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh doing what they did best in a small cafe while enjoying their black coffee and croissants. Those were the good old days, when van Gogh was still mentally sound.

You can't trust everything you read (except this book for sure, ahem). First day in Paris and we were inevitably lost in the exquisite maze. We were rather hesitant to ask the Parisians for directions after what we had been told throughout the years – that basically they were an arrogant bunch. So we were pleasantly surprised when an old, posh couple approached us to ask if we needed help. While we were struggling with our juvenile French, they asked if we were more comfortable with English. To have a French person ask you if you can speak English is like having a cat that can play catch.

It wasn't an isolated episode. We were approached at least a couple more times later in the week when we were looking like a lost Christopher Columbus with our huge maps upside down. Even when they couldn't speak English, people tried their best to communicate using body language and hand gestures.

On the way home late one night, we realised we had no coins, only notes, but figured it would be alright. However, when we boarded the night bus, the driver didn't have any change. The young driver just smiled and let us board without paying the fare. I had to ask him twice to make sure I'd understood him correctly. You would think that having millions of tourists annually, the locals wouldn't really care about you. Whoever said the Parisians were condescending had probably criticised their language or their cheese.

Back in Nice, everyone should visit the closest neighbouring country – Monaco, only 20km away. You can be forgiven for thinking that the only thing associated with Monaco is the Formula One. When the trip only costs €1 each way, you have to go and do on-site research about the second smallest country in the world. Truth be known, it might as well be the smallest one, unless your preference is for gambling (in which case just Monte Carlo takes one whole day) or lounging (in which case having a villa in the many hills, or a yacht, can really help enhance the experience). Otherwise, you can tour the whole place – on foot – in a few hours. There are a lot of parks but after the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris, seeing another park wasn't really a highlight. Even then, Monaco never runs out of bright-eyed foreigners looking to see the country in all its glory from all angles possible. That's why the helicopter tours there are still going strong.

Walking down the few streets there, I could imagine why it's a top favourite among the Formula One drivers. The elevations vary and there's a tunnel, giving it that video-game feeling, and the corners are simply unforgiving. A Google search revealed that only two drivers had ever crashed. Still, I'd just stick to walking, thank you.

On the 141-metre-high Rocher de Monaco, or Rock of Monaco, a charming old city awaits with its quaint streets and shops. It's so appealing that the hike is worth it. It's also where you find the Prince's Palace where America's sweetheart, Grace Kelly, resided in 1956. The nearby Oceanographic Museum and Aquarium is equally impressive, judging by the facade that took eleven years to construct. The day trip to Monaco was indeed short but it was far from dull. Being the most densely populated country in the world, it offers you an outburst of astonishing attractions without your having to look far. In fact, you don't need a map. Just follow the crowds (or the big, flashy cars) and they will lead you to where the treasures are.

As an adult in Malaysia I wasn't a fan of hiking, mainly because I would rather sleep in on weekends when I didn't have to work. But I've always been interested in mountains even as a kid, because I thought it was so peaceful being on top of a remote mountain with everything looking miniature from above. And now, I had a burning desire (read: a brochure shoved in my face by an enthusiastic lady at the tourist office) to go and see the mountains in France, so we planned to go hiking one day in Villars sur Var.

Fifty kilometres out of Nice, Villars sur Var is a charming, small, medieval village overlooking the River Var (hence the name), which is as blue as the Mediterranean. It was the most stunning river I had ever seen and to think that I found it so very deep into the mountains is amazing. They should've put up a huge billboard advertising the River Var but it's probably best the way it is now – unspoilt.

The bus trip to the village was a little crazy even for someone who's used to the narrow roads running along Eastern Malaysia. The road was so small that it could barely accommodate the bus when it was making a sharp turn (and there were plenty of those heart-stopping turns) and a long stretch of rock wall flanked the road that looked like it was ready to come crumbling down and bury everyone in its path (honestly it's safe ... I think). The suspense factor aside, the rock formations took my breath away. They were exquisite and I didn't have to be a geologist to appreciate their aged beauty.

Reaching the stop, we couldn't see any sign of civilisation. There was what seemed like a functional train station across the road where we thought of asking for directions, but on Sunday it was as deserted as a ghost town after a zombie outbreak. It was only later that we found out it's no longer a train station and even though the train still runs on the track, it only stops when someone waves the flag. I wouldn't take the risk after dark; it's safer to take the bus and the sharp corners. The station building is now a cafe that is obviously not open on Sundays, but it's known for its pasta, ravioli and tea-flavoured chocolate.

On closer scrutiny, we saw a paved road leading uphill which was the only way to go. It was where we saw our first vineyard and did something we are not proud of. We stole the grapes. Well, I like to think we had a pre-wine tasting and the owner would probably have let us have some because the vineyard wasn't fenced. It was also as big as a football field so nobody was going to miss a few grapes here and there, right? We took a muddy path somewhere and walked for about twenty minutes before a village started to materialise with a number of pretty, stone-built houses that made me feel like we'd gone back in time. It was a centralised settlement with a population of approximately 650, adorned by narrow, stone-paved streets, ancient doorways and medieval passageways like a scene from the Robin Hood tales. The tourist office maintained the traditional houses where people can still see the open attics used to dry figs in the good old days.

We were first greeted by a square surrounded by the Mairie (town hall), a church, a post office, a public library and a little terrace cafe. A number of fruit trees were blooming with peaches, apples and figs. Some old couples were sitting and chatting on the stone benches on the square, a lovely view to behold, with a fountain nearby. It was like being frozen in time, no rush, and life was only to be enjoyed. It was a feeling I still get whenever I think about that place on that day.

It must have taken us another twenty minutes to find the right hiking trail because there were a few of them, or at least a few that looked like one. Some even led to people's open gardens which I didn't mind at all. If I'd had a princess gown on and Rafiee had the bow and arrow, we would probably have fitted in better. The Grande Randonnee (literally means great hiking) trail passed through the township, going up the narrow cobblestone-stepped streets between the ancient structures before reaching the foothill. The hiking trail was as quiet as the grave but the view was incredible, with mountains of green and yellow against a clear, blue-sky backdrop. The path was alternately rocky and muddy, which didn't make things simple.

It was easy to forget what the time was but we couldn't afford to. The only bus coming in and out of the valley was one in the morning and one in the evening at 5.30. It was almost noon when we finally found the hiking trail. We had no idea how far away the peak was but we agreed to start going downhill when the clock turned 2pm, peak or no peak. There was no way we were spending the night at the deserted train station.

We eventually reached the peak but not without discovering a wooden signboard saying that we were heading to Spain if we continued walking in that direction. To this day, we still wonder how long it would have taken to get to Spain through the mountains.

The feeling I had on top of the mountain was exactly what I had imagined. It was so serene and it felt like we owned the mountain. There was nobody else and from the peak, we could see cottages, the flowing River Var and more mountains as far as the eye could see. We sat down at the edge and unpacked our sandwiches. Just when we were feeling rather proud of ourselves, a group of old people hiked towards us with backpacks and hiking poles and started taking photos. It did ruin the moment a little but as soon as they left, we were back to our own conquered-mountain-peak fantasy.

Going down was quicker than we'd thought. By the time we got to the bus stop, it was only 4pm. One and a half hours of waiting at an isolated bus stop is daunting enough on its own, but when the temperature is 3 Celsius, it becomes unbearable. So we walked up to the village again and had coffee in the only eatery that was open. It was shockingly packed with hikers of all ages. Where had they come from? We hadn't encountered any of them the whole day and we were pretty sure we'd taken the right hiking trail. One of the many wonders of Villars sur Var.

The family next to us was having something that looked like white, fluffy clouds. We didn't know what it was but we kept looking discreetly at it whenever we thought they weren't looking. Obviously spying wasn't one of our greatest strengths. As they got up to leave, the father smiled at us and handed us a plate of what we found out later was called meringue. It's a light and sweet dessert made of egg whites and sugar invented in Switzerland by an Italian chef but made popular by a French chef named Francois Massialot, who served a number of royal families.

We came down to the only main road at 5.15pm and slept throughout the journey. We should've packed more grapes for our trip home but alas, no amount of sugar could have kept us awake after that speedy hike.

We were so hyped up from the hiking trip that we planned another one soon afterwards, this time to St. Martin Vesubie, a bigger and more popular commune. A tributary of the River Var flows through the town of over 1,300 people and the well-known hiking area. We purposely went in December when it was snowing cats and dogs. It would be our first time touching snow as it never snowed in Nice, which was close to the beach and blessed with the Mediterranean climate.

We had big plans. The medieval mountain village was home to the National Park of Mercantour, famous among hikers and mountaineers. After Villars sur Var, I liked to think I belonged to that circle. We were going to conquer one of the snow-white mountains today!

The bus ride to St Martin Vesubie was equally winding but it only took a day trip to Villars sur Var to get used to it. The weather was what concerned us. We wore three layers of clothing on top of our long johns, wrapped from head to toe in wool, but it was still freezing. The bus stopped opposite a pizzeria which comforted us immediately. The public transport was as infrequent as at Villars sur Var but at least this time we had a shelter.

As soon as the bus left, we realised that we were lost. Yes, there were snowy mountains but we had no idea how to get up there and honestly, with what we were wearing, we might as well have been contemplating Everest. We could literally die.

We entered the pizzeria, manned by a Frenchman who lived in Malaysia for a couple of years when he was younger. It was a pleasant moment when he said _"Terima kasih"_ instead of asking us if we were from China or Vietnam. He might have been to the street markets in Kuala Lumpur but unfortunately he didn't seem to like mountains as much, because he had no idea where to go hiking in that area. So we got out of the eatery and looked around us for people who looked like they could be on their way to do some serious hiking.

Great: nobody.

We asked the first people we saw: two elderly men.

"Is this what you're wearing to hike up the mountain?" Monsieur A asked while Monsieur B shook his head. "It's not possible. You need proper equipment to ascend even a small hill in this weather."

Alright, I wasn't totally ignorant. The weather was far from ideal. Flurries were already in top gear and my Adidas trainers wouldn't stand a chance on the icy surface. "Well, okay then, what about Lake Boreon?" I tried my luck. "Surely we can go and take a look?"

The alpine lake is one of the reasons people come to the village. Surrounded by a number of mountain peaks of between 2,500 and 3,000m high, it's a view to behold.

Monsieur A and B looked at each other and said something I didn't catch. The wind was really strong. Monsieur B walked past us and Monsieur A told us that he would drive us to the lake because it was a long way up and he wasn't sure if we would survive the weather. I didn't get why he'd automatically underestimated us; perhaps I should've told him about my adventure in Villars sur Var. "But you have to wait for a few minutes, I have to run some errands." His eyes glistened. I wondered if he was a serial killer.

We decided to trust this gentleman. He looked genuine but we all know it's usually the unassuming ones who turn out to be total psychopaths. He led us to a blue sedan that looked like he had been driving for a long, long time. Rafiee and I squeezed in at the back since there was no way he could clear the front seat, even if he took a whole day to do it.

"Oh, anyway, my name is Maurice."

"I'm Izni and this is Rafiee, my husband."

"Pleased to meet you." He turned to look at us, uncomfortably pressed together like a packet of dried figs.

"Same here." The husband played it cool. I still wasn't sure about this Monsieur.

He drove uphill for about three minutes before we got to the village centre. It wasn't big but that made it even more appealing. They probably only had specialty stores, like one for fresh fruits, one for locally-baked bread and one for hiking and climbing gear that we should've stopped at. Maybe it was the time of year but there was no sign of people our age. That could be due to the fact that you need a life's savings to get a house up there. It's like a ski resort, albeit not as refined as the Alps. Still, I could stay there forever, a path less travelled.

"Alright, we're there." Monsieur Maurice snapped me back to reality.

If he was a serial killer, he could've stopped sooner and hacked us to death. It was quite a long way up to the lake and not only was there no other living being on the road (let alone other vehicles), there was no sign of human habitation either. Only alpine trees and mountains adorned the vicinity. We reached Lake Boreon what seemed like an hour later (rest assured it doesn't take an hour to get there but with that kind of weather and the zigzag road, it sure can feel like it).

"I'm going to my friend's house but I'll come down as soon as possible to pick you up. It's dangerous to stay outside in this weather for long," Monsieur Maurice yelled, trying to beat the flurries.

We nodded vigorously from outside the car; it was bloody sub-zero. The three layers of clothing and gloves didn't seem to be doing their job. When he drove off, I started to see the beauty of the Boreon area. It might not be as picture-perfect a view as one can see in the summer, but it was an extraordinary vision nevertheless. The colour of the water was emerald, the only colour we could see and a beautiful one at that. Everything else was either white or dark brown. As I sat on the snow-covered jetty with my frozen face being slapped repeatedly by snowflakes, I tried my best to capture and hold the feeling. The only things around us were white forests and snowy mountains. It was better than a picture postcard: it was real.

Within minutes, Monsieur Maurice came back as promised. I dared not think what would happen if he didn't. Lake Boreon could've been the last thing I laid my eyes on. Looking at Rafiee and me, he beamed like a father watching his two small children playing in the snow.

"This is our first time touching snow," I explained, lest he would think I was going potty.

He offered to take a photo of us and I also took one of him with Rafiee. Looking at it now, he does look like the KFC Colonel Sanders. Not that it's relevant to this story, but Colonel Sanders is never mean and neither was Monsieur Maurice, as it turned out. He invited us back to his cottage to have some coffee and we couldn't say no. I'm glad we didn't because his place was amazing. It was quaint, with a basement and an attic. The living room overlooked the mountains and valley. Standing on the veranda, it felt like a calling. I wanted to have that kind of house in that kind of place and I still do. It will take years, probably two thirds of my life, but it's worth it. As we were enjoying our steaming hot, brewed coffee, he launched into his life story.

He used to work as an IBM engineer and he travelled a lot, which explained his fluent English. In fact, I tried to practise my French with him but in vain – he refused to budge and instead kept talking in English. He built the lodge himself years ago and now that the kids were all grown up and moved to the city, he happily continued living there as a pensioner and surprise, surprise, a mountaineer. I was relieved that I hadn't bragged about my little Villars sur Var trip. A piano in a corner and a collection of music records on the bookshelf revealed his artistic side.

He talked about the pilgrim walk of Camino de Santiago de Compostela that he had recently completed: the Way of St James, in English. Christian pilgrims have been walking along the 800km route for over a thousand years since the medieval era, following the footsteps of the apostle St James who trekked the trail with only a bag of clothes on his back. Legend has it that St James was buried in the city now known as Santiago de Compostela. People of all faiths from all corners of the world followed suit, although for many different reasons.

It was almost noon and we had not done what we came for – hiking. So after about an hour being mesmerised by the veteran mountaineer's non-fiction, we decided it was time to leave. As we said goodbye, he suddenly thought "To hell with formality!" or seemed to as he pulled me towards him and gave me a bear-hug plus kisses on both cheeks. I almost cried. He reminded me so much of my late grandfather. The world is a better place with loving people like them.

The weather was better but the depth of snow didn't permit us to climb to a great level so the only way was to descend. On the way down to the city centre, we stumbled into a little path that looked like it was going uphill. Since we had a few hours to kill, we decided to go for our own little hiking trip. I wondered why Monsieur Maurice hadn't told us about this hiking trail because it had beautiful scenery and we didn't need any special hiking boots to walk on the ice, though it was very slippery. But then, it was probably a walk in the park for the likes of him.

Countless near-fall experiences later, we reached the top and the view was absolutely magnificent. We were surrounded by snowy mountains, bigger and taller. It was perfect for me. It was the Alps minus the tourists and it was freezing cold. Everything was already frozen and I couldn't feel my toes. As usual (or rather, as the first time), we unwrapped our lunch but my tongue must have been frostbitten because I definitely couldn't taste that chilli!

Realising that it was only a couple of hours before our last and only ride home would abandon us, we made a move downhill and I was in for one of my terrifying moments. As we got to the flat terrain close to civilisation, a man and his enormous furry friend were walking towards us. The furball (the dog, not the man) was apparently not on a leash! So that was why he was hopping in glee and he was unmistakably running to my direction. Not a centimetre away. And BOOM! He was all over me in a split second and standing as tall as me. Covering my head, I screamed at the top of my lungs and the owner half-heartedly ordered his spoilt brat to leave me alone while my reliable husband laughed his head off, though I failed to see the funny side.

A little mountain stream encountered in the village centre later calmed my nerves down. The French call it a _gargouille_ ; it's the inspiration behind the modern, carved stone, grotesque gargoyles used for water drainage. We had to step across it as we walked along by the shops. I was told that St Martin, quite possibly, is one of the only two villages with a _gargouille_. We waited for the bus in the pizzeria, trying our best to preserve body heat, but the bus was late and the eatery was closing so we had to stay outside in the snow. To understand the severity of the situation, feel free to put your uncovered head in your freezer and stay like that for half an hour. I never thought I would be so excited to be reunited with a heater.

Taking a break from all the hiking, we planned to go to Italy during the one-week Christmas break. We opted to go there as a spontaneous backpacking trip and take one step at a time. For someone who hadn't been abroad before except Bali – and that was a package that came with accommodation, transport, food and travel guide – it was a leap of faith. We only noted the train schedules and the cheap backpacker hostels, nothing more and nothing else, which I have to admit was a little stupid. We didn't make any bookings except for the bus from Nice to Rome at two in the morning.

The trip, from the very beginning, was one of the most vivid memories I have of my European adventure. First, we had to wait for the Euroline bus to Rome at after midnight with drunken men giving us a look as if to say, "No one can hear you scream, Mademoiselle ..." and so I had my pepper spray ready, for the whole two hours of waiting. One particular fella, drunk and pissed off at the closed McDonald's, blurted _"Ca va Chinois?"_ – and was I going to try to explain the differences between the Chinese and all the other Asians? Given any other circumstances, I definitely would have done. In those wee hours, I just smiled nervously and murmured, _"Ca va, ca va."_ Correcting mistaken identity was at the bottom of my list of priorities; the husband was in total agreement.

Then we saw the bus, clearly labelled Italie. I was about to look back and say _au revoir_ to the creepy night when the driver smashed my entire colourful dream with just one sentence: "Sorry, this bus is going to Bologna."

So another half an hour of being alert like an owl before the right bus came into view. Only, Rafiee and I were separated. He had the privilege of sitting next to a quiet old lady but I, with a cruel twist of fate, had to sit next to a grungy, sleepy teenager with a pair of feet that smelt like Roquefort cheese. Oh, did I mention the bus ride would take ten hours?

We finally reached Rome in one piece (even though I couldn't say the same about my sense of smell ...) and after several failed communication attempts, we followed the big, red Metro sign. The Metro line works like a river in a deep jungle: if you're lost in the Amazon, just follow the river and it will lead you somewhere with population. Having said that, there's a possibility that the inhabitants might turn out to be cannibals, in which case it's better to be lost than to be eaten alive.

Same thing in Rome. You can never be too careful in that city. Pickpockets, street sellers, fake gladiators, beggars ... they all swamp you with the intention of getting some Euros. I was almost on the verge of buying a fake sword to fend off these people but I was sure the pepper spray would work just the same. Despite the tourism cliche, Rome is indeed a huge, historical city full of amazing stories. It was clear that Rome wasn't built in a day. It was once the centre of western civilisation, a power strong enough to rule the Mediterranean, Northern Africa, Britain and parts of the Middle East. With a history that rich, Rome is now like a quiet sage who smiles for the unknowing visitors but offers abundant counsel to those who seek it.

If Rome were the Louvre, the Colosseum would be the Mona Lisa. The 48-metre-high structure could accommodate approximately 55,000 spectators in its four storeys. If the opening ceremony was anything to go by, where 9,000 wild animals were slaughtered, the fights were certainly brutal. I could almost imagine Russell Crowe fighting in the arena in minimal clothing – but I digress.

Parts of the building that tumbled down during an earthquake in AD 847 were used for the construction of monuments including St Peter's Basilica. Located in the world's smallest country – Vatican City – St Peter's Basilica also marks the same place where the chief apostle, who else? – St Peter, was buried in AD 64. It is deemed the most important church in the world.

When I visited Vatican City, I didn't know I was entering another country. It's called Vatican _City_ after all. Although it only covers roughly 0.2 square miles, it is the spiritual centre for Roman Catholics worldwide. 800 residents occupy the city, I mean the country, in which the majority consists of priests, nuns, guards, dignitaries – and the Pope, of course.

As if there was a need to underscore the Holy See, St Peter's Square surrounding it is adorned with figures of popes, martyrs and evangelists. The famous square has seen thousands of guests participating in masses. The rows of columns are arranged in a way that symbolises the outstretched arms of the church embracing the world.

Walking along a jumbled collection of ruins, it was easy to mistake them for, well, ruins. On a closer look, it was the Forum Romanum. You'd need quite an imagination to see it as it once was; all the temples, basilicas and triumphal arches used to stand proudly at the peak of the Roman Empire.

A trip to Rome is not complete until you toss a coin into the Fountain, watched by the central figure of Neptune, the sea god. Legend has it that you will come back to Rome if you throw a coin into the water that represents the sea, but since it's not cheap to return, I decided against it.

The ten-hour bus ride had finally taken its toll on me, assisted by the drizzling rain. The combination of sleep deprivation and rain never turns out well. I turned up at the Rome railway station with an awful headache, a worried husband and a delayed train to Pisa, our next destination.

Somehow in the blurry moment, I lived to tell the tale. We finally boarded the heavily-decorated-with-graffiti train for some four hours to Pisa where we got our much-needed sleep. Hours later when I suddenly woke up headache-less, I realised something was terribly wrong in our coach. There were only the two of us. There was no announcement whatsoever, only the haunting noise of the moving train. I started praying.

Apparently our stop was the last one and there were visibly only four other people getting off. Two of them were a gay couple so we got a clear sight of the whole kiss-and-tongue affection. In the wee hours, the station looked perfect for a ghost movie. Or a psycho thriller. Anything that doesn't have a happy ending, that's for sure. We took a seat on a cold stone bench. I took out my book, hoping that the funny storyline would take my mind off those horror films. Rafiee went away for a few minutes to check the train to Florence and the man sitting next to me called out _"Ciao"_ and I replied with a monotone _"Ciao"_ and returned to my book. Not the kind of man who would give up, he started talking about his life and asking open-ended questions. Still suspicious and indifferent, I spoke only a few words until Rafiee got back and I took the opportunity to introduce him to this stranger and hoped that he would then just leave me alone. He did, as he and Rafiee started bonding in the next few hours. Apparently he was genuine, and slightly worried as he'd thought I was travelling alone in this cannibalistic environment. He had been in Pisa for years in a money-making business – a kebab restaurant. He was on his way to Germany for a family gathering and his train was scheduled to arrive at 5am. It was comfortable enough to have these two men by my side and I fell asleep on Rafiee's lap for, according to him, almost an hour. It wasn't worth it; my body ached all over afterwards. Looking at the homeless people in the station corner, curled into a foetal position trying to keep warm, I stopped complaining at once.

The Italian-cum-Turkish lad was so generous that we got free coffee, hazelnut cookies and mandarin oranges, and if I hadn't been too timid, I would've got some free bottled drinks too. I was being cautious with the snacks ... for all I knew, he could have planned this and put some potent drugs inside them. At the end though, we concluded that he was a good guy and we exchanged e-mail addresses. In fact, we're getting free kebabs next time we're in Pisa.

The first sunlight revealed her beauty and after bidding our new friend goodbye, we were out on a Pisa exploration. A calm and peaceful city, it was not a bad thing at all after the frantic Rome. Just like every other tourist in Pisa, we were looking for the 700-year-old Leaning Tower. The cylindrical tower is only 54 metres high with nothing really special, but the inclination is something you don't see every day. It's still a mystery but it is believed that the extreme leaning is due to the sand formation on one side of the tower's base.

While it's easy to recognise why the Leaning Tower steals the limelight from all other Pisa attractions, it's worth noting that there are more historic churches, palaces and several bridges across the River Arno. The river may not be crystal clear – well okay, I'll be honest, it was rather murky and nobody in their right mind would come all the way to Pisa to see it – but moseying along the river was actually not bad. It gave that serene feeling, like you're on a floating museum. Of course at this point I hadn't seen Venice.

We arrived in Florence shortly afterwards with no memorable incident apart from the rude waitress at the McDonalds who found customers who asked for more ketchup beyond comprehension. By the time we encountered yet another cranky man behind a counter, we almost expected it. Perhaps it was because it was near Christmas and these people had to work on the holiday, but we sadly didn't get to meet a single gentle Italian.

Going back to Florence, what you don't want to miss are the Duomo and the neighbouring Piazza del Duomo. Funny name that, Duomo, which also means cathedral in English; if I had my way I would name it the Great Duomo. It's a commanding white building with a unique facade consisting of four tiers of open galleries. It's one of the three famous Romanesque structures located in Piazza del Duomo, the other two being the Baptistery and Giotto's Campanile.

With a circumference of 104 metres, the Baptistery is the largest of its kind in the whole country. I noticed some people talking to themselves and even singing in the Baptistery, which had me coming up with all sorts of theories until I found out a short time later that those people were in reality checking the acoustics of the building, which echoed around the interior. Giotto's Campanile, on the other hand, doesn't offer any noteworthy function apart from being itself, a bell tower, albeit a beautiful one.

We almost made the mistake of feasting in one of the many restaurants in Piazza del Duomo. A short meandering walk away, there were more authentic restaurants that charged half the price. With a full tummy and sore feet (it's easy to get lost inside the district), we were back at Florence station in the afternoon.

We had to take the train to another station in Florence to take another train to Bologna and then a connecting train to Venice. It's as complicated as the Italians. Let's not forget Murphy's Law too, while we're at it. We took the wrong train and had only twenty minutes to get back, catch the right one to this other Florence station at 1.40pm to make it for the 2pm train to Bologna. At 2.05pm, we were still in Florence and I actually caught hubby saying a prayer that, by some miracle, we would still make the two o'clock.

The miracle came in the form of an everyday trait of Italian public transport – delayed. Every train we boarded was delayed by a minimum of ten minutes and this was apparently normal there. We ran like our bottoms were on fire on arriving at exactly the time the delayed train to Bologna was scheduled to depart. Alas, we missed it by merely five seconds. The next train was in three hours. Needless to say, I'd finished reading a whole book by the end of the trip.

Going up north, we eventually reached Venice three hours before midnight. The problem now was to find a hostel from our rough list and Venice was anything but small. Now here's a tip. Follow other backpackers as they always go for the easy-on-the-pocket accommodation. Our friends, though, were not as broke, as they led us to a hotel by the river but we managed to get ourselves a discount of €10 and we got our own room, WC and shower. We really needed that shower after a few days on the road.

Maybe thirty years ago it was hard to find authentic Italian food outside the country, but my excitement at having a real Italian pizza, pasta and coffee was only fleeting as I'd had them before in Malaysia and the coffee was an instant mix, albeit with a marked-up price tag. A night spent on a comfortable bed was so surreal that we sank into a deep slumber until the sunlight started playing peek-a-boo.

We continued our sightseeing the next morning. I already knew from the night before, when I first saw the Grand Canal (and admittedly the scrumptious eateries and bakeries), that I was in love with the city. It was vibrant but at the same time relaxed and simply breathtaking, with castles and snowy mountains visible across the Adriatic Sea.

Now this is a real floating museum, flooded with Venetian paintings, wines, music, masks that reminded me of the sexy Antonio Banderas in _Zorro_ and bohemian fashions. With no highways, or cars that cough up carbon monoxide, you'll get used to being on foot or taking one of the many slow boats or gondolas with a black-and-white figure that could easily be mistaken for a mime artist. You'll come across these gondoliers as they charmingly persuade you to get on their gondola furnished with velvet seats and Persian rugs, and to pay a large amount of money to travel around the city on the Grand Canal.

Armed with an overwhelmingly huge map yet walking aimlessly, I noticed how unique Venice really is. The buildings are constructed on wooden piles that are closely spaced and packed with compressed clay underneath the water. Mostly made of the water-resistant alder tree, the wood stands the test of time and the structures remain as strong as the tourist industry of Venice. I mean, how can it not be strong (the tourist industry; we're over the wooden piles), with its distinctive landscape (or rather, cityscape) and opulent artistic and cultural legacy. What's more, with the annual Carnival of Venice taking place since the 1980s, streams of tourists keep pouring in and celebrities are no exception: you can catch a glimpse of Hollywood glamour at the Venice Film Festival.

Still walking with no particular direction in mind as the map was too big for us to handle, we followed the light and stumbled into a huge square famously known as the Piazza San Marco. Although it was Christmas, throngs of tourists flooded the square and we shared our space with amateur photographers as well as pigeons. Right at the end of the square was the handsome and massive St. Mark's Basilica. Nicknamed the Church of Gold (Chiesa d'Oro), it's a symbol of Venetian wealth and power in addition to being the cathedral church of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Venice. It's also deemed one of the finest examples of Byzantine architecture. Fine indeed.

Later that evening, we were off to our final destination – Milan, the world fashion and design capital. Saying goodbye to Venetian tranquillity, we entered Milan station, which was as packed as a can of sardines. I felt the world was spinning at 200km per hr. An ideal hit for pickpockets, I'm sure. Once we'd got ourselves out of the chaotic station alive, a series of skyscrapers greeted us. I wasn't in my element at all. It was scary, intimidating and foreign. Seeing the immigrants who looked like the ones in _Prison Break_ (no, I don't mean the two brothers) waiting to pound someone real bad, we had to find a shelter ... urgently.

The hostels on our little list turned out to be a few administrative zones away so we had to settle for another hotel, run by a better set of immigrants. The only reason I found Milan tolerable was because there was a huge selection of Asian-fusion restaurants; nothing like food to win me over. Shopping-wise, I'm not into the agony of searching for something that can fit my awkward body and the crowds always make it feel like a race, so naturally the whole idea of fashion and design didn't attract me one bit.

A quick enquiry led us to one of the largest Gothic cathedrals in the world, the Cathedral of Milan. Taking five hundred years to look the way it is today, it even has an elevator to get people up to the rooftop. Also known as – wait for it – the Duomo because of its general definition, it also has its own square called – what else? – Piazza del Duomo.

In the heart of Milan also stands the Galleria Vittoria Emanuele II, a double glass-vaulted arcade covering the street connecting Piazza del Duomo to Piazza della Scala, the opera house built in 1778 that can accommodate over two thousand spectators. It is believed that standing on the testicles of the bull of Turin there will bring good luck. I couldn't bring myself to do it; it just felt morally wrong.

As the Louvre got to keep Mona Lisa, Santa Maria della Grazie managed to get its hands on one of Leonardo Da Vinci's other famous paintings, the Last Supper. In 1943 during World War II, the building was bombed and many frescoes were tragically destroyed. Some may believe that it was the work of a higher power or it could have been due to the sand-bag protection, but the Last Supper survived the ordeal.

We wrapped up our Milan tour with Castello Sforzesco, a great castle and fort during its time. Yet again, Da Vinci left his mark here with his ceiling painting called Sala delle Asse, not to be confused with "Room of A**", like I did the first time I heard the name. As it also operates as a museum these days, you can find Michelangelo's last sculpture, the Rondanini Pieta, depicting the Virgin Mary mourning over the body of Christ.

On our way out, an African man insisted on giving us each a bracelet for what he described as free support for African countries. He had a different definition of "free", though. After embracing Rafiee as if they were long-lost brothers of different parents, he suddenly asked for a token donation in the form of Euros. Argh, can't believe we fell for that but there's a first time for everything. It was our first lesson in brushing off illegal street-sellers and I secretly took out my reliable pepper spray as we walked away with the bracelets (they were hard to take off), just in case.

We assumed that because it was out-of-season there wouldn't be a problem when we went at 10.15am to buy the tickets for the 11am train to Ventimiglia, where we would be taking the connecting train to Nice. It was fully booked. The only available train was at 3pm and we had no choice but to go for more food. Killing time had never been more fulfilling.

We reached Ventimiglia at 7.40pm with the second-to-last train to Nice departing in exactly ten minutes. Judging from the frustrated look on the faces of the people queuing for tickets, I had little hope of boarding that train. And then came one Italian officer, speaking in Italian of course, and all of a sudden a couple of people ran off like they knew a meteorite was coming ... or the train. After a quick translation saying how we could buy the tickets on the train, everyone else followed the chase. It was funny, really. One man was running with a balloon tied to his luggage, some Asians were running in fancy boots and I can't recall the rest as we were actually ahead of the troop. What can I say? – it's the law of the jungle.

I never thought I would say this but I was so relieved to hear some French on the train, it felt like home instantly. We reached home around ten at night and the first thing I did was to lie on my familiar bed with my fluffy pillows and comfy blanket. Now all that was left to do was to shower but that could wait. After all, we had survived a week with only two showers.

The following months, we made full use of the €1 bus and went to a few neighbouring cities that it would have been ridiculous not to go to when one was already on the French Riviera. That brings us to the equally well-known towns of Cannes and Grasse.

You don't have to be a movie buff to know that the city hosts the annual Cannes Film Festival. It was our sole reason to go but sadly we came too early so no celebrity sightings. Basically what we did was to walk around the city, have our sandwiches at a bus stop and stare at the island of Saint Marguerite from the sandy beach. Yes, it's the same island where Leonardo DiCaprio – I mean, the mysterious man in the iron mask – was imprisoned. After we were done with spotting famous names carved around the building of Palais des Festivals et des Congrès where the film festival is held, we said goodbye to Cannes.

Grasse is also a celebrity in its own right, as the world's perfume capital. Standing 350 metres above sea level, they say countless people have spent time in Grasse sniffing 2,000 kinds of scent. A visit to the perfume museum of Fragonard reminded me of a trip to the mall perfume section where my nose was propelled to various perfumed test-strips unwillingly. Looking at the view from the hills, I could almost smell the flowers until the bus pulled in later in the evening. It was time to leave.

Time passed so fast, six months working with Vincent, but the bookstore was still not ready for customers. Rafiee came in the morning as promised but ended up waiting for his hangover to subside. He moved on to a future plan for the second semester – applying to Master's programmes. I never really told him but it was heartbreaking to see him making so many applications just to get the same response. I had been there so I knew how terrible it must have felt.

In the meantime, we had to proceed with the UK visa application as the first semester was coming to an end. Taking four hours by train to Marseille, the closest place we could file our application, I had to skip a school day. With the tickets setting us back €60 each, we made sure we had all our documents ready so we wouldn't be missing anything that would require us to come back.

Marseille is the second largest city in France after Paris, but we couldn't find anything that appealed to us. Perhaps it's not fair to judge from our stay of only a few hours with minds that were fully occupied. But I guess when you've been living on the vibrant French Riviera, most other cities just fall short.

So, remember the residence permit issue that Jean Pierre was so frustrated about? Well it came back to haunt us. We couldn't apply for the six-month UK visa because by March, we would no longer be French residents and supposedly our French residence permit should be valid for the whole duration we would be in the UK. Crushed like the dry leaves on the road, we returned to Nice empty-handed.

I still don't quite comprehend the policy but we were in a foreign country and we had to adhere to whatever rules they imposed. The thought of paying for another set of tickets to come back to Marseille was painful enough, but we weren't even sure if we had time to renew our French residence permits and hence, if we would be stranded in Nice with the tourists while the rest of my colleagues started their second semester in Newcastle.

Feeling dread weighing down my entire being, I just had to talk to Jean Pierre about what I felt at the moment was a dead end. I braced my ears for his elaborate _mon dieu_ and I-told-you-so speech, but he kindly set up an appointment with the _pr_ efecture to renew our residence permits instead. It was another €120 flowing out from the pocket but I was to blame. I hadn't read the offer letter carefully, because the rest of the group did apply and get the one-year visa. I was probably too excited and focused only on the fact that I was going to Europe, not knowing it was only the beginning.

Depressed and driven to the brink of ascending another mountain but this time no further, we found out by extensive research that we didn't need the UK visa after all since Malaysians are allowed to enter and stay in the UK as long as it's for less than six months. That was all we needed, six months! Then during the summer break before the third semester we would ... well, stay in an abandoned hut somewhere in the European countryside and earn extra money by shepherding.

One of the final things we had to do before packing for Great Britain was to find accommodation. Naturally we wanted our own place but apparently studio apartments were not as popular as in France. All the houses we found would have to be shared, unless we were willing to fork out double the price. Surely we weren't, not knowing if we had enough savings to last us until the third semester.

Agreeing that instead of sharing the house with some random strangers who might turn out to be disturbed killers with an inclination for Asian couples, we decided we should get people that we already knew. As fate would have it, Laila was looking for a place as well. It was a match made in heaven. She was a temperate girl who minded her own business and she shared our lifestyle choices (read: no partying, no drinking, no smoking, no laughing like a hyena ... I'd had some bad room-mate experiences, as you can guess).

Looking for a house was exciting because there were so many cheap and nice places. It was too good to be true until we realised that most of the replies were generic. The owners were always outside the UK so they had to mail the keys but always, of course, after we'd paid the deposit by Western Union. We almost fell for it since it was our first time. Our natural antennae alerted us just seconds before we made the payment, and we started to Google around and surprise, surprise ... there had been many victims, lots of them fairly well educated. I suppose when you're anxious and rushing to get a roof over your head, it's convenient to believe everything you're told and the scammers knew these were easy victims. Some of them had even paid as much as €2,000. Wow, the things I could do with that kind of money.

After such a close call, we decided that it was safer to engage a property agent instead of looking for our dream place ourselves. The lucky man was Nasser, Iraqi-born but raised in England all his life. He seemed nice and trustworthy (a conclusion I made after a quick Google search), so we paid the deposit for a two-bedroom house and now all we had to do was to wait for the departure day.

It was already January but we still had to come back to Nice in March to pick up our renewed French resident permits so that we could stay anywhere within the Schengen area for ninety days – that gave us twenty-five countries to choose from. I felt as excited as if I were browsing through another IKEA catalogue. Quite the same process, actually. The items are all attractive but they can be freaking expensive. In the forefront of my mind at that time was Romania, though what we would do there legally for three months I had no idea.

Putting aside the summer plan temporarily, we were ecstatic to move to the land of hope and glory, to say the least. Having heard so many great stories from our parents' generation, we were more than eager to see it for ourselves. A huge smile flooded Mr Walker's face when he heard where we were going. He might have been living in France for half of his life, but he was still an Englishman inside out. Many nights were spent listening to the histories of his quirky countrymen.

Rafiee in particular couldn't wait to leave France because he didn't really like it there. People didn't want to speak English, the media was all either in French or dubbed and his favourite band was the Beatles. Unbeknown to us, we were going through the second stage of culture shock (after the deceptive honeymoon-stage) in which foreigners find flaws in everything they encounter. Even having to show our empty grocery trolley at the Carrefour counter every time we went to shop was getting on our nerves.

We started building great hopes for Newcastle, our next destination, just in time for the third stage to kick in. Things were looking up. If we could survive six months in France, living in England would be a piece of cake. Even though I knew I would miss France, I also couldn't wait to experience a new place that most people would love to visit. Everyone loved the British ... their accent, the beautiful places they had conquered and of course, English Premier League.

_Au revoir,_ France and hi there, Great Britain!

Chapter 6

We first arrived in Bristol (students must find the cheapest route even if it takes twelve hours to get to a place you could easily reach in two). Welcoming us at Passport Control was a robot and I say that with the best of intentions. The officer was a no-nonsense lady who trusted nobody, not even a young, gentle Asian couple. Without looking at us, she fired the standard questions one by one.

"Where did you fly from? What did you do in Nice? What will you be doing here? How long will you be here? Is this your husband?" And turning to Rafiee, she continued. "What did you do in Nice? What will you be doing here? How long will you be here?"

It was nerve-wracking and she made me feel like I had done something terrible like smuggling packets of cheese from France, to convert the English. I caught a little smile when she said, "Enjoy your stay," but it could have been a smirk that meant, "... which you won't."

Relieved the interrogation was finally over, we stepped outside the airport but met with much disappointment. Bristol at that time was the epitome of the English weather. We couldn't see anything outside a 500m range. It was gloomy, grey and hazy. Exactly as my parents remembered England.

Needless to say, we didn't venture far. It was also, unsurprisingly, freezing cold. We spotted our favourite sandwich brand – Subway. It was hard not to giggle when I heard the strong English accent in person so when the lad at the Subway flashed his bad teeth (the English are infamously known for this but I assure you it's not everyone, thank goodness), I almost forgot why I was in the queue.

"Hi there. How can I help you?"

Gasped for air. Breathed in. Breathed out. Tried to stop grinning like a monkey.

"Hello. I'd like a vegetarian sandwich."

"Alright then, which sauce would you like?"

That has always been my favourite question. Whenever I'm getting a Subway sandwich in Malaysia, I always choose all the sauces even though they don't really go together.

"All of them, please."

"Which one?" he asked again.

"Er, everything?" I was puzzled as to why it was so hard to comprehend. It's an easy word. All. Every sauce you have.

He gestured to the variety of sauces he had. Apparently it was double the number we have in Malaysia.

My eyes almost popped out of my head. I still wanted all of them but judging by his restless hands, I knew it wasn't an option. So I chose the safest combination. "Interesting. In Malaysia we only have half of these and I always ask for them all," I explained but he didn't seem one bit interested. Perhaps it was because of the long queue behind me. "Hmm, in that case I'll take chilli, barbecue and mayonnaise." Not so adventurous but I had no time to think. Everyone behind me seemed to be happy with my choice. Well, they would be happy with _any_ choice at all. Then I grabbed Dr Pepper, just because I'd always heard the brand mentioned in American movies so it had to be good.

No, it wasn't. That was my first and last can of Dr Pepper. I guess having a drink named after a powerful spice should have told me something.

We finally reached Newcastle airport at five that evening. A quick direction from our agent Nasser led us to the train to the city centre before taking the taxi to our new home. It would have been cheaper to take the bus all the way but I guess he was too lazy to pick us up at the bus stop which turned out to be merely a five-minute walk to the house. It was our first big clue as to what we were dealing with.

It was an uncomfortable train ride and it wasn't because of the train itself but because of the young passengers who shared the same coach with us. They were mostly secondary school children who looked like they were on their way to an MTV party. They were staring, whispering to each other and pointing at us occasionally. Most of them just laughed. They obviously didn't like foreigners, or at least us, but I doubt it was that specific because we looked normal. But maybe normal meant something different to them. I felt like my face was burning with embarrassment as if I shouldn't be there. I just couldn't wait to get out of that train.

It was easy to find a taxi. The driver was an immigrant. Well, most of them were. We didn't speak at all but I'm sure we were all thinking the same thing – we're all immigrants in the rich land of the English, trying to make a better living. He drove us into one of the dodgiest neighbourhoods we had ever seen. It was like a scene from the Asian version of the movie _Blind Side_. There were only immigrants; most looked Asian. No wonder those kids were giving us the look. They thought we were a new addition to what was like an over-populated immigrants' sanctuary in their native country.

Our house, though, was a decent, nice-looking, Victorian, red-brick, terraced house. The houses all looked identical. It appears that the British have a regulation in which you can't just renovate and colour your house as we can do here in Malaysia without a second thought (gosh, my neighbour's striking, blue-painted house steals the spotlight!). Our neighbours were from Bangladesh. Welcome to the immigrants' settlement.

We were told that the bathroom was being renovated and would be ready by the time we got there. It was _precisely_ the time we got there. A builder was there waiting for us, to hand us the only key and show us around the house. How can I put this politely? There: it was simply a rubbish shack. The house was dirty and greasy, the toilet wasn't flushed (which was obvious from the suspicious-looking brown blot) and we had no pillow, which was bad enough without the sheets being missing as well. We'd explicitly asked Nasser if those were going to be provided and he'd replied, definitely yes. Unfortunately the forgetful me hadn't kept that e-mail so it was only our word against his, which meant nothing.

My first attempt at being a good housemate was to text Laila to let her know what to bring. She would be arriving later the next day so it would give her time to be prepared. That night, we slept in the living room. There was a fairly clean sofa so being a perfect gentleman, Rafiee gave me that space while he took down the single mattress and covered it with our clothes to make a modest bed for the night. We didn't know how to work the heater so with only layers of clothes (lots of them), we endured the winter night in the hope we wouldn't get hypothermia. Even Rafiee started to miss Nice at that moment.

The best thing – no, the only good thing – that night was a once–in-a-lifetime kebab finding. It was easily the best kebab I have ever tasted, to say the least. Yes sure, kebab can be conveniently found in every nook in Europe but this one ... this one was heavenly. The spices were perfectly mixed, the lamb slices could have fed three people and the garlic sauce was to die for. It's been my benchmark for all kebabs afterwards, which has sadly been a discouraging search.

The next day, relieved that we were still alive albeit without enough sleep because we kept waking up in the middle of the night, shaking like Shakira's minions, we unanimously decided to get the house spick and span before going out to get the necessities. It took us half a day to clean everything, working non-stop. Everything here means the toilet, kitchen utilities, every inch of the floor, basically everything that existed inside the house, whether or not the naked eye could see it. It was too disgusting to risk skipping anything. We finally had enough peace of mind to leave the house for some serious shopping.

Before that, let me briefly tell you about Newcastle upon Tyne. Its location is in the North East of England. It was known as a city of coal and used to revolve around its River Tyne. Now with no more coal, it's mainly a business and industrial centre. It was a huge change for us, after the relaxing Mediterranean.

The people are called Geordies as they speak the dialect of Geordie, deemed to be quite difficult to understand, even for their fellow Englishmen. It's said that Geordie is the closest language to the 15,000-year-old Anglo-Saxon with many words and pronunciations being non-existent in other parts of the United Kingdom.

Perhaps because it's also a university city which two reputable universities made their base so hormonal adolescents monopolise the area, the urban area is never short of parties and nightlife. Around 10pm, juveniles and juvenile-alikes start to surface out of nowhere like vampires in high spirits. It's like it's summer all the time and it baffles me still how they can wear so little when the temperature is below zero! I could be buried in three layers of clothes and still shivering. It must be a Geordie peculiarity because even the American Mika couldn't figure that out. There are things you can only imagine.

Coming back to the shopping part, we had no idea where the city centre was and whether they also had Carrefour. Luckily we bumped into some Pakistani men at the bus stop who showed us the way to the biggest Tesco in the city, or rather, in the suburbs. It's worth noting that up to this point we hadn't showered because we had no soap or shampoo, but even after the thorough cleaning-session earlier we still didn't shed a drop of sweat at all. It was that cold and dry.

After a couple of long bus and train rides through the city and out again, the bus coughed us out right in front of the big Tesco. Big isn't even close to describing it. It was massive! Not sure what we had in mind at the time but we bought many, many things – including two pillows and a queen-size duvet – that we had to carry from the train to the bus back to our place. People were staring. Obviously we hadn't thought it through. We looked like the immigrants in Kuala Lumpur we'd talked about months earlier, or lack thereof.

We were in a car heading to the cinema for our movie date when we saw some Indonesian couples waiting at the bus stop nearby, holding loads of groceries. Some even walked all the way with their grocery bag. We felt sorry that they were outside in the sun but merely five seconds later we resumed our discussion on where to have our fancy lunch. We didn't count our blessings because it never crossed our mind that one day some other people would look at us like that. This must be what karma is all about.

By seven in the evening, we finally had a comfortable home that we could see ourselves in for the next six months. All this while Nasser hadn't contacted us to ask how we were doing. He did, after two days, send a text message to ask me to go to their office to sign the contract and pay the first month's rent.

I felt silly having to take the train all the way to their office to sign a paper when this so-called property agency should've dragged their lazy bottoms off their chairs and handed it to us personally. It was probably a Malaysian trait (or curse in this case) that I was too polite to argue and off I went to the train station and paid for the return tickets. Thank goodness Nasser was thoughtful enough to pick me up at the station instead of subjecting me to another taxi ride.

Nasser was in his early twenties and looked like a cross between a Middle Easterner and an Englishman. When I jumped into his convertible, I naturally forgot to put on my seatbelt because to be honest, I usually conveniently forgot to put on my seatbelt when I was driving around my neighbourhood in Malaysia.

"You forgot your seatbelt," he gently reminded me.

"Oh sorry," I apologised, with a flushed, hot face, because I'd just realised how third-world I must have seemed, "I often forget to put on my seatbelt in Malaysia when I'm driving to somewhere close." Not a good comeback but that was all I could think of at the time.

"In England you can get fined a grand amount and not just you, but also the driver," he replied with an unmistakable absence of any humour injected into his tone.

Wow, I thought, Mom was right. They stick to the rules and regulations here like a baby kangaroo to its mother. Don't mess with the English. I was even corrected twice for saying chips instead of crisps. It's not a myth. Most of them do despise American English.

The office itself didn't look like a proper place of work. It was actually a bungalow and the rooms had all been converted to workspace. They made copies of my passport, university admission and scholarship confirmation. I also had to sign a few copies of the contract. None of this paperwork in Nice.

Then Monday came, the first day that we were all going to meet each other. All twenty-five of us, hailing from different parts of the world, with different motivations, were now finally gathering in the same place.

After bidding Rafiee goodbye, Laila and I took a taxi to the university. It would have taken forty-five minutes to walk if we'd known the exact route and building to go to, but we didn't, so the first day we took the safest option. We got there on time and saw some familiar strangers. Even though we hadn't met personally before, we had found each other on Facebook so in a way we already knew each other's family and sexual orientation. I love social network sites.

From the first semester in Hungary there were an Englishman named Edward, another Bangladeshi named Shafat and an Egyptian named Aaqil. At one glance Edward reminded me of President Bush and when he spoke, I thought he really was the British version of the former American president. It didn't take more than a minute to recognise that he was going to be the head of the whole group. Shafat was more outspoken compared to Rashed but they were inseparable from that first day onwards. He'd also brought his wife to Europe so we were always sharing notes, or rather, I did. Shafat preferred to know exactly what to do, without bothering with the research bit that Rafiee and I ended up doing for the couple. I thought Aaqil was a really quiet fella who minded his own business, but ask him a question and it would spark a lengthy and enlightening dialogue. I knew this for a fact when I asked which part of Egypt he was from, and found out that pyramids were not the only things the country was famous for. I wanted to go there right away.

From Spain there were a few Catalonians, one Brazilian, one Columbian and one Bolivian, plus a South East Asian named Gusti, a Serbian named Branko, a Peruvian named Karina and another girl from Greece who went by the name Melina. I learned that Spanish and Catalan are like chalk and cheese (I'd never heard of Catalan until then but to my untrained ears they sounded the same) so they often can't understand each other. This language is a co-official language in Catalonia which consists of Barcelona, Girona, Lleida and Tarragona. Imagine how dumb I sounded when I asked them if Barcelona was near Catalonia.

The long-haired, fun-loving Gusti was an infusion of Singapore, Malaysia and Indonesia. He spoke fluent English, Malay, Indonesian, Mandarin and Cantonese in addition to his good Spanish or Catalan (I can't differentiate). Branko didn't care that he couldn't speak a word of Catalonian. He got along with the guys just fine. He was this tall man who always looked like he was ready to sleep or constantly drunk, or both, most of the time.

Melina was also comfortable being on her own. I think I spoke less than fifty words with her but she seemed like a pleasant person who loved to party (okay, I knew this because I saw some photos of her on Facebook which I'm pretty sure she wouldn't want our professors to see ... or her parents). Karina spoke Spanish and naturally she was more comfortable with those who did. She looked like she could pass as a 35-year-old and rumour has it that she was forty but it remains a mystery to this day.

Which brings us to Karina's best friend, a homosexual named Tess from Uruguay. She was in Germany for the first semester. We didn't have an ounce of chemistry between us so over the course of the next one and a half years, we would only exchange hi and bye. There was also a German couple, Ludwig and Freida who could inspire a German Barbie doll. They looked like father and daughter with the right personalities to fit the roles, but whatever floated their boat ... . There was also a guy from Uzbekistan and he had the habit of watching at least one movie every single day without fail. Then there was an Indian girl named Kamala, who loved to hog the limelight, perfectly assisted by her screeching voice. Last but definitely not least we had Ratu, a sweet, soft-spoken Indonesian.

Those people were in the sixth generation of the programme. Most of them were really ambitious and aggressive; I suppose the two common characteristics that got us all there. On the first day, people were already talking about electing the group leader and the candidates were queuing up. Therefore, an election was carried out with the potential candidates giving a speech about why they wanted to be the head and what they could bring to the role. Then the voting began.

Edward was, as expected, the top favourite. The second one, not really expected, was Tess. The third one, extremely not really expected, was Kyla. It's not because she wasn't good (because she was, but I may be biased), but she was totally fed-up with the election and thought that people were making it bigger than it really was. I guess some of us agreed.

The school was systematic and stringent, as I had been told most of the universities in the UK, if not all, are. We had an hour's lecture just on the procedure for submitting our coursework. There was a specific form to fill in, a specific way to staple the coursework if it was less or more than a specific amount of pages, and so on. I was more worried about not having all this correct than the coursework itself!

The weeks were scheduled a year ahead, which was a nice change from the system we had in Nice. They were still generally busy but at least we knew for sure when to book our holiday tickets. The teachers were first-class but don't expect them to go all personal and caring about you coming down with a terrible flu. They didn't remember our names, which was acceptable because we were now a big group as opposed to our first semester when the maximum number was six. Of course, then the teachers could also remember which one of us skipped five minutes of their class. We didn't expect any less.

We also had to sign a visa attendance form every month without fail. Unless, of course, we wanted to have a visit from the Home Office and get deported. They all sounded intimidating at first, all these systems. However, after a week or two, you get used to it and go into autopilot mode. For the next five months, I walked to school every day with Laila, forty-five minutes each way. By the time we got home, it was usually dark. I didn't lose much weight, though: the weather always prompted me to stop at Greggs the bakers and get the deal of the day. They made killer cupcakes. Kyla once found me gobbling down a Mother's Day cupcake. We all have done things we're not proud of.

Ominous and mechanical though it all may sound, it wasn't that bad at all. I learned more about Laila. She took her tea with milk and salt twice a day. Yes, salt. Apparently her villagers up in the mountainous Gilgit also have the same preference. We watched _Britain's_ _Got Talent_ every week and dished on Simon Cowell. Occasionally we went out for movies, on foot from home to the city centre, which meant we had to plan at least an hour earlier. She really was a great housemate. She was so quiet that sometimes we wondered if she was outside the house but then we heard Hindustani murmurs from some movie she was watching in her room so we knew she was still safe and sound.

Edward suggested to have an international dinner to which we were supposed to bring a specialty from own country. Mika and Kyla didn't join in the fun as they didn't feel like it. As for me, an invitation for free food is a serious matter. Rafiee and I whipped up _cucur pisang_ (fried banana mash), a typical Malaysian snack, and it was a hit despite some of my new friends finding a fruit being deep-fried a little bit unsettling. It's hard to find a quick, healthy Malaysian dessert, so that would have to do.

We'd had a similar experience in the previous semester in Nice with the Korean exchange students in the English class but I made _begedil_ (croquette), which I had always thought was uniquely Malaysian but turned out to be Indonesian. Obviously the Bali honeymoon hadn't taught us that.

English food to us, and a lot of people, is bland. The English mostly eat sandwiches for lunch and though I liked their trademark fish and chips with mushy peas, there was nothing else that I could live on. Even their spicy food was a tease. Therefore it came as no surprise that we shopped in Pakistani and Chinese markets on a weekly basis and even cooked my packed lunch for school. I found many locals were falling in love with Indian spices as well and the overplayed Patak's "Why Britain Loves Curry" advertisement was definitely a strong testimony to this.

At this point, both Rafiee and I were just settling in. It was the fourth stage of culture shock in which we had completely adjusted to living in Europe, recognising the good and the bad. Rafiee made full use of the free activities available in the city, with no worries about the language barrier. Geordie may be hard to comprehend but it's not French. He joined various classes ranging from photography to volunteering work in local English classes, so his time in Newcastle was occupied so productively that sometimes I came home to an empty house.

I didn't mind at all. It had always been my concern how he was going to spend his time. Idle minds lead to evil thoughts. Sometimes I wondered if he was going crazy staying home with nothing important to do. I would be okay with that. I'm my father's daughter. We love solitude and we can spend days just reading and writing inside our room with no sight of sun and sky. But most people are normal and so is Rafiee.

He's in fact, without being biased, the ideal husband that a woman could wish for. He didn't complain and he didn't ask for any help. He did his own research and he assured me all the time that he wanted to be there and I just had to worry about my studies. I had a burning guilt that I was being selfish bringing him with me and not having a family like other couples typically do. Rafiee made it so easy for us to be contented with what we had.

Anticipating the bloody cold weather, Rafiee had bought a new jacket in France. He chose a really heavy brown leather jacket with fur hood that would keep him warm and 2kg heavier; he had to hand-carry it in airports lest we had to pay the excess baggage surcharge. One day when he was walking to his class, a car of carefree Middle Eastern youths drove past him and slowed down to mock him by shouting out the word "Eskimo". Wow, to be insulted by fellow immigrants, that was new. Such was life in the neighbourhood of Fenham.

On one weekend, we chose to take one of the National Express buses randomly and go outside the city and as fate would have it, we boarded the bus to Durham, approximately 25km away. We didn't know what to expect but I thought we'd made the right choice as the hilly city started to materialise. The famous Norman cathedral was visible on the skyline but not before the bus passed a majestic Victorian viaduct.

There was not much to do on a Sunday with most of the shops closed, so after ooh-ing and aah-ing over the cathedral we visited the eleventh-century castle which has also housed Durham University since 1832. I initially thought there was a massive school-trip going on when I saw so many students walking casually around the area. That's why it's advisable to read up before you pay a visit to somewhere new. One impressive fact I found out about the castle is that it's the only one in the UK that has never experienced a breach.

Walking down the River Wear overlooking the cathedral from a good distance away was like a small hiking trip on the forested riverbanks. The famous travel writer, Bill Bryson, once wrote a little piece on Durham depicting the city's beauty, which might or might not be the main reason he was elected as Durham University Chancellor.

On the way back, we stopped at the Angel of the North – a steel sculpture of an angel measuring 20 metres tall with wings 54 metres across. The foundations anchor the giant angel to solid rock, 21 metres below. Such a big sculpture was, of course, controversial but it didn't take long before it became a landmark and an icon. Locals call it the "Gateshead Flasher" so you can imagine how iconic it is.

It would've been another ordinary sightseeing trip if not for a group of teenage girls who started to make fun of us, the only foreigners on the bus and the only people who got off at that stop.

"Oh, let's stop at the Angel of the North," the brunette started.

Her blonde friend joined in the fun. "Yeah, how cool!"

And they broke into degrading laughter as we were getting off, trying our best to pretend that we didn't understand a single word of English.

Exactly one week earlier we'd bumped into another group of teenage girls who asked us for a favour. They wanted us to get them some beers. We politely declined but we stepped up our pace just in case they were already under the influence and ready to hit anyone who was in their way. It was a sad reflection on a country said to be so civilised that others looked up to it. Whatever potential these underprivileged youngsters may have had is slowly diminishing with peer pressure and moral degradation, as evident from the infamous UK riots of August 2011.

Our only source of income was the French bank account that we'd registered in Nice and one day when we were withdrawing money from one of the partner banks in Newcastle, the bank card was swallowed for no reason and the cash machine was suddenly out of service. Just like that; and we were left confused and ultimately pissed off. The bank had closed at five so we'd have to go back the next day to get our bank card.

While we were arguing unproductively on what to do in the meantime, a man approached the cash machine. We initially ignored him because the machine was supposedly out of service anyway. To our surprise, he managed to withdraw money and walked past us nonchalantly. We immediately ran to the machine which was just a short distance away and saw that it was working fine.

"So if that guy withdrew from this machine, where is our bank card?" I looked at a confused Rafiee.

"You don't think the card was just stuck and the guy took it ...?" He looked at me and we feared the same thing.

Instinctively we turned towards the direction where the man was headed and saw that he was getting into his car. We tried to give chase but he was already driving away.

"What are we going to do now????" I asked Rafiee, half-questioning and half-crying.

"Quick, call the bank and tell them to cancel the card!"

I quickly took out my mobile and called the bank, only to realise a second later that they were already closed. We tried the 24-hour number but were only told that the same branch could cancel our bank card. It's a ridiculous rule they had in France and I believe it still applies, at least to this particular bank. Customers aren't allowed to make any manual transactions in other branches. So let's say you're registered in Paris; if you move elsewhere, say Nice, 900 kilometres away, you still have to go to the same branch in Paris to make a bank transfer. Thus, there was nothing we could do at the time. We just had to wait for the next opening day.

It was a long night, having to wait. We knew the French bank opened at 9am while the UK bank opened fifteen minutes earlier, so we stood right in front of the bank to wait for it to open, just like anxious groupies at a rock concert. We rushed in the second the guard switched the sign from closed to open and took the first number to speak to one of the officers.

We were desperately hoping that the card had indeed been swallowed and that they had it, but the lady came back to us and said that they found nothing. In fact, no card had been ingested for the past couple of weeks. She assured us that any lost cards would be destroyed but we had a different concern. We were dead worried that someone might have had the bank card and bought a holiday to Las Vegas. Not trying to sound dramatic but the savings were our lifeline.

Calling the French bank was our next – and only – step.

" _Bonjour_ ," I began, patiently.

A man's voice was heard. " _Bonjour, puis–je vous aider?_ "

"Er, _puis–je parler avec Madam Celine Bedel_?" She was the only one there who could speak English and although I could use French to save my life, my mind wouldn't do what it was told at that distressing time.

He started to say something that meant she wasn't there, but was she going to be in the office at all that day? Could he help me instead?

"Er, _Anglais s'il vous plait?_ " I tempted him to speak English but he couldn't be bought.

" _Non, non. Je ne parle pas Anglais._ "

"Er, _est–ce que il y a quelqu'un qui parle Anglais?_ " I asked if there was anyone there who could speak English because my vocabulary book didn't extend to losing a bank card.

" _Non_." He was obviously losing patience.

I had to ask fast because there was no guarantee he would pick up the phone again and repeat the same process. " _D'accord, je vais essayer parler Francaise. Ma Francaise est terrible._ " I laughed nervously but he found it as amusing as global warming. I cleared my throat and tried, " _Je dois arreter ma carte. Ma carte est perdue._ " If you knew French, you could tell that was a horrible attempt.

The subsequent conversation was as bumpy as it started and it took me fifteen minutes to get my bank card cancelled. It was like a green alien landing on a human settlement and trying to convince them that she has come in peace only to be shot dead because her alien peace sign means something obscene to the human race.

I wasn't sure if he got what I meant from the relatively one-sided conversation. Luckily Rafiee, being the dependable half, still remembered the card number and pin code so we tried to do an online purchase when we got home to see if the bank Monsieur had indeed annulled the card. And he had! Now we could only hope that the person who'd got our bank card wasn't boarding a plane to Las Vegas. The only way to know was to wait for a few days before any transaction was registered.

The next day I tried calling Celine again and luckily she was in. I couldn't bear speaking to the man again. She assured me no transaction had been carried out since we'd lost the card, and they were sending me a new one. The missing bank card remains a mystery, like Karina's age and the UFOs: we know the answer is somewhere out there but we're unlikely to get closure (insert the _X–Files_ theme song here).

Around this period, people were still critical of the Royal Mail. They had acquired a bad reputation for losing mail and were even fined in 2006 for lost, stolen and damaged letters. Fortunately none of our nightmares came true. We got the bank card and a new pin code separately and safely within the next couple of months. It took a while and we had to borrow money from our dear Laila but it all worked out fine at the end.

In the university, the classes were hectic and so the time flew quickly. Took notes, worked on individual and group assignments, stressed out, thought of dropping out (nah, Rafiee would kill me!), stapled and bound coursework, submitted, worried and relaxed. The cycle went on and March came with a two-week break and we were determined to go big by squeezing in five cities at one go. Rafiee was getting better at planning holiday routes and he got us a good deal going to London, Edinburgh, Geneva, Nice and Dublin. I was particularly excited about Dublin for the many movies made in the outskirts, namely _Braveheart, PS. I Love You_ (shame on you if you haven't come across this romantic tear-jerker) and _Leap Year_ (my heart leaps every time I think of the scene on the hill).

As for Nice, it's not that we missed it terribly but we had to make a detour because our renewed residence permits were ready and there was no other way that we could get our hands on them but to be there in person. It would be our second backpacking trip after Italy and this time we were not going to make the same mistake again. We booked our hostels in advance and printed the location maps. Everything was planned and nothing could go wrong.

You see, when you want to save money on holiday getaways, it's important to be flexible and not to be too fussy. Paris Hilton is not supposed to like your itinerary. For example, our trip started with an eight-hour bus ride from Newcastle at seven in the morning to London. After the gruelling and smelly ten-hour inter-country bus trip from Nice to Rome, that was nothing. We stopped at Nottingham where I called Dad and Mom just to tell them that I was in their love story setting. Dad kept his cool but Mom was telling me how it all began, for the hundredth time.

We reached London at two in the afternoon and straightaway made our way to the hostel which coincidentally was situated near the Malaysian Hall. The hostel looked like one of the houses. It was our first hostel experience so we had no expectations but we were ready for the worst-case scenario. Mom kept feeding me stories on her bad experiences in backpacking thirty years back, when some boyfriends snuck into the girls' dorm to make loud love and people got drunk and naked all the time, which would be a totally different matter if they had a body like Brad Pitt.

When we were taken to our 16-bed room, we discovered it wasn't half as bad as what Mom had made us believe. Sure the room was so dark and confined that it could've been mistaken for a store room or a junkie haven but the people looked decent enough. Well, most of them were not in during the day but judging from the sleeping man and the woman who was reading her book intently, it shouldn't be that bad at all.

The stay at the hostel turned out to be as smooth as the buttermilk sauce on my favourite English sticky pudding. We got up before everyone else did so we got to use the bathroom with no pressure to skip the unnecessary. Everyone was careful that the lights were switched off after 10pm, and people who were still reading would use their own torchlight. It seemed like all the perfect roommates had decided to come to London and stay in the same room.

We set up our bunk beds, unpacked only the necessary items and left to see the city of London. The first place that we visited was the Malaysian Hall, of course. We hadn't had Malaysian cuisine in a while and London is the perfect European city to make up for it. The 2009 statistics estimated that 63,000 Malaysians lived in the city and the UK had the second highest number of our students, so getting Malaysian food is not a problem.

Walking into the Malaysian Hall cafe, we were immediately transported to our homeland, with a number of Malaysians eating _nasi lemak_ accompanied with the red syrup drink. The cashier and cooks were all Malaysian and there was no trace of foreigners apart from one _Mat Salleh,_ who I assumed was the husband of one of the Chinese girls. It didn't matter. Even he was speaking Malay.

Rafiee asked for his favourite _mee rebus_ and I had the best Malaysian invention – _nasi lemak_. They were the closest thing to the real deal you can find in Europe, unless you prefer making them yourself. I don't. We savoured each second and reminisced the many food stalls that we had missed. If I were a neighbour of the Malaysian Hall, I wouldn't feel homesick at all.

For the next two days, we covered the whole city on foot just like we did in Paris. Some people find that hard to believe but my feet beg to differ. You can cover any city on foot. It's just a matter of how long you are willing to walk. The European weather sure helps, but walking is also a great way to discover every nook and cranny of a city that is not covered in the guidebook.

London has a lot of energy buzzing around and we didn't look out of place in the global city even if we had funny hats on. Oh wait, that's their thing. Well, you can never run out of things to do in London. To begin with, they have abundant museums. My favourite was the London Geological Museum so I wasn't surprised to learn that it's indeed in the top ten attractions. The museum is one of the world's oldest science museums, having opened in 1835, and part of the Natural History Museum. Children loved the exhibits but there were many adults inside too, sharing the same sentiment. The fun, colourful, interactive multimedia made me want to grab that game stick from a five-year-old but I was held back by the stern look her father gave me.

A stay in London isn't complete without a visit to Tower Bridge and the London Eye so they were instinctively our first stops. It was tricky to get a photo without having so many other camera-toting tourists around us but it was worth every shove. It's easy to think that the handsome Tower Bridge is the London Bridge. The name is made famous by the nursery rhyme and you can't help but expect a really great bridge, but you'll be disappointed to see that the real London Bridge is nothing more than a road bridge. No extravagant suspension and no majestic castle nearby to indicate that it's a London attraction, unlike Tower Bridge.

As for the London Eye, you can't possibly miss it. It's called the London Eye for a reason, being Europe's tallest Ferris wheel with a height of 135 metres and strategically located on the banks of the River Thames overlooking the entire city.

Instead of seeing a panoramic view of yet another European city, yours truly and the husband chose to save a little bit more time for Madame Tussauds. It's a waxworks museum exhibiting famous and infamous figures. The new wax replica of _Twilight_ 's Robert Pattinson was guarded but those giggly girls could have effortlessly crushed the burly guard. From the name, the founder was obviously French but how on Earth did this great establishment end up across the sea in the UK? Quick research will tell you that Marie Tussaud, having inherited the art of wax modelling from her father, was asked by another artist to display her artwork in London with him. This artist turned out to be also gifted in manipulation as he took half of Marie's profits. Shortly afterwards, the Franco-British war broke out and she couldn't return to her homeland and later settled down on the west side of Baker Street. The rest, as they say, is history.

Next on the itinerary was a flight to Edinburgh which was rightly the most visited destination after London, as it is claimed. The capital of Scotland consists of a few districts, generally speaking the Old Town and – surprise, surprise – the New Town. I knew from the start my favourite would be the former with its castle and Georgian splendour. A significant number of notable figures were born here, namely Alexander Graham Bell, Charles Darwin, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, J. K. Rowling, Sir Walter Scott, Sir Sean Connery and Tony Blair, to name but a few.

We took the EasyJet bus from the city centre to the airport, which was miles away. It took about an hour and we had a rather unmemorable flight, reaching the Edinburgh airport at 9.30pm. There were two types of bus available at that hour. One was the expensive Airlink Express bus, which would take us directly to our hostel, and the other was Lothian, a typical one that would cost less. So what do you think we opted for? Why, of course, the cost-saving option.

And it was a terrible mistake. A full hour later, the bus was still nowhere near the city centre where our shelter was situated. On an impulse, we decided to get off at a stop where we thought the huge building across the road was one of the landmarks on our map.

And it was an even more terrible mistake. It was an insignificant building which didn't show on our map and as the clock struck eleven, there were barely a few people walking around looking sober. We managed to find a decent man who frowned when he found out where we were headed.

"I'm sorry, but you're going in a totally opposite direction," he said, which sounded only half as bad as the next thing he was about to say, "and the buses are all finished now. There is one night bus, though, but you have to wait for another half an hour."

"Can't we just walk instead?" Trying to save as much money as we could, I wasn't going to give up merely because we were going in the opposite direction.

"Sure, if you don't mind getting there at five in the morning." For someone who wanted to help, he sounded a little sarcastic.

We decided to wait for the bus instead and hoped that we would still get to the hostel by midnight as we had to pay an extra €24 if we were late. 11.30pm came and the bus, just like most parts in the UK, was punctual. Asking the driver how long he would take to get to our destination, we knew we wouldn't make it. We called the hostel to tell them that we were running late and hoped that we didn't have to pay the surcharge. I couldn't see the logical sense in it. We had already paid for the first day; why did we have to pay extra just because we were an hour late?

"I'm sorry but you still have to pay €12 each because it's already past midnight," the heavy-eyed young fella at the desk said. I guess we were paying for the beer that was keeping him awake. The moral of the story is, don't be so cheap that you start to compromise your safety. We'd wanted to save €10 each by taking the economy bus but we almost had to sleep outside in the cold and ended up paying more for being late. We vowed to take the express bus next time, every time.

Despite the lengthy and pricey detour, the hostel was pretty easy to find once we were within the vicinity. It was another residential building converted into a youth hostel. It was three times better than the one in London for the price of only €6 per night. It was a 16-bed room but everyone was so quiet that we were afraid to even move a muscle.

The next day we went downstairs for breakfast. We were told that we could have free chocolate drinks in the morning so to cover our lost €12 we had two huge cups each. Come on, don't start looking at me like that. We all do that. Don't tell me you've never taken home those expensive hotel shampoos and shower gels.

The day pass was so freaking cheap after London, we took the deal and stopped at the city's icon, Edinburgh Castle. You'd have to be really engrossed in something else, say a unicorn, not to notice the striking fortress located on one of the highest points in the city. Next stop was the Abbey and Palace of Holyroodhouse, the royal residence as well as the host of the Queen's Gallery. Right between these two imposing landmarks was St Giles' Cathedral, which after the Parisian Notre Dame and _Sacre_ _-_ _Coeur seemed featureless in my eyes._

All the aimless walking led us to Greyfriars Kirkyard, a very ancient graveyard dating back to the sixteenth century. Perhaps because it was our first time in a burial ground in Europe or perhaps we were simply used to watching Hollywood horror movies showing the same type of cemetery, but all of a sudden it felt chilly and quiet. While it was broad daylight, I felt like it was abruptly dark and the rustling sound of dry leaves made it even more chilling and unreal. We quickly made our way out.

If you're into supernatural phenomena, you'll be thrilled to know that the graveyard does have a reputation of being haunted. One momentous tale was linked to the infamous "Bloody" George Mackenzie who was buried there more than three centuries ago. They named it the Mackenzie Poltergeist, claimed to cause bruising, bites and cuts on visitors who crossed paths with him, and many reported having strange sensations. Back to the present time, some sightseers who take a ghost tour return with small injuries they have no idea how they acquired. Or it could be down to the staff, trying to build up some excitement.

Those may be tales parents tell their children to scare them away from venturing too far, but the Greyfriars Bobby story is as real as it gets. Bobby was a faithful dog who slept on his master's grave every day for thirteen years before he passed away himself. I wish my feline friend were half that loyal. She seems to love me only when she wants food.

On a cheery note, the food was marvellous if you'd nothing else. The revolting look and smell of haggis were too strong for me to get within a metre radius. It's made from sheep's waste parts like the lungs, heart and liver, boiled and then minced. The whole thing is then mixed with beef suet and toasted oatmeal. This wouldn't be too bad except for the ultimate step: sewing the mixture inside the sheep's stomach before further boiling it for up to three hours. Erk!

For a novice, the deep-fried Mars bar would be a safer bet. Well, depending on how you define "safe". You can't go wrong with a soft caramel chocolate and deep frying but without a doubt it's literally not a food for the weak-hearted. One oily, sweet bar and it will destroy your appetite for other food for the rest of the day.

By three in the afternoon, we had already covered all the attractions and a big Chinese buffet. To be honest, we were getting tired of buildings. They were all beautiful, of course, but they were ... buildings. We still had the daily pass and we decided to take the bus to the outskirts.

The first destination was the Portobello beach and yes, it's the same spelling as the large mushroom but as far as I know, they're not related. It lies to the east of Edinburgh, next to the historic village of Duddingston. What's so special about this place? I can't really vouch for it because I didn't find anything particularly appealing. Nice probably ruined me with its beautiful pebbly beach and vibrant city, but Portobello used to be an attractive beach resort in the late nineteenth century. What you can expect to find around here now are golden sand, ice cream and coffee booths and an amusement park which I thought was a little bit tacky, except for the sea view.

We took a long walk along the shore and took the next bus to the hilly village of Rosslyn where the fifteenth-century Rosslyn Chapel can be found, the very same Rosslyn Chapel mentioned in Dan Brown's _The Da Vinci Code_. Its official name is the Collegiate Chapel of St Matthew, founded by the noble Sinclair family of the Norman knights' origin. Somehow between then and now, the chapel has become a permanent focus for freemasonry and Knights Templar speculations. Not only that, it's also linked to extraterrestrial life. I can imagine why. The carvings of weird human faces on the architecture with greenery growing out of their mouths, dubbed Green Men, did look like green Martians.

We had seen everything we wanted to see so we started to make our way back to the bus stop, only to find out that the next bus was in an hour or so. The temperature was dropping steadily and, being the creative one, I suggested we walked down the hill to find another bus instead of being frozen to death there. The walk itself was peaceful, since we were the only two human beings on the meandering road, with herds of haggis – I mean, sheep – looking at us curiously from both sides while grazing the green grass.

We continued walking until the bus that we were supposed to take near the Rosslyn Chapel passed us breezily and we still didn't know where we were heading. Rafiee threw a sharp look at me and the ever-creative one pretended not to see it. Eventually we reached a bus stop. There were a few houses but not enough to have their own community. In a place whose name we didn't know, we hoped for a getaway bus to somewhere more familiar. Thankfully the next bus came within minutes and although we didn't know exactly where to go, the only way was out.

We got back to the city centre after about an hour and as we walked over the North Bridge towards the crowd, trying to figure out how to get to our hostel, there it was: a dusk view of Calton Hill on the skyline, adorned with the key buildings of the Scottish government. Too tired to actually go there, we admired the sight for a few minutes before getting on our bus.

That night, all showered and packed, we hit the sack as early as nine as we had to take a flight to Geneva at six thirty the next morning. We were the only two people in the room and we selfishly switched off the light. About ten minutes later, when we were still awake, one of our roommates came back. He appeared to be looking for something in the dark to no avail, and after three minutes I felt so bad I had to get up and tell him to switch on the light.

"You're sure?" He looked so guilty for interrupting our early night that one might have thought this guy had been caught chomping on some poor kid's candy on Halloween.

"Yes, of course. It's only 9.15. You can switch the light on," I assured him.

He thanked me gratefully and smiled. He switched on the light, found whatever he was looking for in a second, quickly switched the light off and slipped out before I knew it.

My God, I told myself, how thoughtful.

The next morning, we got up with no difficulty. Perhaps nobody had switched on the light after we'd fallen asleep yesterday so we had a really good night's sleep.

In the cold misty morning, we flagged down the Airlink Express bus (we'd learned our lesson) and off we went to Edinburgh airport. We arrived in Geneva a couple of uneventful hours later, and without wasting any more seconds we immediately bought a daily pass.

French-speaking Geneva is located on the banks of Lake Geneva, clean and shiny just like the city and its inhabitants. One out of two people that you bump into tends to be a foreigner, which comes as no surprise considering many international organisations have settled in Geneva, such as the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), the World Health Organisation (WHO) and the International Labour Organisation (ILO), among others.

Geneva is also home to all the finer things in life which can be afforded by 1% of the population. For the rest of us, window shopping is the way to go. As it's one of the world's most expensive cities, the most affordable way to eat there is to grow your own food. Since we were there for only a short time and it would be impossible for us to wait for our own plants to grow, we bought our food from a grocery store.

I don't think we missed anything food-wise. We didn't like cheese enough to enjoy their cheese fondue but we did buy some Swiss chocolates (nobody sane would go to Switzerland and not buy the best chocolate in the world), the only thing worth buying that we didn't have to sell our kidneys for. Can you believe that the Swiss hold the world record for consuming over 10 kilos of chocolate annually per _person_? I can believe it. If I lived there I would've improved the statistics.

There were a few similar-looking cathedrals that we skipped after the first one. It wasn't a novelty for us any more. I could really absorb the Swiss ambience just by feeding the swans at Lake Geneva (locally known as Lac Leman, which I think we can all agree doesn't sound anything like Geneva), overlooked by a row of snowy mountains, and window shopping in the city. That, to me, conveyed the essence of Geneva: imposing landscape, glowing, high-end stores, a spotless metropolis and truly global.

I caught a glimpse of what seemed like a broken fire hydrant and upon consulting my trusty guidebook, Rafiee confirmed that it was the Jet d'Eau (Water Jet), a water fountain pumped to a height of 140m into the air. I suspected it would serve its aesthetic purpose better at night when it's colourfully lit.

Geneva is also known for its Jardin Anglais (English Garden) and, expecting just another park with sun-tanning Westerners, I was pleased to see L'horloge Fleurie (Flower Clock). Using thousands of colourful flowers and shrubs, a clock was erected on the sloping part of the garden, and I found out later that the decoration changes every season.

A short walk later I spotted what looked like the London Albert Memorial monument but turned out to be the unrelated Brunswick Monument, constructed in 1873 to replicate the Scaligery family tomb in Verona. Nothing says "I was here" quite like a great monument, does it?

The Palais des Nations deserves a mention, though I personally didn't find it a highlight of my trip. The home of the United Nations, also the second-largest building complex in Europe, did look really intimidating. I half expected to see a guard jumping out of a corner to arrest me for wearing too-casual clothes. I was contemplating whether the Assembly Hall was worth paying to go round, but I figured I'd be seeing it for free when they finally realised that I'd make a really good candidate for the UN.

I have to say, though, my only regret about Geneva is that we didn't get on the Telepherique du Salève (Salève cable car) because that would have been a nice way to see the spectacular Mont Blanc. We did get to see the aerial view of the Alps on our flight to Nice, which was absolutely stunning. Suddenly the 1993 movie _Alive_ sprang to mind, the true story of how a Uruguayan rugby team survived a crash in the middle of the icy Andes mountains by eating their dead friends.

The thing about travelling by air is that you always have to empty your water bottle and we thought, why buy bottled mineral water when you can safely consume the tap water, right? We were about to learn a new lesson. While tap water in Europe is generally safe to drink, do trust your instinct. For example, we saw this drinking fountain in the old town of Geneva and a French signboard indicated that it was good for drinking. Sure, we saw dogs taking sips at the same spot and there were dried leaves on the pool but we figured the Swiss had a bulletproof system and wouldn't risk food poisoning getting in the way of their clean reputation.

So after our furry friends had cleared the area, I took my water bottle and got a full supply only after both Rafiee and I had drunk half the pool. To his credit, he did tell me not to drink from there but I convinced him that it was Europe and clean water was their specialty.

I sure hope the furballs had a better immune system because we started to get sick that very evening, feeling cold and disoriented. We initially thought we were just exhausted but I knew it was that dubious drinking fountain. After consuming bottles of clean water (store-bought) and going to the toilet dozens of times to flush out the toxins, we finally felt like ourselves. It took twelve long hours of deathly migraine and feeling like a zombie minus the appetite. No more public drinking water.

Our flight to Nice was next morning at six and the airport was just too far from the city so we agreed to stay overnight at the airport, making the steel benches and marble floor our bed for the night. At first we thought we would look out of place, like penny-pinching backpackers who couldn't afford bottled water. Turned out we were not the only ones who were being time– and admittedly cost–efficient. A number of people were seen lying in their preferred corners. We found a nice quiet corner behind an elevator where there were a few cushioned benches with armrests. Rafiee spread himself on the marble floor instead, making his backpack into a pillow. The airport lights were blinding so everyone was covering their eyes with their T-shirt or shawl. It was like being in the Pisa train station all over again except that we could both sleep in peace because the airport was relatively secure.

I woke up several times throughout the night that seemed like day, with the lights assaulting my eyes whenever my shawl moved an inch. Rafiee next to me on the cold floor was even snoring but then, I remember our couple's massage in Bali when he fell asleep and snored like a chimney. That guy can sleep anywhere. My bench wasn't as comfortable as I thought it was for the first five minutes. My bones had assumed different shapes to fit a bench that wasn't designed to be a bed.

At four, we started to get up. People were coming in for the early flights and we hadn't showered or brushed our teeth in twenty-four hours, so we took turns to clean up in the washroom. Changing our clothes, washing our faces and adding another layer of deodorant went a long way.

Getting off the plane at Nice airport brought back old memories. It would always remain special in our hearts because it was our first home abroad. This time, we were coming as tourists. We knew exactly which bus to take and where to go, so we expected the trip to be the smoothest of them all.

It was indeed. We obtained our precious residence permits with no surprises and then went to Vieux Nice, the old city where we stayed, to get our favourite roast chicken. We were already on our way back to the airport two hours ahead of schedule and found ourselves looking out of the bus window saying goodbye to the Mediterranean city.

"Can you imagine, Rafiee? We won't see this beach again. We won't get to eat that roast chicken any more," I whined, endlessly.

"I know," Rafiee agreed, "I think I'm going to miss this place the most. It has so many memories."

We were practically limping, walking towards the departure gate. But wait ... something wasn't quite right. Next to our flight details was a red word that unambiguously said "Delayed". It wasn't just our flight but a few others, too.

"Hmm, that's a first," I told Rafiee, "This board must have gone crazy to have all those flights delayed from all different destinations."

He frowned. "Oh well, we'll just have to wait for it to be up again."

Looking at the long stretch of desks, we saw many people trying to get information, which I thought was unnecessary because what can you do when your flight is delayed? The plane will come eventually; you just have to wait. And so we sat on a bench, feeling proud that we hadn't collapsed into panic mode like others.

Half an hour went and we thought of taking a look again, just in case they had got the time when the plane would be arriving. The red font was still there but it didn't spell "Delayed" any more. It was far worse. As I looked at the departure and arrival boards back and forth, and pinched myself to make sure I wasn't imagining it, it dawned on me that they had the same pattern. Most of the flights had been cancelled.

"Cancelled?!" I gasped for air. "It can't be cancelled! Is the board broken or something? How come 90% of these flights are cancelled?!"

"Wait, wait. Let's go to the desk and ask." Rafiee was still calm but I could tell he was moments away from mass-panic mode.

The long queue at the information desk was getting on our nerves, all five hundred of us. Everyone was talking to each other in different languages and the ones way in front had even resorted to yelling. One second later, I realised that people were taking out their mobiles and making frantic calls. Something was terribly wrong.

"I can't believe we're stranded here." The American woman in front of us turned around as if she could hear the questions in our minds.

"Stranded? Why?" I asked, without even a hi.

Rafiee had his ears wide open.

"A volcano in Iceland erupted a few hours ago and the ash cloud was so bad that lots of planes are not allowed to fly," she said, adding, "and I need to call my husband to tell him I won't be able to make it to our first wedding anniversary."

Off she went and we looked at each other, trying to digest what we had just found out.

"Come on, now. We'll think of another way to get to Ireland. We should call the hostel or they'll charge us extra like the one in Edinburgh," I told Rafiee, but I didn't quite believe what I said myself.

Rafiee didn't buy it either. He took my hand and pulled me towards the airline desk, walking past the frenzied queue. Chaos was slowly spreading, like in a low-budget zombie movie. I kept myself composed. I wasn't going to be one of these hysterical packs.

"I'm sorry, sir, but all flights are cancelled because of the volcano eruption. Please fill in the online form and you will be refunded in a week or so," the tired-looking lady told us, and I'm sure she'd been saying the same thing for the last hour.

"When is the next flight, then?" Rafiee asked.

"We still don't know. It may be tomorrow or maybe in a few days."

PANIC!

"What are we going to do? We've booked a room in Dublin! They won't refund us! We can't stay here! I have a paper in a few days! Do you think I came all the way from Malaysia to fail my semester because some volcano exploded?!?!?" I started yelling my thoughts out loud.

She didn't flinch. Wow, I thought, she had seen even worse.

"Let's see if other airlines are flying to the UK and we can get a bus or boat to go to Dublin." Rafiee made a suggestion that seemed to be a great alternative – if hundreds of other people hadn't thought of the same thing, too.

We joined a few other queues just to be given the same answer. It was always, "We're not flying at all today and the next flights are all booked until Friday."

I couldn't wait until Friday. It was only Tuesday. I had a paper to sit on Monday and we would be spending lots of money staying there doing nothing. We took the shuttle bus to go to the other terminal to see if the luxury airlines had any flights out we could take.

None. Same answer everywhere else. It was a total mess. People were screaming into the phones and to the people behind the desk, and some were crying their eyes out. We returned to our terminal to check if there was any progress but it was even more chaotic than when we'd left.

We decided we could really use some help. It was a blessing that we were stranded in Nice, rather than other places on our itinerary. At least we knew some people and our way there. We dialled Joe's number.

"Hi, Joe." I prayed hard that he was not away on some skiing trip. "It's Rafiee and Izni."

"Oh, hi!" a cheerful voice burst from the other end of the line. "How are you? Where are you calling from?"

"Um, Nice airport. Our flight got cancelled because this volcano in Iceland erupted and we need a place to stay so—"

"Sure, that's fine! Come over. I'm home with Mike."

Such a great friend; I didn't even get to finish my question. Smiling to Rafiee I said, "Thanks Joe, we're on our way."

It was a good thing that we still kept in touch via Facebook after we'd left Nice or I would feel terrible about calling Joe for shelter when I hadn't even told him that we were coming to the city. We were sure we wouldn't be much of a burden; we weren't expecting to stay for more than twenty-four hours.

Mike, Joe's housemate and equally accommodating, had made the bed for us. He had a double bed so he loaned his room to us while he slept on the couch outside, without even a single sigh. If anything, he looked excited talking about a new TV show that he had just downloaded.

"I'm sorry, Mike, that you have to sleep outside tonight," I apologised, profusely.

"Naaah, that's okay. We're used to having visitors. We used to have ten people sleeping in the house at the same time so this is nothing." He grinned. It must have been a great night.

"We'll leave as soon as we can. I'm sure the sky will be clear soon," I told him, confidently.

The next day while Joe and Mike were goofing around in the living room with a couple of friends, Rafiee and I were glued to our laptop looking for a way out. The flights were all either cancelled or fully booked, also the buses and ferries. How on Earth were we going to make our way out of the South of France to northern England over the sea?

"Have you tried the trains?" I asked Rafiee. We were taking turns to see if there were any seats on any flight – any at all – leaving the country.

"Well, there are seats from here to Paris but we'll still be stuck in this country. The buses and ferries crossing the sea were all sold out." He sighed, looking tired.

"Even the trains?"

"There's only Eurostar and it will set us back €250."

"My God! 250-freaking-Euros can get us to—"

"For one person. So €500 for two.""Say what?! "

"It's okay, you can go ahead. I'll leave later when the flights start running and the prices stabilise." Rafiee spoke in a heartbeat. It was typically him, putting me first.

Like in a love movie, I meant it when I gave him the choice, "I'm not leaving without you. It's either we stay here and I flunk the exam which is only a small price to pay, or we leave this place together. "

It was a difficult choice to make. On one hand, it was way too expensive just to get to the UK. You can make the same trip at one tenth of that. ONE TENTH! The Irish hostel couldn't refund the first day's stay because of the policy they had, even if the world had stopped going round. On the other, nobody knew when the sky would be clear. For all we knew, it could be days or even weeks. I had an exam in less than a week. Rafiee didn't want me to take the risk.

So we turned a blind eye to the price and booked a couple of TGV tickets (Train a Grande Vitesse, or high-speed train for you non-French-speakers) from Nice to Paris, the mega-pricey Eurostar train-crossing from Paris to London and the night bus from London to Newcastle. We were leaving after forty-eight hours of being stranded. It would be the most expensive 24-hour trip we'd ever had and there wasn't even any sightseeing involved.

We were told by our _Nicoise_ friends that we didn't have to purchase the TGV tickets because (naturally) the French were on strike so nobody was checking anyone's tickets. We didn't want to break any rules, especially in a foreign country where we couldn't use English to defend ourselves. After all the money spent booking the way out, we wanted to play as safe as possible. Our main concern was that some trains were not even operating because of the strike. If the train wasn't running, we were going to miss the next mega-pricey train and bus and waste close to €700, just to be back at square one. There was only one way to find out.

The next morning, the train station was indeed unruly. We didn't say a word at the time but we were both thinking the same thing. There was no guarantee that the trains were running but at least there were people in uniform so some of them must have had a bit of common sense. We looked at the departure board and even though our train was there, no details were provided – was it delayed or on time? Nothing changed, even fifteen minutes before boarding.

All we knew was, the departure gate was opened and people were screaming, "Paris, Paris!" so we prayed hard and joined the mad crowd that led us to our coach. It was true. Many of these people hadn't got tickets. They just barged in and sat on empty seats. Most didn't mind standing, even though it was going to take six hours. Since we had valid tickets, we automatically secured the right to shoo away the people who were occupying our seats. Sorry, old man, paid passengers only.

For the whole trip the freeloaders just sat there casually as if we were on a thirty-minute bus ride to the market. Some kind people let women sit on their armrests. It was very third-world and to think that countless people look up to Westerners was eye-opening. Granted, people are willing to do lots of things to save a few bucks. We're also guilty as charged but we draw the line at breaking the rules.

We made it, well, one third of it anyway. The train was moving towards Paris with no interruption except to pick up more freeloaders – I mean, passengers – on the way. When we got to Paris, we only had a couple of hours to spare before going to the other train station. We walked past the Eiffel Tower and barely glanced. We just wanted to make it home.

The queue for the Eurostar was building up. There was a Passport Control, of course, but we were feeling good about it. We still hadn't exceeded our six months' stay in the UK and we had valid French residence permits that allowed us to travel freely through the Schengen Area for three months. We had fully paid tickets and we were a few people away from getting the last train home, so to speak. We checked the Eurostar website again after booking the tickets and found that the seats were all sold out. Imagine that, all sold out in the space of a few hours! It was like the whole of France was buying a seat every minute, and I wouldn't be surprised if that was really the case.

"Hi there, your passports please?" The fierce-looking officer greeted us politely but not so as to indicate that she was easy game.

"Hi there, here you go." Rafiee handed the Indian lady both our passports.

She flipped the pages and started to frown. The she raised her suspicious eyes and looked at us with what I was sure a flash of a heinous smile. I thought there were also a couple of little red horns on her head but I couldn't be sure because her forked tail was distracting me.

"You left the UK last week after three months there. Why are you coming back again?" she started her interrogation.

"I study there and my husband is a visitor. Legally we can stay in the UK for six months. We came to France to pick up our renewed French residence permits. You can see them right there in our passports." I honestly didn't understand why the officer had started to question us.

"Can I see your tickets for flying out?"

"We haven't bought any tickets because we're not sure where to go after this."

Beeeeeep! Wrong answer.

"I'm sorry, I can't let you in. I need to see your flight tickets out of the UK before you can board this train."

My head started to spin and Rafiee started to sweat. Sweating in a temperature of 5 Celsius only means a serious psychological health problem.

"Why not? We still have another three months!" Rafiee wasn't about to give up easily. We hadn't spent €700 just to be stranded in another city, even if it was the amorous city of Paris.

The devil gave us a cold stare that stabbed right through our brains while she made a few calls. I could tell she was weighing her options. She didn't want to be one of the lenient officers who contributed to the thousands of overstayers in Great Britain but at the same time we were like lost puppies, or at least that's how I hoped she saw us.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, she shook her head and reached for her stamp.

"I'm going to let you in but I'll have to put a stamp on your passports as an indication that you have to leave by the twelfth of June. Not a single day later, alright?"

Relieved. My head stopped spinning and Rafiee stopped sweating.

"Thank you, madam. You can't believe how—"

"Just make sure you leave the country by this date, and next time make sure you have your bloody outbound tickets or I'll throw you both behind bars for life." Okay, she didn't exactly say those words but she might as well have done. She was definitely an evil spirit in disguise. How could one be so cold but still want to work where she had to deal with different kinds of people on a daily basis? Obviously she found pleasure in causing others psychological stress.

As we sat on the luxurious seats of Eurostar, we looked at each other and smiled meaningfully. We were almost there. We'd passed the strike in Nice, the Passport Control in Paris and now we were definitely on our way home. The train ride crossing the English Channel was dark and uneventful. I wished they had made a translucent sea tunnel instead, then I wouldn't have minded paying extra.

Arriving in the train station in London, everyone was cheering and laughing. Families and friends were waiting with banners welcoming their stranded ones. Lots of hugs, kisses and happy tears in the air; it almost felt like we were coming back from a war where we'd been held hostage. Of course, nobody was waiting for us but we weren't expecting anyone either, so it didn't matter. At least we had each other and both of us had reached England safe and sound.

After the long hours, waiting for a few hours for the midnight bus was not an issue. The bus had no problem reaching us and so we got into the bus and slept the whole way until we were awakened by the conductor. It was 5.30 in the morning and we had arrived in Newcastle.

Hoorah! But we were far too dead tired to celebrate and there was no bus or taxi in sight. Again, families and friends were picking up our fellow passengers. We said nothing and started walking home for another forty-five minutes in the dim morning light with heavy backpacks. When I saw our house, it felt like the happiest day of my life in Newcastle. We then got into such high spirits that we didn't try to sleep. Instead, we unpacked, showered and browsed the Internet to see if we had missed anything for the past twenty-four hours.

Apparently not a lot. Flights were still off and if we had chosen to wait in Nice, it turned out we would have had to stay for one whole week before the planes started to fly again and even then, many if not all were fully booked. A lot of Samaritans chose to cancel their flights to give way to the stranded people, which I found extremely amazing.

Next thing I did was to check my e-mails. Well well well, what do we have here? Just an e-mail from the university acknowledging that a lot of students were marooned all around the world and so the exams could be postponed for those who requested it, due to that unfortunate event. Drat, I was already home. No excuse not to study and sit for the exam. The e-mail had come thirty-six hours too late.

Exams came and went as usual. Then it was time for the board interview where all partners of the programme would be in attendance to enquire our grand, future career-plan. We supposedly should know exactly what we wanted to do after one year on the programme. And it was also the time when they were going to approve or disapprove our choice of university for the third semester.

I was considering Germany because of its world-class technology, Spain for the opportunity to learn a new widely-used language and Hungary for its 100-year-old university. It was easy to choose. Obviously I'd go with Budapest, Hungary. I reckoned my career plan fitted the specialisation nicely – inland water management – because the board didn't have any problems in approving my choice. Of course Reynold tried to tempt me to come back to Nice but why go to the same place when you can venture into a new one? I knew Kyla and Mika were going to Budapest as well, but nobody else. It was definitely going to be the smallest group compared to other more popular locations but you know what they say, the best things come in small packages.

Yet one small problem still remained. Rafiee and I still had to decide where to stay and what to do in the three-month summer. I guess moving to a mountain and shepherding wasn't a bad idea but our Plan A was to get me an internship so that the summer wouldn't be wasted and I wouldn't have to start my third semester smelling like one of those sheep.

A month before the semester ended, I started applying to various companies for a potential summer internship. Part of me wanted to go home but part of me wanted to utilise the opportunity. It's not easy to gain experience abroad and I had been dreaming about it from the first semester when the professor proudly told us that some of our seniors spent their summer working in a European company.

It was an extremely awesome plan but it wasn't solely up to me. None of the companies responded positively. One even said I was overqualified. I'm pretty sure they were being polite but we corresponded in French so I might have misunderstood him. Perhaps he meant to say the opposite of overqualified? We'll never know and maybe that's best. Then I got a contact from one of the seniors and he replied immediately saying that he was going to find me an internship in the company because I had the qualifications they could use.

That's an example of working life that I'm sure everyone over eighteen is familiar with. No matter how good you are, if you don't know anyone on the inside it can be tough to compete with those who are no better than you but know someone in the company. Networking, I learned, is the best tool for working your way up the corporate ladder in all corners of the world.

A couple of days later, I got a definite reply. They had a place for me. I was so excited I had to wake my parents who were already asleep at 10pm in Malaysia. Even in their drowsiness I could sense their pride and the feeling of making your parents proud is priceless. The company secretary had already found our accommodation and everything was set. We were going to spend the summer in Fredensborg, Denmark.

That would be the perfect ending to this chapter, but there was a glitch. Mika wouldn't be joining us in Budapest. In fact, she wasn't joining anyone else. She found her own path and even though it took her by surprise, she felt it was a happy one at that. She was pregnant with Malek's baby. Malek was an Algerian student whom she'd befriended in Nice.

I shared her joy but couldn't help feeling like there was a piece missing. It looked like it was only Kyla and me; it didn't sound like it was going to be a fun semester no matter how awesome a person Kyla was. I couldn't skip class without being noticed now. Well, not that I did that often but it's good to have options.

I couldn't dwell on it for too long, I found out about Mika's pregnancy by chance when I touched her belly on our last night in Newcastle. Why did I touch it? Because it looked suspiciously big and I naively thought she was hiding a bag. She was glowing nonetheless and that's how I remember her. I never did get the chance to see her again after that night.

And that's how the second semester really ended in June 2010.

Chapter 7

Upon arriving at the gigantic Copenhagen airport, we were greeted by many Danish flags. It was most likely because of the 2010 World Cup. The airport had to be the biggest that we had ever been to. It took about fifteen minutes just to walk from our arrival gate to the train stop.

Inside the train, both Rafiee and I scrutinised the Danish faces. We heard that they had distinctive eye colour and looks and it's absolutely right. They do seem different, paler with lighter eye colour. Placing them in a crowd of fellow Europeans, I think 70% of the time I can tell them apart.

We reached the Kokkedal station at almost six in the evening and we were welcomed by our landlord named Haagen with his six-year-old son. He was also working in the same company so most days I would be going to the office with him. He was a tall man in his late thirties with grey hair and even greyer eye colour. We took an instant liking to him.

It took about ten minutes to reach our new home. It was a little garden house, close to his own. The kitchen and laundry room were at the back, then the bathroom in between our room and another that was unoccupied. Our new housemate would not be coming until August so we had the house to ourselves for most of our stay.

Haagen was the best landlord you could ever wish for. He had cleaned and cleared the house. He even put in two heart-shaped pillows as if it was a honeymoon suite and the fridge was filled with juice, milk and something that looked like bread but in black. It was actually rye bread, something that the Danes really savour. Not for us.

He took us for a stroll around the neighbourhood to show us the shops and the forest near the summer residence of the royal family. You could say we were practically their neighbours because of the close proximity. A huge lake called Lake Esrum was nearby and it was as blue as if someone had accidentally spilled blue colouring continuously for ten years.

"So how do you find your new home and place so far?" Haagen asked while we were walking.

"Great! The house is wonderful and it's close to the shops and I love how we're also close to this forest. I can go jogging," I added for good measure.

"Ah yes, I need to trim down this beer belly, too." He rubbed his round tummy. I hoped I hadn't offended him.

"Shh ..." he froze and turned serious as if we'd suddenly been thrown into a Bond scene. "There!" He pointed to not far from where we were standing. It was Bambi – I mean, a deer – minding its own business and then it saw us and froze. It made a good imitation of Haagen, I should say. Taking one step forward, it bolted across the path and disappeared into the deep forest.

"You will see that a lot." Haagen grinned. "It's a really nice place."

"Yes, we sure will enjoy this place," Rafiee said, and I couldn't agree more.

Fredensborg is a simple railway town but the simplicity is its beauty. The royal family has good reason to make it one of their homes and it is said that the castle is one of the most beautiful not only in Denmark, but the whole of Scandinavia.

Haagen told me I could join him on his way to work most mornings but he usually had something on in the afternoons so I still had to purchase a monthly bus pass which cost me €45, three times more than most places in Europe. No wonder Denmark is known as one of the most expensive countries in the world. Income tax can reach up to 50% and recently they invented the first fat tax. Yes, you read it right. To combat the increasingly overweight population, Denmark has started to impose tax on foods that are high in saturated fat, like butter, milk and cheese, which are all Danish staples. Only in Denmark does this kind of tax not sound too out of place.

The first day of work, I came well prepared wearing a set of formal attire. Of course Haagen was wearing the same thing that he wore when he picked us up at the train station – black T-shirt, black slacks, black shoes and a smile. I asked him if he was going to the site and he looked confused. Apparently the Danes dress quite casually for work.

When I got to the office, my supervisor wasn't yet there so I stayed in Haagen's office and had my share of people-watching. They were indeed laid-back, wearing skirts, flip-flops and jeans. It was summer after all. I wasn't used to it. In Malaysia, in all three companies I had joined it was always ironed shirts and pants with a pair of closed-toe heels. I had a feeling I would enjoy working there.

I was nervous, definitely. Who wouldn't be? First day at work in a local company made me nauseous enough and there I was in Denmark, a global company full of people from different roots. I couldn't believe my luck, to go from studying abroad to actually working there. The thought had never crossed my mind.

I didn't have to wait long. My supervisor, Jacob, arrived fifteen minutes later and came to Haagen's office to get me. I shook his hand as firmly as I could. I had read up all the tips on making a good first impression.

"Hi there. I'm Izni. Nice to meet you." A little nervous but I'm sure he understood.

He smiled and motioned me to follow him. Jacob was probably in his late thirties and he had his glasses on. He was also wearing jeans but he made himself look professional with his tucked-in checked shirt and polished work-shoes. You know what they say, you can learn a lot about someone from his/her shoes. This Jacob fella was a relaxed but committed professional.

We sat down at a table in his office and he gave me a few files to study. The department was already full but since the Europeans take their summer seriously, there was always someone going away for the summer vacation so I'd have to move around the company throughout the duration of my time there, which I didn't really mind.

My first shared workspace was with a man in his early fifties, named Oskar. He was big-built and looked quite intimidating until he started speaking. He was warm and he made jokes effortlessly. I already liked the place.

Now that Rafiee and I had moved out of the Newcastle home, we still hadn't got our deposit back from Nasser. Bombarding him with ten e-mails a day didn't work. I had to call him and later still had to remind him about the deposit, only to get €25 short. E-mailing him ten times more didn't produce any response either, until I made another long-distance call.

Funny how these people are always prompt when you're enquiring about their house or offering to pay a deposit to book the property. It's like all they do at work is sit right in front of their laptop waiting for a new e-mail to respond to, and suddenly get too busy to talk about refunds.

"I'm sorry but there's a bank surcharge," Nasser apologised, but he sounded more sorry that he'd picked up my call.

"Exactly. That's why I asked you before we left if we should get the cash instead but then you said you were going to pay the extra charge," I argued. We did have that discussion but I once again hadn't put it in black and white.

"Yes I know, but the charge was too high. I was thinking of €5 and not a cent more."

Lame; we both knew that no bank is that generous.

"Well, you should've mentioned that small print. Thanks anyway. No way I'm recommending you to anyone else."

I hung up. I was mad of course, but I knew better than to bicker with someone who wouldn't admit his mistake. It wasn't about the money, it was about them being the most hypocritical property agent I ever encountered, who still managed to stay in business. Just for the sake of my mental health, I wrote a complaint and sent it to multiple e-mail addresses within the company. It was silly, considering it was his own company so he had no superior to report to, but it made me feel better and I hoped the staff would keep in mind how their boss worked. He never replied but that was no longer my concern.

Things were made better with my birthday being a few days later. Rafiee and I decided to celebrate it on the weekend and we thought of doing things differently. Not many girls can say their partner takes them for a birthday picnic in the forest. The woods were huge and so serene with only sounds of insects and birds filling the silence. I fell asleep once when I was lying on a wooden bench after a run while looking at the blue sky. Or maybe it was because I hadn't worked a single muscle in such a long time.

We had cakes and drinks. It was just like any other birthday except we were surrounded by ancient trees, colourful insects playing hide-and-seek, reindeers lurking nearby and noisy birds flying over us. Looking out over the blue Lake Esrum, I didn't feel as lonely as I'd thought I would on my first birthday abroad with only my husband to celebrate it with. I had always celebrated my big day with my family and friends. Again, Rafiee had a lot to do with it. It was different but not a bad difference.

A supposedly happening place for any kind of celebration would be Copenhagen. The trend is that young people tend to live in Copenhagen and those with a growing family are inclined to settle down in the suburbs. This is understandably a natural flow. Copenhagen is one busy and vibrant city and it just keeps growing. The Oresund Bridge connecting the city to the Swedish city of Malmö makes it even easier for their neighbours to pay a visit.

Denmark is reputed to have an excellent quality of life, being family-friendly and out of harm's way. Our house in Fredensborg, for instance, had no lock so essentially anyone could come and go freely without us noticing, but according to Haagen that's normal in small towns. Crimes are rare in the suburbs. Try unlocking your gate in Kuala Lumpur one night and all your shoes will be gone by morning. And only your shoes, if you're lucky. Otherwise, you will also wake up to broken cars. I know; it happened to me twice. While its reputation is still true to a certain extent, Copenhagen is no longer as safe as it used to be.

Gang fights are on the loose between bikers (with the big, bulky bikes and not those with a front basket) and immigrants (sadly some Danes hate immigrants with all their bloody might; e.g. the Danish People's Party vows to put a stop to non-Western immigrants and it's gaining an alarming popularity). Crime is also the main reason many are opposed to the drugs legalisation (although those in Christiana can easily get their supply on the way to a fish market) as the drug money is used to pay gang members. Strangely it's seldom broadcast on the international news, if ever. I only found out from the local news and my colleagues, so outsiders still thought the city was safe. Then again, it's relative. Compared to Rio de Janeiro, Copenhagen is like a city of angels.

Putting that aside, Copenhagen is still as sweet as ever. How can it not be when it's the birth-place of the Little Mermaid? In tribute to Hans Christian Andersen, who also penned the tales _The Snow Queen_ , _The Ugly Duckling_ and _Thumbelina_ , the statue was erected in 1913 and has been a major attraction ever since. It's quite a long way from the city centre but no visit is complete without seeing the demure-looking mermaid statue resting on a boulder in Copenhagen's harbour. Unfortunately when we went there it was on its very first overseas exhibition-trip to China so it was replaced by a huge, half-naked mermaid statue. Ah well; Rafiee didn't seem to mind.

That summer on the day we wandered through the colourful, commercial port of Nyhavn, there was another overcrowded place nearby. Tivoli seemed to be offering gold to its customers, as people endlessly swamped the entrance. One of the oldest amusement parks in history, Tivoli first opened in 1843 and today provides a variety of entertainment for kids and kid-alikes. You'll be charmed by its palaces, lake and colourful flowers. Come when it gets dark and you'll be captivated by the lights, just like in a fairy tale.

If you like shopping (though I can never understand people coming to one of the world's most expensive cities to shop), you'll love Stroget. It's the world's longest pedestrian street at 1.1km, flanked by rows of shops, high-end and high-street included. I personally liked the many buffets offered along the road, only to find out that the only way they could afford to keep the price at €7 was because it was compulsory to buy a drink at half that price. A fairy tale debunked.

Copenhagen is a big city but we were done with it after a couple of days. Subsequently every other weekend we would explore another part of Denmark even if it was just another forest. Since Denmark is practically flat, there was no mountain for us to hike up but there were quaint cities like Hillerod, Helsingor and _Gilleleje_ _._

I thought Hillerod was a decent alternative to Copenhagen. Although most wouldn't think so, it was enough of an entertainment for both of us. You can find there an English bookstore, a cinema, nice restaurants, museums, street performing arts and the imposing Frederiksborg Castle surrounded by a great baroque garden, so more often than not we preferred going there instead of being stuck in a crowded train for an hour heading to Copenhagen.

Helsingor was another favourite, a bit further up the north-east coast of Zealand. The Oresund Strait separates the city from another Swedish city, closely named Helsingborg. Most famously known for the setting of William Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ , Kronborg Castle (or Elsinore, as Shakespeare spelled it) stole the limelight the moment we came out of the train station.

After the two little towns adorned with cobblestone streets and old-fashioned display windows, we had a change of scenery at Gillejeje, a coastal city at the most northern point of Zealand. To get to the beach from the train station we had to walk through the town centre, which was a pleasant amble. Some clever people had decided to preserve the narrow alleyways and timbered houses from the fishing era so the place was memorable. Finding the harbour was easy as the seafood eateries had queues of people relishing their hot meals. The smell of fish lingered, completing the ambience.

I had the opportunity to sample all sorts of Danish cuisines as the office provided a buffet lunch every day. Not sure if it was a good thing, as I never could shove the marinated herring into my throat. The menu changed occasionally but the must-haves for the Danes would be the open sandwich (dark rye-bread with herring, liver pate, horseradish and the like), breaded flatfish, lots of fresh salad, lots of raw seafood, soups (tomato, mussel), cheese and one of the very few things I could tolerate – fish _frikadeller_ – a flat, fried fish–ball. Sometimes they made an attempt to make Asian food as we had a number of Asian work visitors and although I wouldn't call it their specialty, most of the time I preferred the watered-down curry to the horseradish salad. Almost every day I would grab extra napkins and get something new for Rafiee to try at home. I've always liked sharing with him; except when I really like the food, of course.

Breakfast and tea time were my favourites. There was virtually nothing that I wouldn't gobble down. I loved the buttered bread, marzipan cake and oh, how can you not like the crispy, glazed Danish pastry? It filled the void in my sweet tooth after missing all the French desserts. Being a foreigner, it can be quite daunting to find a seat where you're not surrounded by Danish-speaking people. Sometimes it was either that or sitting alone so I had my share of looking awkward and smiling at jokes I didn't understand. They always tried to speak English at first but after ten minutes the funniest jokes had to be told in Danish.

At home, Rafiee rotated my favourite chicken dishes – _tom yam_ , _panang_ curry, green curry, oyster sauce and chilli. I never got tired of any of them, although, in that food paradise also known as Malaysia, even with twenty different types of curry I'd be complaining of having no choice for my lunch. This must be what being grateful feels like.

One day at work, a colleague who was also a good friend of Oskar gave me what tasted like the best juice ever. It was sweet, sour and flowery. It was elderflower juice and it was a perfect interpretation of summer. Eva taught me how to make it, so that very evening I took Rafiee hunting for elderflowers. Haagen had some in his garden so we didn't have to go far, but even if he hadn't had any it was easily available in the forest.

I collected as many elderflowers as I could in my big plastic bag while Rafiee started to boil some water. When I got home, he had filled a jug with hot water, lemon and sugar. I only had to wash the flowers to get rid of the odd bit of scum before putting them into the jug, and I was done for the day.

That was on Tuesday. If I'd done it right, we would be enjoying fresh elderflower juice on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon. Honestly though, it's so simple that it's actually hard to get it wrong. You'd have to have deliberately sabotaged it if your attempt ends up going down the drain. Well, just don't forget to keep it refrigerated and stir it twice a day for a few days. I preferred diluting it with five parts water but if you like it sweet then feel free to experiment. My first try was victorious and we celebrated by enjoying the summer drink in the garden.

One fine morning while Haagen was driving us to work, he told me about the Midsummer Festival that was happening the following weekend.

"You should go to the Midsummer Festival by the lake," he said, "It's the biggest celebration here after Christmas, on the longest day of the year, more commonly known as the summer solstice."

"The whole of Denmark celebrates it? So everyone will be there?" I naively asked.

"Oh no," he laughed. "I mean, the whole of Scandinavia celebrates it but the celebrations are all scattered. Each community has its own celebration so the one closest to us is of course by Lake Esrum."

"What do they do?" I still didn't get exactly how they celebrated this Midsummer Festival. I definitely had to think twice about going if it involved dancing naked in the forest.

"Well, they build bonfires with wood branches and straw, and make it look like a witch. You see, the burning symbolises the church's witch-burnings in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They light the fires when the sun sets, as a gesture of sending off the witches to the Brocken mountain in Germany because that was where they had their great gathering." Haagen was on a roll. "Then we sing the Midsummer hymn _Vi Elsker Vort Land,_ which means We Love Our Country."

Ah yes, we love our country; so witches, go play at the neighbour's.

"And you can get soft ice. It's very popular around here in summer," Haagen added.

Soft ice is apparently a great invention, a cross between vanilla ice cream and frozen cool whip. Haagen wasn't the only one convinced that they have the world's best soft ice. The world's best soft ice cream and witch-burning, where else can we get that odd combination?

That weekend Rafiee and I walked to the lake to see many families and kids holding soft ice. Couples were on boats on the lake and the sun was about to set. There were not only bonfires by the lake but also on the lake itself. Boats, canoes and kayaks sailed peacefully to the rhythm of the calm water. It was magical.

In one corner, someone with an air of dignity about him was giving a speech to the crowd. It was probably some politician taking the opportunity to make himself known. I wouldn't know. I was there for the soft ice and witch-burning.

We had to get in the long queue that never seemed to run out of people but we finally got the famous soft ice, sprinkled with generous chocolate powder. You would think that vanilla ice cream would taste the same all around the world but this is soft ice we're talking about. Light as clouds, airy as a summer breeze and audaciously vanilla-flavoured – it makes all the difference.

While we were enjoying our soft ice by the lake, a man with his dog was smiling at us and approached us. He was a professor in a forest research institute. His teenage son seemed eager to practise his English so we ended up talking about everything. The rest of the neighbourhood was equally welcoming. We were the only Asians there but we felt like we just fitted in. I guess those who supported the Danish People's Party were having their celebration somewhere else. People always smiled and said hi, unlike in the UK. I was almost expecting them to ask for my autograph.

As the sun started to set, we walked to the jetty and looked at the burning witches. It was breathtaking. It was the most splendid sunset I ever witnessed in my entire life. The sky had stripes of black and orange and across the horizon was the beaming sun, making a grand exit. The man and his son didn't stay long.

"Well, we see this every year and we go to a different place each time. I must say, this has been one of the most beautiful evenings." He echoed my thoughts exactly and turned to us with a genuine smile. "Enjoy your stay in Denmark."

As the people started chanting their love for the country and thrusting the Danish lyrics upon us, we didn't need to be reminded of how lucky we were to be standing there watching a local celebration with them. We weren't just seeing the sights from behind a window or reading about them in a travel brochure. We were among them.

Seeing those canoes had us thinking that we should have a go. We'd never tried it before but it looked easy enough. So one day we packed our camera, books and lunch and set off on our way to rent a canoe for a couple of hours.

It was a good day to be outside. A little windy but we were sure we could handle it. The young man who was manning the canoes was a friendly and helpful guide. He showed us where we could go.

"Just this short distance in a straight line, and no more than thirty metres away from the shore? Well, can't we go there?" I showed him the end point. "Because then we can just make a loop here and come back."

"If you have time, then sure." He smiled, obviously amused by my determination.

"Wait, you're not coming?" I asked him when Rafiee and I had our life jackets on, all ready to rev, or so my head liked to think.

"Oh no, it's just you and your husband. Don't worry, it's not difficult." Yes, I thought so too, but I was surprised that he trusted us first-timers to handle the canoe on our own.

Once again, I'd underestimated the sport and overestimated my untapped talent. It was easier said (or watched, in my case) than done. The young man had to give us a few pushes as we were struggling to even steer the canoe away from the shore. Forget about having lunch and reading while in the canoe; taking seconds to get a photo was already putting our lives at risk.

The wind was blowing furiously and while making sure we didn't stray too far from the shore, we were pushed to the shore instead and got stuck in some overgrown branches. The canoe fella, in between laughing and running, came to the rescue. He gave us a final push as hard as he could and we ended up going in a circle for the next hour. With great effort we finally managed to return to base. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used that much energy.

I don't have to tell you that we never got to the end of the suggested straight line and even farther away from the point I had ambitiously intended. You have to admire my confidence and spirit, though. I haven't given up the sport; I just have to do it on a less windy day and preferably in a swimming pool. We did have a great time laughing, though, and screaming a jumble of instructions until my mouth hurt almost as much as my arms. Almost.

As an extension to my athletic lifestyle (or lack thereof), Oskar suddenly asked me about Sportfest, one lovely morning at work.

"Are you joining today's Sportfest?"

"Maybe if I knew what that was, I would," I craftily answered, instead of saying simply: "I have no idea what on Earth Sportfest is."

"You should! We have this sports day annually where we compete against all other companies around here. Doug has registered for petanque but his two partners bailed out so he needs a couple of people."

Doug shared Oskar's office. He's a quiet Canadian that I got to know after he came to work unexpectedly and politely escorted me to another empty space in the office.

"Eh? Registered for what?" I had a feeling I didn't want to do it.

"You know petanque. I think it's called boules in some countries."

"You're kidding, right? I never played that game before. I don't even know the rules."

I knew the game though. I saw pensioners playing it in France so many times. I wasn't familiar with the rules but I could roughly make out the game. It was like bowling but using steel balls and played on sand.

Oskar was undeterred. "Doesn't matter. I'll show you during lunch. I think Rasmus will join you guys, too." Rasmus was our Danish colleague who loved classical music and even played musical instruments. He let me borrow his CD collection because I'd read some papers saying that classical music can improve your intellect and at least I did feel smarter when I listened to the elegant compositions.

"Wait, wait. You don't understand. It's better for them to play without me, I can assure you that. They have a higher chance of winning as a two-person team than having me around."

Right that second, Doug came into my office with a company T-shirt.

"Hi, Izni! I assume Oskar has told you about the game today? Here's your T-shirt. You're in luck, they still have a few small ones."

That was when my brain chose to shut down. Before I could think of any possible excuses other than that I was allergic to steel and sand, they left and happily announced that they would see me outside later. I was left high and dry, not really sure what had just happened. I didn't want to be a pain in the neck so I decided to go along, but only after reminding Doug and Rasmus that we were not doing this to win. I didn't need the pressure.

After a quick lunch, Oskar took me outside to practise my throw. Rasmus was also geared up.

"I haven't played in a few months. It's good to have a little warm-up before the game," he said.

"Good to know. I haven't played at all. I mean, I haven't even touched those steel balls. They look quite heavy, don't they?" I blabbered, anxiously.

So this is how the game works, basically. There's a cochonnet, tossed onto the pitch. A cochonnet can be anything but is officially made from beech wood and between 2.5cm and 3.5cm in diameter. Each member of the three-person team has two boules and they have to throw the boules towards the cochonnet and the team with the closest boule to the cochonnet wins a point. You can try knocking your opponent's boule away but I only aimed not to hurl the boule out of the pitch.

At 4pm, Doug stopped by my office and told me we were leaving in five minutes. I quickly changed and bumped into Rasmus and walked with them towards the field. There I was, walking with two elderly men side by side; but the feeling was good. People wearing their respective company T-shirts were marching cheerfully alongside and I didn't feel pressured any more. If anything, I wanted to win.

But who was I trying to kid? You would've seen me in the Guinness World Records if I'd won the game I had never played before, beating dozens of natives who'd started playing when they learned to walk. I even managed to cut my finger, which was as unlikely as Victoria Beckham wearing flat shoes, since it's a risk-free game mostly played by grandfathers.

Nevertheless I came home happy. I met Doug's wife and I learned more about Rasmus. We made a cute group and the most important part was that we enjoyed making fools of ourselves ... or me; either way, it didn't matter. On top of that, there were free flows of drinks, fruits and contagious joy.

In spite of all the fun, I thought the summer was crawling by. Perhaps it was because the days were literally long. The sun was out by five in the morning and didn't set until 9pm. It was as hot as Malaysia but without any air conditioners or fans. Privacy was out the door as we kept all windows and doors open throughout the day.

As much as we loved spending time in Denmark, like with every country we had lived in there came a time to leave. The most dreaded part was to find new accommodation. Scams were getting more refined and agents usually charged a higher price for poorer services (ahem, Nasser, ahem!). But beggars can't be choosers so we settled for a rustic apartment acquired through a Budapest-based Italian property agent who we could only hope was nothing like Nasser and co.

A new tenant was coming to replace us. He had been staying in the other room and sharing the mini bathroom so it was quite awkward for a couple of weeks. We didn't catch each other's names but we knew each other's bowel movements.

Cleaning the house and packing were the other two things that I hated to do whenever we had to move to a new place. Having to do them multiple times a year didn't make these tasks any easier. We were, however, relieved to leave and live on our own again.

As Haagen dropped us at the train station in the wee hours of the morning, Rafiee handed him a box of chocolates that we'd bought for him as a token of appreciation. Either he really liked the Merci pralines or he was going to really miss our presence because he instantly pulled us both towards him and gave us a big bear-hug. I felt like I could cry if not for the cold breeze making my nerves numb.

We said goodbye, took the train filled with people resembling zombies (expectedly so at that ungodly hour) and braced ourselves for the next chapter. I had completed a year of the programme and Rafiee was still with me, contented as ever. We had come halfway, another half to go. Of course the trip to Hungary wouldn't be complete without a stopover in Berlin. We were multi-tasking (and being economical) that way.

Berlin is the capital city of Germany, just in case you've been living under a rock. It's the largest city in the country at 892 square km, and I was surprised to know that it's about nine times bigger than Paris. There was no way we could cover the city on foot in one day. We chose to use the well-planned underground. After all, the city's central station, Berlin Hauptbahnhof, is the largest in Europe so it would be a shame if we didn't utilise the facilities. Another shocking discovery was the fact that Berlin has approximately 1,700 bridges! It was easy to assume that Venice had the most bridges but I reckon that, with over 180km of waterways in the city, Berlin ought to have just about the same number.

It was raining and the map we got at the airport was soaking gradually towards its slow, wet death. We couldn't find our way and ended up in some dubious back alley packed with Turkish immigrants. This must have been somewhere in the East Central, a borough also associated with left wing youth culture. I was told that most Germans can speak at least satisfactory English but Lady Luck must have been busy attending to more pressing matters that day because nobody we approached for directions could speak a single word of English. We turned to the next probable group – tourists. They obviously wouldn't want to miss the popular attractions, so they could do the job for us as well as the Tourist Information staff.

We found the Berlin Wall first. It's a long stretch of colourful murals but its significance goes way beyond that. The wall used to be a barrier separating West Berlin and East Berlin during the Cold War. It was also known as the "Iron Curtain" for obvious reasons. So many people died trying to escape from the Soviet sector of East Berlin to the American, British and French sectors of West Berlin. The fall of the Berlin Wall in 1990 signified German reunification but those who lived through the time of conflict and separation would never forget what it used to represent. Checkpoint Charlie is just in the vicinity; it was once the crossing point between the two sides of Berlin. That was the official passageway but the residents from neither side were permitted to use it.

A snapshot taken at the Brandenburg Gate is a must for those who visit Berlin. Erected in the 1700s to represent peace, the Brandenburg Gate was the only one out of eighteen such gates that was left untouched and it remains an iconic symbol of the city. It was clear that even after so many years, there were still reminders of the dark times scattered throughout the old city. The young people may not share the same sentiments any more but their parents and grandparents remain grim-faced at the mention of the war.

We couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by Berlin's bleak past so we had to find a way to purge the melancholy. The quickest means was to get some comfort food – kebab. Berlin, astonishingly, was the origin of the donner kebab. I know; I found it hard to believe it as well until I did a little digging. Mahmut Aygün, a Turkish immigrant, invented the staple of German street food in 1971. He was relatively unknown to the world because sadly it skipped his mind to patent his treasured creation. It was a sad story but compared to the Cold War, I suppose it was sort of inspiring. He died leaving a legacy that still drives many empty tummies and taste buds to cloud nine.

The rain had stopped when we stepped out of the kebab eatery. We had taken the underground to most of the famous corners of Berlin and it was time to continue our journey to the less popular Eastern Europe where the gypsies roam free and Asian tourists are few.

Well, this should be interesting.

Chapter 8

One of the fun parts about travelling is how you can have breakfast in Denmark, lunch in Germany and wrap up the day with a nice, traditional dinner in Hungary. The second we arrived at the Budapest airport, we wasted no time in ordering a shuttle taxi (a bigger taxi that can carry five or six people) as we were not into the idea of dragging a 20kg suitcase and another 10kg on our backs while getting lost in a city that speaks little English.

Hungary has a lot of neighbours, bordered by Slovakia to the north, Ukraine and Romania to the east, Serbia and Croatia to the south, Slovenia to the south-west and Austria to the west. It is one of the oldest countries in Europe and I had no trouble in believing that fact, based on our new apartment building alone. Hungary was established before the powerful countries of Germany and France.

I was eager to learn the unique language locally known as Magyar. It's not Latin so it would be very interesting indeed, like in the _National Treasure_ movie where only the lady could understand this particular ancient language, which made her a target for the bad treasure-hunters. Wouldn't it be fun if people were chasing me for my knowledge of the language? That was my motivation.

Hungary is not a country people naturally consider for education but the truth is that as of 2007 there have been thirteen Hungarians who received a Nobel Prize, beating Japan, China and Australia. It was, after all, a Hungarian who invented the mind-boggling Rubik's cube (dang you, Erno Rubik, I still can't figure out the freaking puzzle!).

As we bade goodbye to our fellow carpool mates, we looked at what would be our neighbourhood for the next six months.

I was the first to speak. "Oh boy, this looks like another Newcastle."

Rafiee begged to differ. "Worse. At least our house in Newcastle didn't look like it was built in the eighteen hundreds and about to collapse when the next rainfall hits."

The capital city, Budapest, is divided into two main parts separated by the second longest river in Europe, the Danube. There's the west bank of Buda where most of the administration takes place, and there's the east bank of Pest where all the fun things are. We were staying in Pest, obviously. As it's ranked the ninth most beautiful city in the world by the U City Guides, we were definitely not expecting rows of crumbling buildings.

We called the Italian property agent, Daniel, and waited for him. Standing in the shady neighbourhood looking like lost tourists didn't make a good impression and people kept giving us funny looks. Maybe I was being paranoid but I refused to put down my backpack for fear that someone would come and snatch it away. Even the old lady walking her harmless Chihuahua looked suspicious to me. I swear she looked a lot like a gypsy.

Daniel came after ten minutes, which seemed like one whole day of waiting because I kept looking over my shoulder every two seconds. Daniel was a young and ambitious Italian who worked in a bank and a property agency part-time. He offered to carry my luggage, which I'm sure he regretted soon after we started to climb the stairs. It was one heavy suitcase and our apartment was on the third floor.

I wasn't imagining things. The building was really that old. Daniel told us it was built in the 1880s and the ripped wall gave me shivers imagining what our apartment would look like.

Turned out it wasn't as shabby as I'd feared it might be. It was a small, cosy, one-bedroom apartment. We walked into the dining room which was also the kitchen, and on our left was the door leading to the living room which was also the bedroom. The bathroom was in the right-hand corner. It looked good enough, at this point.

We put down our things as Daniel demonstrated how to set up the sofa bed, water boiler and gas heater. Now we started to feel that things were falling apart. Even the wall that the shower was attached to didn't look like it could hold on any longer. Despite the flaws, we actually liked it better than the house in Newcastle. At least the apartment really was furnished as promised (ahem, Nasser, ahem!).

Shortly afterwards, the three of us went outside the building. He was going to show us the neighbourhood, which I thought would take only seconds as there was practically nothing much. Little did we know: two blocks away the neighbourhood was bursting with energy. We were in fact living in the heart of the city.

The area was called Oktogon, which consisted of dozens of shops, eateries and a shopping mall. We felt at home instantly. It looked a lot like Kuala Lumpur but with no Asians. Coming from England where we couldn't walk for half an hour without seeing a fellow Asian, Hungary came across as a hidden, untainted gem. The fact is, you can't make much money there so apart from fellow Europeans and students, very few people would try to start up a new business there.

And there it was, the tram line route 4-6. Cited as the world's busiest, the trams run at 60- to 90-second intervals at peak time. Who would've thought that award would go to the unassuming Hungary?

Pointing out some Asian restaurants, Daniel asked if Thai and Malaysian food was the same. In just a microsecond he started blushing and interrupted himself: "That was a stupid question. Of course they're not the same. Just forget it."

We tried to suppress our laughter, and Rafiee quickly reassured our innocent young property agent.

"Don't worry, we thought European food would the same everywhere."

"Well, they're quite similar except for some exceptions, like pasta in Italy or paprika in Hungary."

"There you go. Same thing in Asia. We have similar ingredients but some dishes are of course prepared differently."

I liked Daniel. He was childlike and enthusiastic. I couldn't possibly show that kind of energy after one long day working in a bank.

The next day as soon as we'd finished unpacking, we bought the day pass to explore as much as we could. The Hungarians were quite warm, as we found out after being given directions we hadn't asked for. Most of them couldn't speak much English but they were still keen to help us get to know their country.

Our first priority was the same thing every time we moved to a new place – to look for the halal food stores. While they were easily accessible in France and England, in Hungary they were even harder to find than in Denmark. At least you can find halal meat in Copenhagen without difficulty. In the biggest city in Hungary, we could only find, at most, three stores.

The second priority was to look for the most convenient and cheapest way to get to the university. Students were eligible for a 50% discount on the monthly pass, which was really cheap because you could use the same pass on every form of public transport within the city for only €20. Everything was so cheap in Hungary that even a €1 packet of raisins seemed ridiculously pricey there. After Denmark, it really was a welcome change.

However, nothing in this world is perfect. Rafiee had his first direct encounter with foreign police, here in Budapest. He had his International Student Identification Card (ISIC) as he was registered as a student on one of the many courses he took in Newcastle, so he was eligible for the 50% discount. The problem was, he'd never had the type of student card colleges and universities usually issue to their students as he went to a small institute. Well, we didn't know it would be a problem, since his ISIC card had got him the pass and he was checked several times like everyone else but had never been stopped until that fateful day.

As he casually showed his pass to the metro officers on his way out, he was stopped and pulled aside. They asked for his student card, in verification. He took out his ISIC card but they wouldn't accept it. Then they asked for his passport; it was admittedly his mistake for not bringing it with him. We actually didn't usually take our passports every time we were out because the possibility of them getting lost was higher than if we kept them stashed in the bedroom drawer. We should've made copies but we never got around to it (poor excuse: we'd been living abroad for over a year by then, but we had other identification cards so it wasn't like our corpses would be donated to some medical school because we couldn't be identified). He couldn't produce his passport and they called a couple of policemen who were on patrol nearby. They took it from there.

The policemen started to interrogate him in the corner of the metro station and asked where he lived so he could retrieve his passport. But since Rafiee's wallet was closer than our apartment, they asked for a payment of €30 as a penalty instead. Not wanting to make a big deal out of it, Rafiee paid and they let him go. Just like that. No name taken and no receipt produced. Was it legit? We have no idea.

The first day I went to the university, there was another huge induction, but luckily this time it was in English as it was particularly for international and exchange students. All of them were from other programmes and I didn't see any familiar faces. Where was everyone else, or at least Kyla?

During one of the sessions, one young professor of European economics caught everyone's attention. I could've thought of a few ways to make an interesting endorsement but his approach was undoubtedly unconventional. He picked up his guitar (I had wondered what that musical instrument was doing in the lecture hall) and started to sing his own parody of various economic situations in Europe, such as the bankruptcy of Greece and the recession in the UK. I wasn't the only one recording his performance. He had to be the coolest professor in Hungary. Looking like a young Tom Cruise didn't hurt either.

We didn't have any classes in the first week so what I did for the rest of the week was to join the other international students, getting to know all the extra classes available to us. The fun in learning is when you can freely join any classes you like and learn something you're passionate about. Alas, all the cool classes clashed with my course, so I had to forego the singing Tom Cruise.

The second week was when we had our first class and that was when I met everyone again. They must have known the induction week wasn't compulsory. I've always thought everything is compulsory when they say it is but then I've always been a nerd in that sense. I get it from my dad, and I mean that in the kindest way because being geeky was why I ended up in Europe.

Kyla was there, of course, and with four other people who I had no idea had chosen Budapest for their third semester. I gave a quick hug to Edward the president, Aaqil my new best friend and Kamala Oh-dear-not-her-again. I guess I wasn't the only one who knew that the Hungarians monopolised the Nobel prize-winners' list.

We were introduced to the head of department who had been in Nice for a short time. I remembered him clearly. He was the mighty tall professor who kept cracking jokes while teaching for four hours straight, standing on his giraffe-like legs without taking a single sip of water. He didn't even have any notes with him. It was like all the material was embedded in his brain, which was probably the case. He was in his fifties.

We had a few other professors for the rest of the semester but one professor in particular, called Lajos, was the one mainly in charge of our class of five. He'd also been in Nice for two days so he remembered Kyla and me. After three semesters with different types of teachers, we all agreed that he was the best one. He taught with passion and patience, two valuable traits that are seldom found together.

We made a big financial blunder here. Somehow we'd been led to believe that having the scholarship money banked in a local account would be more cost effective than having to withdraw it from an international one. That wasn't the mistake. The problem was that I specified to have the new bank account in the local currency of Forint instead of Euro, the currency that the scholarship money would be wired in. So when Jean Pierre banked it for three subsequent months, we lost about €500 in the exchange.

I felt awful. Rafiee had trusted me with the decision and I'd let both of us down. Lesson learned, though in a hard way. I really should've asked more questions instead of taking the first advice I got. I couldn't forgive myself for weeks, even though Rafiee repeatedly reminded me that money was never permanent, anyway.

On a positive note, one of the many great things about the semester in Hungary was that it finished by Christmas (two months before other partner countries) and we only had classes three days a week; half-days, at that. That meant we'd be able to cover more places. Next on our list were the neighbouring countries of Austria and Czech Republic, then Turkey, Netherlands, Spain and Belgium. It was just so easy to travel within Europe that we figured it was time to challenge ourselves with a trip outside the continent, but we hadn't yet decided which country to visit.

It was also a perfect semester because Mom and Sarah were coming. We e-mailed every day and had Skype video calls every weekend but nothing beats the real thing. They were coming in October and Rafiee was automatically appointed as the tour guide who would prepare the itinerary and bookings. The unauthorised tour guide was confident that the four of us including the then nine-year-old Sarah would be able to cover the whole of Budapest and Prague.

With one month to go before their arrival, we went about our classes with lots of joy. The schedule was not as flexible as the one we had in Nice but it was definitely not as hectic as in Newcastle. It was just right. In between-class breaks, Kyla always had the typical Hungarian chocolate swirl for lunch while I preferred the personalised cheese sandwich down the hall because I got to add a lot of mayonnaise and ketchup. I should mention that it was also an unhealthy semester.

Kamala was always competitive and paranoid, thinking that everyone was out to get her. Aaqil was always drinking his black tea and so was Edward. Unlike in the previous semesters, we didn't have any classes with the locals so we became like a little family. Having Kamala around was energy-sapping so we ended up spending time together outside class without her. Unless she reads this book, she'll never have any idea.

During the early days Kyla introduced me to the couch-surfing community. I couldn't get my head round the idea because I always imagined having to sleep in a stranger's living room and change my clothes in between their couches. I had no interest in doing either.

While it is relatively unknown in Asia, couch-surfing is a popular trend in Europe where people get to stay at each other's place for free, usually in their guest bedroom so you don't have to worry about putting on your pants while someone is watching football. The only thing you're expected to do is be a friend. Kyla found a Belarusian girl via the same channel and they were planning to meet up. Polina was bringing her Ukrainian friend, Sofiya, so guess who Kyla asked to join the double date? Why, yours truly, of course.

I'm not a fan of blind dates to begin with, but it was a movie date so there would be less interaction; therefore I said yes. Polina turned out to be a really cheerful girl who would never be caught dead in an awkward, boring conversation. There was always something to talk about, ranging from the Russian Mafia to colourful flip-flops. Similarly Sofiya was also a jovial person, so all of us got along well. There was no reason not to, apart from feeling quite antique hanging around them because they had a whole lot of energy.

I never even knew Belarus existed until I met Polina. The word only reminded me of walrus. When she mentioned Minsk, it only struck a chord because of an episode of _Friends_ where Phoebe's scientist sweetheart had to leave for Minsk. Even Phoebe had no idea where it was. In case you're the same as me, Minsk is actually the capital city of Belarus. The country is bordered by Russia to the north-east (closely associated with Belarus), Ukraine to the south, Poland to the west and finally Lithuania and Latvia to the north-west.

It's quite a sizeable country at approximately 207,000 square kilometres, so don't be surprised to learn that Belarus boasts a literacy rate of over 99% and a mere 1.5% unemployment rate. Now, isn't that impressive for a country that's somewhat unheard of? I thought so, too.

Polina knew someone in Budapest from the couch-surfing community, a Hungarian programmer who turned musician after work. There was an acoustic concert in his favourite pub where they were playing Hungarian folk music that day. Both Kyla and I said yes immediately to her invitation.

To untrained ears like ours, all the songs sounded the same. The first one was exotic, the second song started to sound like the first, the third song started to sound like the second and that was how it progressed throughout the playlist. Learning the language was initially an intention of mine, until I found out how complex it is. Compared to Danish, Magyar is near to impossible, I strongly believe. The bad guys from _National Treasure_ will have to search for someone else.

Gabor was another Hungarian man in the couch-surfing community that Kyla became acquainted with. It seemed like I couldn't have a Hungarian friend without registering on the couch-surfing site. This single, living-with-his-parents Gabor guy loved organising weekend activities and he was planning a one-day hiking trip to Nagy-Hideg-Hegy (doesn't it just roll off the tongue?), a 741-metre mountain near Kismaros in Pest.

By this time we'd got to know the two first-year students on our programme in Budapest: Polo and Mercedes. Polo was from Bostwana and spoke in fluent American English. I'd often wondered where he got the accent from but it could be that most Bostwanians have the same intonation, because he had never been to the States. He was my first Bostwanian friend, so I had no one to compare him with.

Mercedes was Catalonian and I had never seen her without a smile on her face, and trust me, one time I purposely waited for it but to no avail. Being around her was effortless. She was naturally funny and sweet. With them, Kyla, Rafiee and I met at the meeting point one bright Saturday morning where we carpooled with a group of Hungarian hikers heading to the mountain. Who would've thought we would go on a road trip with strangers in the middle of Hungary? Life is unexpected like that.

We got to the foothill at around one hour shy of noon and met the other twenty hikers. All of them were Hungarian but they spoke good English so for the next few hours we happily hiked and talked with random hikers. One of them was a retired engineer who enjoyed picking mushrooms, so we learned which mushrooms were safe for consumption.

Rafiee is a big fan of mushrooms so he picked one huge, supposedly-safe-to-eat mushroom for that night's dinner. We also picked and ate wild blueberries that were abundant along the track. I was caught in the moment and I might have eaten a baby spider too. We inevitably had upset tummies the next day but I'll spare you the details. It wasn't the worst part of the hike.

The hiking trail was muddy and slippery as it had rained the day before. The mud was even as high as our ankles so there was a significantly added mass to my already heavy unisex hiking boots. I was even wearing a pair of long johns inside my hiking outfit because I thought it was going to be cold. Boy was I terribly wrong. It felt like I was walking in a sauna that was on full blast.

We stopped occasionally to give our body a break but quickly resumed hiking after just minutes (my body wasn't happy with this arrangement but had to follow the gang). At one point I was basically dragging my feet one at a time. My legs were giving way. When we finally got to the top, however, I just forgot about my unwilling legs. It was worth it. We could see the Danube River which flows through Germany, Austria, Serbia and Romania to the Black Sea. At the horizon, we could also make out the border of Hungary and Slovakia.

There was a nice restaurant at the top. Some of us had the Hungarian national dish, goulash. In essence it's a thick stew of meat, noodles and vegetables generously seasoned with the national spice, paprika. Out of all the European countries we had been to, the Hungarian food was in the closest agreement with our taste buds. It's never bland. Paprika is used in most dishes, the only exception probably being the desserts in which they chiefly use cottage cheese and sesame seeds. I won't be rolling my eyes if Hungarian cuisine gets the publicity and a top spot among the world's best.

All twenty-five of us got lost on the way back despite Gabor's fascination with GPS, so we were still hiking down the mountain in the pitch dark. Some people were using their phone light to guide the way and we had to hold hands to make sure nobody went off the trail. My hiking boots were beyond recognition. I kept manoeuvring myself through the mud flood as if it was the most natural thing to do.

Getting into a cramped car with Kyla and Rafiee at the back, mucky and drenched in sweat, certified our new elevated closeness. As we got into the tram to get to our homes, dead beat, smelly and dirty, even the homeless man next to us looked like he had seen a better day. All of us slept through the night until the next afternoon, but I woke up with a sense of accomplishment until I saw the filthy hiking boots in the bathroom. Then I went back to bed.

October came, bringing a week of having Mom and Sarah with us. We cleaned the house, Rafiee cooked his special dish of spaghetti carbonara and off we went to pick them up at the airport. I was actually anxious to see them. It had been more than a year since we last met in the flesh.

When Mom and Sarah exited the arrival gate, it was nothing like I expected. I had been imagining a teary reunion or bittersweet embraces but it was clearly awkward. Sarah wouldn't even look at me. My heart sank. My fear was becoming real before my very eyes. My baby sister didn't know how to talk to me any more.

The ride home took about forty-five minutes on the bus, the metro and the tram. Mom talked to me continuously but I could tell she felt a little ill at ease, too. Maybe she was expecting tears and a smooth conversation but likewise, our expectations all went down the drain. Rafiee tried to get Sarah to speak but she kept looking away like she'd never known him.

I was terrified that the whole week would be that uncomfortable, but when we got to our prehistoric and crumbling building, even Sarah couldn't resist voicing her thoughts.

"How old is this building? Is your apartment like this, too?"

I laughed; at least she was talking. "It was built before the war so after the bombing and shooting, it became this." I pointed to the exposed bricks and added jokily, "Maybe there are still ghosts of those who died in pain."

"Sis!" She hit me on my arm. Now we were back to normal.

As soon as we stepped inside the apartment, Sarah got chattier and Mom started to lay her things on her new bed; then she started to sneeze incessantly.

"You know I'm allergic to dust. This obviously shows how dirty your flat is. Have you even cleaned it up?"

Alright; things were definitely back to normal. We had lunch, caught up, made stupid jokes and Sarah was screaming with delight as she played computer games on my laptop. It was like I'd never left.

That evening when it got dark, we took them out for a night overview of the city. Budapest is especially exquisite at night because of the lights reflecting a different side of the buildings and bridges. It was probably only 8 Celsius but Mom and Sarah were already shivering like they were going down with hypothermia. Coming straight from Malaysia, undoubtedly they would take some time to adapt. Rafiee used to fall sick every time a snowdrop landed on his exposed head, but over time his head got so resilient that he didn't even feel the ice.

The next morning Mom was up early and started to make the same kind of breakfast she would prepare at home in Malaysia. The smell of the _cucur ikan bilis_ (savoury fritters of anchovies) took me back to Malaysia at once. I hadn't realised how much I had missed her cooking.

That afternoon we went to the first place that Mom wanted to see – the university. It was founded in 1782, and the architecture is nothing short of a testimony of what a long way Hungary has come. Facing the Danube River, it has one impressive view for a university. Next to it is the Gellert Thermal Baths, possibly the most famous baths in Hungary. The water here has been thought to be healing since the thirteenth century. I only went there once and after seeing so many half-naked wrinkled bodies I concluded it wasn't my scene at all. What fascinated me was the main hall, completed with a gallery and glass roof a la Art Nouveau style that was popular during 1890-1910.

It wouldn't have been right not to hike a little way up Gellert Hill, a few steps away, when we were already nearly there. It's high enough to ensure that if you're thrown off it you'll meet your demise, as demonstrated by St Gerard, after whom the hill was named. A unique cave chapel is embedded within the hill, which reminded me of a less extravaganza version of Malaysia's Batu Caves. On top of the hill is the Citadel and once you're up there, you get a breathtaking panoramic view of the city. It's one I remember vividly; such a beauty.

I had to give it to Rafiee, he was a wonderful tour guide. We got to see all parts of the city, always leaving home by 9am and only coming back in the evening. Not only that, we also managed to go on a day trip to the outskirt of Budapest through Esztergom, Visegrad and Szentendre to see the celebrated Danube Bend.

Szentendre is a charming artist village, pretty much like Montmartre. The Serbian Orthodox Christina sought refuge there, decades ago, from the Turkish invasions and the battles in the Balkans. I could see the appeal, with its blend of pastel-hued houses by the winding, cobblestone streets and the forested hills rising from the river, but the bend was a bit of a puzzle. It was picturesque indeed but it was just that: a bend. I would've walked past it and only stopped to take pleasure in the sight without being particularly interested in the bend. I have to settle the matter with the only logical explanation – beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.

One of the mornings started rather early as we had to take the first train to the neighbouring Prague, in Czech Republic. Prague to me looked quite similar to Budapest especially because the city is also divided into two parts by the Vltava River, but it's a little more fairytale-like. The older generation may still refer to the country as Czechoslovakia but it's not because they're a bunch of absent-minded elderly folk. It was Czechoslovakia until 1993, when it was peacefully separated into two different countries, now known as Czech Republic and Slovakia.

We stayed in a penthouse close to the river, for only €10 per person. We should've gone there sooner. The night wasn't wasted, as we took the tram (I love my baby sister but she doesn't do walking if she can help it) going all around the city. Prague Castle dubbed the top tourist attraction will definitely take you back to your childhood bedtime stories of Cinderella and the gang.

We had the spiciest dinner of our lifetime in a Pakistani/Indian restaurant. Even in that small, freezing space we were pouring sweat and tears, thanks to the lamb biryani. How they survive on this and don't develop abdominal cancer is a mystery. Next day we tried a local dish, which I knew from the start I would love; even if it hadn't looked very tempting, I would still have gone for it anyway because it would have been silly not to. I don't understand tourists who visit a new country to learn a new culture and suchlike but keep their eyes open for the eateries offering the same food they eat at home. Bearing in mind that I was with my fussy sister so we needed a safe bet, we unanimously opted for **smažený sýr** : fried cheese garnished with baked potatoes (yes, not the other way round). It's definitely not for those on any kind of diet ... or those who want to live long lives.

It gave us enough energy to continue our exploration. There was a huge amount of amazing architecture like you would normally see if you were stuck in a land far, far away. I found myself craning my neck to admire the full scale of it and even though I took countless photos, the splendour couldn't really be captured. You just have to go there; or I just have to get a better camera.

The landmark where you should get a photo of yourself would be the Charles Bridge. You can't miss it if you're going to Prague Castle. It used to be the only connection between the castle and the city's Old Town. You may sometimes come across its second name – Stone Bridge.

Don't be baffled when you see people touching the statue of St John of Nepomuk on the bridge (or rather, the cross and the stars next to it since the statue itself is a little high). The ritual is said to make your wishes come true. Boy, it has to be one busy statue. The story behind it goes way back to the reign of King Wenceslas IV when St John was thrown off the bridge on the king's orders because he refused to tell him what the queen's confession was. It takes the meaning of keeping a secret to another level.

In only two days my mom, the veteran bargain seeker, rummaged a few souvenir stores and purchased bags of keepsakes for family and friends. We didn't miss the replica of the Astronomical Clock, adorned with twelve medallions of each zodiac sign. It has been a permanent fixture on the Old Town Hall Tower since the fifteenth century. The crowd gathers in front of the tower to see the procession of the Twelve Apostles every hour when a small trap door opens to reveal Christ marching out ahead of his devotees. If that still doesn't appeal to you, a skeleton of death rings the bell to the statue of a rebellious Turk. Who can resist that?

Ladies, not to be missed is the Bohemian crystal which is sold at a minimum price in its homeland. Husbands and boyfriends, forget your strategies to steer away from the lure of it, as it's available in all souvenir shops. Even Rafiee couldn't resist getting a box of serious Bohemian crystal glassware for his mother.

Rafiee and I purposely chose the bus for our return transport to Budapest, for a change. Mind you, change is not necessarily a good thing. The train ride was similarly long at eight hours but at least we could move around. Travelling by bus, on the other hand, limits your movement to adopting different angles of your neck.

It wouldn't have been a big deal if it hadn't been for the smoker who threw lots of cigarette butts and tissues into the toilet bowl, blocking it and making sure that he was the last person to use the lavatory. The driver made an announcement that the space was off limits just after I'd finished my third cup of the free chocolate drink; talk about perfect timing. Mom put an order out for Sarah to stay dehydrated if she knew what was good for her while I was toying with the idea of begging the driver to stop anywhere for a toilet break. Thank God it didn't come to that, as he made a second announcement that the smoker would be kicked off the bus in Slovakia where the rest of us could use the public toilets. At least we can now say we've seen Bratislava and we can vouch that the toilets are the same.

Sarah was really close to Rafiee the whole week. She would walk hand-in-hand with him and they would share ghost stories that she knew would freak her out but she just couldn't resist. Mom and I would endlessly share all sorts of gossip while we walked from one place to another. Time passed with uncaring speed and I just tried not to think about it.

Try as hard as I might, the last day of having Mom and Sarah in Hungary still appeared. I just lay on the bed talking to them while they packed. I didn't want to think about sending them off but I had to when the clock struck 2pm. They had to leave for their five o'clock flight.

I distracted myself with Mom's BlackBerry games and made silly jokes on our way to the airport. I tend to blurt out peculiar things when I get edgy that are not even worth mentioning here. I remember that things were reflecting the day they'd arrived: we were taking the same train-line in the same awkward silence. Now it was like we had so much to share and time was running out. While Mom and Sarah were checking in, Rafiee looked at me and asked if I was okay. Of course he knew when I was not at my best. I answered him with a short okay because I knew I would start crying if I said any more.

"So the departure gate won't open yet for half an hour. Want to grab some coffee and cake?" Mom suggested after the bags were checked in.

I knew she was distressed, too – she doesn't like cake.

So we went to the only cafe and ordered coffee, tea and a carrot cake that Mom only had a bite of. We took photos, called Dad and simply didn't mention the fact that we wouldn't be seeing each other again for another twelve months. When it was time to leave, Sarah asked me, "Can I kiss you?" It was extremely hard not to cry – even now, as I'm writing this – in front of her. It was a heartbreaking moment.

I hugged both of them and watched until they'd fully disappeared behind the departure gate. I can still intensely recall that moment. Then it hit me. They were really gone. I felt my eyes getting warm and as soon as Rafiee started to hug me, the tears came rushing. I broke into a flood of tears that lasted all the way back, convinced that I could never stop crying now.

Poor husband. People must have thought he had done something terrible, with me next to him bawling my eyes out, while in fact he was desperately trying to stop me from crying. At one time I almost stopped. Then my phone beeped and there was a text message from Mom saying that they were boarding the plane. I cried again.

For the rest of the evening I just stayed in bed weeping with a box of tissues while Rafiee laughed helplessly. He wasn't an awful husband who enjoyed seeing his wife's misery but after hours of my crying, he was simply amused. He didn't think it was humanly possible that anyone could cry for so long. Seeing the empty bunks was even more heartbreaking. I kept imagining they were still there, Sarah throwing pillows at me from her top bunk and Mom sneezing while complaining how dusty our apartment was.

I missed the whole week of school. It was only three half-day sessions and I'd never skipped any before. The professors were really considerate so they didn't give me a hard time at all. Kyla, Edward and Aaqil asked me if I wanted to join them discussing coursework in a coffee house the next evening. Rafiee thought it was a great idea: I needed the diversion.

An hour before I was supposed to leave, I got a phone call from Mom. It was 10pm in Malaysia. She was laughing. Uh-oh.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"Sarah can't sleep. She misses you and she's been crying so much I just had to call." Mom apparently found that fact rather funny. Maybe because before that, Sarah wasn't one to bother with me when I had a video call with the family. She was always rushing to play her Xbox with her friends.

"Let me talk to her." My eyes started to water. I was not ready for that, ever.

"Sis?" Sarah's voice was cracking and I could tell she had been crying for some time.

"Hey, why are you crying? I'm right here." My weak attempt to console a nine-year-old.

"I'm looking at the photos we took and they're making me miss you terribly. I miss Rafiee and Budapest, too." She choked on her words.

We ended up blabbering about random things for the next twenty minutes and I tried my best not to sound sad, for her sake. Talking about Barbies made her smile so I stayed with the topic until I found something better. I wasn't going to let my baby sister get more upset than she already was. The husband couldn't help but laugh at the drama.

She fell asleep soon afterwards and I started to make my way to the coffee shop. I was half an hour late but my dear friends didn't even need to ask why. My puffy eyes and red nose gave the game away. Kyla started hugging me and that was all it took. I had to run to the washroom, where I got myself together before coming out again and starting to ask about school as if nothing had happened.

Aaqil bought me a tall glass of chocolate milk which was the most comforting drink to have at that moment, since I don't drink alcohol. I counted my blessings; I had a great husband, a happy family and a group of supportive friends. Living abroad was what I wanted, wasn't it?

The melancholy didn't last long as expected. I had a video call with Sarah twice after that emotional night call; then one day, about a week later, she said she couldn't talk because she was playing with our neighbours' kids. So much for the tears, but I was glad for her. I stopped being sad when she did.

School continued as usual until one professor cancelled his only class of the day because Kyla was leaving for Great Britain to have a rendezvous with her boyfriend, Edward was going to Spain to party with his friends and I was going to Egypt just because. There were only Kamala and Aaqil left, so the sensible professor didn't think it was worth his time lecturing two students and having to repeat himself to the rest later.

Egypt had always been a dream place for both Rafiee and me but we never thought it would come that soon. It was either Ilulissat in Greenland (I was, and still am, fascinated by the extremities of desert and iceberg) or Cairo in Egypt. As fate would have it (and the determining factor of flight price), we chose Cairo.

We were going off-peak which also meant Egypt was still scorching hot. I thought that since we wanted to experience the desert then we might as well go through the authentic experience at 40 Celsius.

Egypt is not as easy to steer your way around as Europe. People speak little English and there are so many people that you're constantly at risk of being squashed by the crowd, or even by cars while you're trying to glance at your map.

We made a prudent decision to hire a tour guide. It was a Malaysian travel group so we got a fairly good price. We reached Cairo International Airport at two in the morning after a stop in Venice where we were delayed by an hour due to the bad weather. By this time we were just grateful not to miss any connecting flight.

As in many developing countries, lots of poor people in Egypt try to make the best out of the open-handed tourists. We read a considerable amount of tips in travelling around Cairo, just to be prepared, and this specific warning was on every list we came upon. Do not EVER accept a local's help in whatever circumstances unless it involves life and death, and even then you may want to think twice. They will definitely demand money, and more if they get the chance to see how much you really have in your leather wallet. It'd be a challenge to resist without losing every bit of your humanity.

We were not even past the border control and already we had a first-hand experience of the infamous Egyptian touts. Rafiee had to answer the call of nature so while I was waiting in our queue, he went off to the washroom. A male janitor followed him and offered to show him the toilet cubicle, as if the washroom was a labyrinth. Rafiee played along, thinking that this man couldn't be a tout as he was a member of the airport staff and these toilets were in the airport. "He's just being nice," he thought. When he got out of his cubicle, the janitor was still stalking him and now directing him to the sink, even kindly demonstrating how to use the handwash dispenser. He then offered to press the button and get some tissues for Rafiee to wipe his hands. Rafiee still naively thought nothing of it.

When Rafiee was ready to leave the washroom, the real intention was revealed like in a twisted Hollywood movie. The janitor extended his right hand and with his left hand, he made the universal money gesture. Rafiee had to literally fight his way out. He tried to stay civil but after the tenth time the janitor pushed his hand forward, Rafiee just pushed him aside and bolted.

Hafiz, our tour guide, was already waiting at the arrival gate. He didn't need to hold out a banner with our names written in black marker because we recognised each other by our Malaysian look alone. It always feels good to recognise your fellow man in a foreign land; makes you feel like you're not alone.

Our tour guide was younger than us but he took it in his stride. He was studying religion and had been in Cairo for four years. He led us to his van where another friend was waiting. The other fellow Malaysian, Firdaus, seemed more easy-going but it was two in the morning and none of us really wanted to have a conversation.

Even as we were opening the boot to put our backpacks in, opportunists were surrounding us to offer their strength for carrying the modest, 5kg backpacks. I can't imagine what would have happened if there had only been the two of us. We would have been too polite to say no as many times as that.

The short journey to our guest house was most likely nothing special at all for the locals since it was desert all the way as far as the eye could see. But we were a couple of tourists in the mysterious Egypt, so the empty desert thrilled us more than the fancy statues in Europe at that point.

Our dependable guides showed us around the house, which was quite huge for the price we paid and, to my excitement, was perfectly clean with a water hose in the bathroom. It was the first we'd seen since we'd left Malaysia over a year ago and boy, how we had missed it. Wasting no more time, we slept for only three hours before starting our first day in Cairo.

Egypt is bordered by the Mediterranean Sea to the north, and the Red Sea to the east. Sudan and Libya lie to the south and the west respectively. The Gaza Strip and Israel are found in the north-east so Egypt has a unique relationship with the two opposing countries of Palestine and Israel. Obviously most of the land in Egypt is desert, so it's no surprise that most of the population choose to live near the Nile River.

The people absolutely love football. Aaqil once missed our get-together because he wanted to catch his favourite Egyptian football team playing in a league I'd never heard of. This is a testament of how popular the sport is among the Egyptians, and the national team has, staggeringly, won the Africa Cup of Nations six times.

The city of Cairo is among the largest in Africa and the Middle East, and one of the world's most densely populated areas. When you're there, this is easy to see. It has a population of sixteen million people. Vehicles are only inches away from each other on the road; cows and pedestrians share the same pavement. I couldn't tell if there were even any road markings. Never again will I complain about the traffic jams in Kuala Lumpur.

We passed Tahrir Square where the key revolution took place a couple of months later to overthrow the thirty-year regime of President Hosni Mubarak. Approximately 846 people were killed in the clashes, and there were 6,000 injuries. As I'm writing this, there's further unrest happening and this time it's looking even worse.

Our first destination was the Saladin Citadel of Cairo, part of the Muqattam Hill near the city centre. It was constructed back in 1183 but looked pristine, like it was built only recently. When we got to the citadel, Hafiz left us to fend for ourselves as he went to get a parking space, which is a permanent challenge in that bustling city. Some drivers can be really inventive, parking at angles that I never thought possible.

We were swamped by local kids in no time. I clutched my sling bag and Rafiee shielded me like Kevin Costner protected Whitney Houston in the movie _The Bodyguard_. We didn't get it. They didn't look underprivileged, judging by their colourful and fashionable outfits. It didn't seem like they wanted any tokens. Then I realised something unusual.

They weren't looking at my bag; their eyes were on me.

I had seen it before, this curiosity about someone who looks different, but it's always the Caucasians who hog the attention. For the first time, another culture took an interest in my Asian looks. I had never imagined this would happen.

The children saw me cracking a smile (I was daydreaming about being a star) and they took it as a sign to come closer, holding out their phone cameras and making signals to ask if it was okay for them to take my photo.

Why, of course, it was more than okay. When or where else could I have my own fan base without having to sing or act on a reality show? Why not enjoy it while it lasted? And enjoy it I did. Rafiee didn't get much attention, most probably because they preferred the Chinese look. One even asked if I knew Jackie Chan and if I was made in China. Such a witty remark, if a little insulting.

Camera flashes went off from all directions and I was grinning impishly. At first they only took my photo and then some bold kids wanted to be in the photos with me. Certainly I couldn't say no. What kind of person would want to upset a bunch of innocent children? When Hafiz came to get us, he was slightly baffled but gave a knowing look when he told the children to leave us alone.

"So, looks like you're already having fun," said Hafiz but it was more like an open invitation for a further explanation.

"Er, yes, what was that about?" I took the invitation without hesitation; I was genuinely curious.

"You look Chinese and these people like the Chinese. They think the Chinese are good people and many things sold here were made in China so they have this perspective that it is a mighty powerful country."

"Well, I don't mind the attention. We don't need to tell anyone right now that I'm not exactly from China."

The whole time we were in Cairo there were always curious stares and shy chuckles. Most of the time people bluntly asked if they could take my photo and Rafiee had to assume the role of impromptu cameraman, since they wanted to be in the photo too.

Children tailing us was a normal occurrence. I would look to my right to find a cute, bright-eyed little girl, and her silly big brother to my left. They would be thoroughly scrutinising me and communicating with me in their restricted English. I honestly missed the attention when I returned to Europe when people looked at me still, but in a different way.

But enough about me. Inside the citadel is a sizeable area that even holds the grand Mosque of Muhammad Ali Pasha, constructed in the nineteenth century in memory of his oldest son, who died at a young age. As well as that, there are not only one, but two other mosques.

I performed my first and so far only Friday prayer in the first mosque. It was a unique experience. Without going into too much detail, the Friday prayer is solely for men, where I come from. In this part of the world, things are a little different. Women join the prayer and they wear whatever they have on so instead of looking all white, it's almost like a celebration taking place with so many neon colours and patterns. They stared curiously at my voluminous white gown, in all probability wondering if I'd just come back from a funeral.

We wandered round the area to see what else the Saladin Citadel of Cairo offers. Just when you're thinking how huge the vicinity is, to be able to accommodate three beautiful mosques, you'll be amused to find it can also house three museums (four, if you count the modest Carriage Museum that showcases eight carriages from ancient times). They have the Al-Gawhara Palace Museum (it's like going to the in-laws' for the first time and listening to stories of their first cousins twice removed except that it's a royal bloodline), the national Police Museum and not to be outdone, the Military Museum.

The architecture will transport you back in time. The wooden windows and ornate arches are well preserved. At one corner you can still see the pipes used in the old days to carry water from the Nile River. The terrace view is magnificent, as far as Cairo goes. The mud-coloured flats fill every available space, getting higher and higher. It turns out that generally each building belongs to one family and as the family grows bigger, so does the building – vertically.

Our subsequent excursion turned out to be a spiritual journey as Hafiz took us to significant Islamic tombs including those of the jurisprudence founder, Al-Shafi'i, and Prophet Muhammad's grandson, Saidina Hussein. I was overcome with emotion and humbled to be reminded of how rich is the history behind my faith. It's not something you encounter every day.

Once when I was minding my own business I was reproached by an old man for crossing my legs, twice. Neither Hafiz nor Aaqil realised that it's something Egyptians frown upon; they imagined that maybe some older people deemed it impolite for a woman to cross her legs. Don't say I didn't warn you.

It's not all sweet and proper in the city of Cairo, though. At night as we stopped by the Nile River, we started to see why the city is also dubbed Paris on the Nile. Cruises offering packages of dinner and belly dancers are readily available. Locals and tourists dress to impress, with all colours of the spectrum. We chose to skip that. I think Rafiee was slightly disappointed.

The nights were always vibrant, as though the people never slept. Then we realised that Eid al-Adha was only a couple of days away. That explained why there were so many camels and goats travelling in the lorries, looking defeated. It's a significant celebration in Egypt, also the biggest one. The last-minute shopping reminded me of the same scene in Kuala Lumpur just before a festival (and as a multi-racial community we have a few of those).

I have to admit that ever since we landed in Cairo I'd been unable to keep my mind off the mighty pyramids and the sphinx: classic wonders of the world. I had seen so many documentaries and read countless articles about the enigma. When we finally joined the queue of vehicles, we caught a glimpse of the epic structures and it blew my mind. The pyramids looked more intimidating and incredible in real life than on _National Geographic_. I could see why some groups of people believe that the massive monuments were built by the Martians or their equivalent; their magnificence is inexplicable.

The sun was barbecuing my body alive and I couldn't look at the pyramids without my sunglasses. My body was dehydrating at a rate I'd never known possible. The Caucasians looked like grilled prawns, albeit smiling ones. It was uncomfortable being sandwiched with the enthusiastic crowds, ignorant camels and horses but it was without a doubt the highlight of our tour.

The expedition wouldn't have been complete without a photo of us riding a camel right in front of the pyramids. Well actually, we didn't plan it. We had always wanted to ride a camel so we chose the closest one in sight, manned by an old Egyptian haggler.

Hafiz did all the talking and we agreed on the price for two people on a five-minute ride. The camel was not what we had expected from the pretty photos published in travel magazines. It's a tall creature and riding it was like standing on a swaying ladder. The animal kept making this gurgling noise with its Mick Jagger mouth and looking oblivious to what was happening around it. On top of everything else, it smelt like it had never been showered since it was born, which was probably the case.

Hafiz, being an experienced tour guide, had gained numerous photography tips. He took an excellent photo of us looking cosy in the middle of the camel's humps (only God knows how acrophobic we were at that time) right in front of one of the small pyramids. It turned out to be one of the best photos we had from our two-year adventure.

Jumping off the unconcerned camel, Rafiee paid the Egyptian man. As we were about to leave, he demanded more money.

"No no, this is not enough! This is only for one person!"

Rafiee wasn't about to give in, but neither did the man.

"Well, we agreed on that price for both of us."

"No no, not enough!"

Hafiz immediately came to our rescue and after a thirty-second negotiation, the Egyptian let us go with what I could only guess were some Arabic curses. We would probably have paid extra if it wasn't for our mediator. We were as good at haggling as Simon Cowell at carrying a tune (he doesn't sing and we don't bargain).

Throughout the trip we had no problem with eating the street food or going to the public toilet. We just tried not to do either, though it wasn't always feasible. We went on a day trip to Alexandria, founded by none other than Alexander the Great himself, which these days is the second largest city and the largest seaport in Egypt. Driving through the empty desert I started to get paranoid. I had never gone on a 200km trip with no toilet break. Hafiz and Firdaus assured me we would stop halfway and he kept his promise but the condition of the public washroom made me consider doing my little business behind the car in the middle of the arid land. I could only proceed by closing my eyes as tightly as possible and holding my breath as long as it didn't kill me.

It wasn't as bad when it came to the food. The first uniquely Egyptian meal that we had was the _kushari_ , which is so popular that you're bound to find it even when you're not trying to look for it. _Kushari_ consists of rice, lentils, chickpeas and macaroni topped with tomato sauce, garlic sauce and fried onion. Many street stalls sell this dish but we had it in a proper restaurant, so that was unexciting.

The second Egyptian meal we had was more eventful. In Alexandria, when Hafiz asked if we wanted to have seafood, we thought he meant a nice restaurant by the Mediterranean Sea. We should have known something was off when Hafiz excitedly drove away from the beach to the deeper part of the town.

I thought, alright, maybe parking was difficult and we had to walk back to the beach. I was way off. We stopped at this nasty-looking street stall with stray cats strolling and flies jumping from one corner to another like they owned the scene. The stall was squashed in between two blocks of residential buildings so you could enjoy the view of someone's laundry hanging over your head. Breads and pots of food stacked up on more breads and pots on the dirty pavement made me wonder if it was even legal to serve food here.

The tables were sticky with unknown substances and I didn't trust the chairs either, so I wiped both clean. Well, as clean possible, anyway. Hafiz and Firdaus made themselves comfortable without even a second glance. They ordered the food for us as we couldn't think straight under those conditions. Rafiee was having a worse time than I was. I couldn't convince him to buy even a canned drink from street stalls and now he was in a slum with no clean space big enough to put our backpacks down. I thought he would hyperventilate at any moment.

Despite the rough condition it was in, the stall was still buzzing with customers. All the tables were occupied and families were enjoying their meals with their small children, unbothered. I have to say, I felt a little spoilt for not being able to take pleasure in the authentic Egyptian food experience. So both Rafiee and I braced ourselves, putting on our hardened-traveller faces.

The first thing that came to our table was a special drink, or so Rafiee and I thought. It was in a cup alright but it was also muddy. We took a sip while Hafiz and Firdaus were away and realised that it tasted more like gravy or thick soup. It wasn't until they came back that we found out for sure that it wasn't a drink.

Well, we should've known when the waiter came the second time to ask what we wanted for drinks. But why oh why did they put the gravy in a cup? Even a rocket scientist wouldn't have thought twice about drinking that thingamajig.

Our last afternoon was allocated to shopping at the Khan Al-Khalili bazaar. Most of the sellers can greet you in your mother tongue and once you answer them, it's a cue for them to lure you into buying things that you'll never need. Even as an experienced traveller (or so I'd like to think), I couldn't resist the bargains. Things are really cheap, if you have a local with you or you yourself can speak Arabic. Otherwise, you'll end up paying for the seller's new camel.

The night before we left, I was already missing Egypt terribly. It wasn't just the attention I was getting (though I can't say I didn't like that part), but I guess I could relate to its culture and family values that I found were similar to those of my hometown. I could see why Aaqil would want to come back to Egypt after his studying, although he could've continued his stay in the plentiful Europe.

Packing lots of fresh juicy dates, we flew home to Budapest with heavy hearts. The classes resumed on Tuesday, when my classmates and I exchanged anecdotes of our trips. Of course Aaqil was the most excited to hear mine. I guess in a way I brought him a piece of home.

One day Edward came to school screaming in excitement. "Anyone up for a Halloween party?" Now that was new to me. I knew that Halloween is about wearing costumes (the scarier the better), decorating pumpkins and having lots of candy, but in Malaysia we don't generally make it a ritual. I'd never been to a real Halloween party before.

I remember my first Halloween in Europe was in Nice a year ago. We were staying home but we could hear shouts, laughter and sirens from outside. We were not party-goers and our idea of fun was watching movies from the comfort of our living room. The wildest would be a couple of months earlier when Mercedes hosted a house-warming to which she and her housemates invited a whole bunch of Facebook friends, who extended the invitation to their online friends. It was mental and I got loads of friend requests the next day from those people whom I'd thought were too drunk to remember my face.

This time it was Edward's party and we couldn't say no. And when he specifically requested the guests to bring their own pumpkin to carve, we went all out to find one. It was shockingly difficult to find a pumpkin in Budapest. To begin with, it wasn't the season. Then my guess is the Hungarians don't really use pumpkins in their cooking. I sent Rafiee on this gruelling mission as I was making a late lunch to keep us full until the party, since we're usually the first to arrive at any parties even when we're taking our own sweet time. I've lost count of how many times I've had gastric pain from having to wait for others to arrive before I could politely fill my empty tummy.

Rafiee came back two hours later with what looked like a pumpkin but not quite. I had to ask him if it was really a pumpkin or if he was pulling my leg: whatever that fruit or vegetable was, it certainly didn't look like a pumpkin to me.

"Well, I asked for a pumpkin and the girl showed me this. I think it's a small pumpkin," Rafiee feebly explained, but we were already running late so we just had to make do with a small pumpkin lantern.

We were meeting Kyla, Aaqil, Kamala and a couple of their housemates to go to Edward's together. Kyla got there first and she was carrying a huge, perfectly round pumpkin. I proudly told her I'd got a cheaper alternative, the small pumpkin.

"No way, where is it?" she asked.

"In my bag; you want to see it?"

"How can that thing fit into your bag? How small are we talking about?" Kyla was extremely curious. "Are you sure it's even a pumpkin?"

Unhesitatingly, I grabbed my little pumpkin and displayed it as Kyla rolled her eyes and started to laugh hysterically.

"This is not a pumpkin, Iz! This is a squash!"

"No it isn't. It's a small pumpkin."

"I bet my last Forint that it's a squash."

Others weren't familiar with the pumpkin family but they had to admit it didn't really look like one.

Oh, no. I quickly browsed my faithful Wikipedia to get the facts right and shoved the screen towards Kyla with a sense of accomplishment. "Look here. It says that pumpkin is a type of squash."

"And also zucchini! So perhaps next time I can just carve a cucumber instead?" Kyla burst into another fit of laughter. Others joined in. It was a lost battle. I just had to make do with the squash.

The party went well. Edward and his housemates had prepared hot wine, cakes, finger food and of course pumpkin soup (I should've asked him where to get a real pumpkin). We turned out to be the only two guests who'd brought a pumpkin and a squash. The rest had either been unable to find one or they'd simply been too lazy to bother searching. I did manage to carve my little squash into a vampire and since this is my book, I'd validate that mine looked way scarier than Kyla's big, normal pumpkin.

Then came a serious worry about the internship for the final semester. We were only a couple of months shy of going to Nice for the collaboration project with a hundred other international students. This meant that we had to face Reynold, the programme coordinator, or some might think our master. That in itself was a scary thought.

Reynold had always been an outspoken advocate of industrial training instead of research (which is odd because he was one of the academic elite). His opinion was that research institutes took advantage of his students through cheap labour. My opinion is both are the same so you may as well choose your preferred work.

We were also meeting all our classmates again, sharing and catching up after six months. It was an ego matter. Do you really want to reveal that no company has taken interest in you after fifty applications when some of your friends are already spoilt for choice? I thought not.

In a way, my decision to go for a summer internship instead of holidaying in the Alps worked to my advantage. The company is highly regarded in my field and a top establishment on Reynold's list (which at the time was a seminal factor). Jacob had an on-going project for my six-month internship so I gladly said yes to coming back.

One of the reasons why I chose to go to the same place was the fact that having a residence permit in Denmark allows the individual to work. Rafiee had been a good sport for all this time so I figured I could return the favour by getting him the residence permit so he could work during his final six months in Europe. He would be able to do something officially productive while I went through my internship with no free days in which to go away on excursions.

Knowing that we wouldn't be able to travel for some time, we started to plan for more trips while we were still in Hungary. There were four more cities we wanted to visit before we left for France. The first leg would be a continuous trip to Barcelona, Amsterdam and Brussels. You would think that we'd learned our lesson about countries-hopping after the episode when we got stranded but come on, what was the probability of that happening again?

The classes were already over by Christmas. Everyone was leaving for good. Edward was going back to his English homeland to be with his family and Kyla was heading the same way to see her boyfriend. Kamala would be staying with her boyfriend in Berlin whereas Aaqil was going back to Cairo to see his family.

That means Rafiee and I were the only ones left in Budapest. It was a lonely time without our friends and in a foreign land during a major festival, when families gather and laughter from next door can be heard through the thin wall. We were travelling after Christmas (lower price, ahem!) so in the meantime we hibernated in the cold apartment. The old gas heater didn't work quite as well as it used to. Some days we would go out and wander aimlessly, to kill time. That was how we found this little dodgy Asian marketplace.

If there was only one particular group of people you could find in all corners of the world, it would be the Chinese and I mean that as a compliment. They are resourceful and hardworking. You go to Denmark, you see them integrating with the locals, speaking Danish and doing the same activities like eating raw marinated herring on rye bread. Likewise, you go to Hungary, they can't speak a single English word but they haggle smoothly in Hungarian.

However, our settlement in Budapest consisted of more Vietnamese than Chinese. I suspect one reason behind this is that Hungary is not one of Europe's rich countries, so the prospect of making a living is relatively low and the Chinese are too smart to invest here.

It was a rather scary place with stalls selling all kinds of things from baby clothes to sex toys. We were suddenly transported to a third-world country which you only see on television, seeing the youngsters gambling like expert stockbrokers, old men sipping black coffee and women gossiping with their neighbours. We might have felt out of place, but our Asian look was not. We were approached several times by the Vietnamese asking where we were from and how we got our visas.

That made me wonder if any of them really had the right visa to stay and work there, but I shut my mouth. It wasn't my place to say and I shivered at the thought of being chopped alive and my body parts tossed down the drain.

January eventually arrived, bringing us to our packed itinerary. We were travelling on budget airlines so none of the flights were direct. Our first destination was Barcelona and we had to take another plane from Venice, but the weather was so extreme the plane couldn't land at all.

The pilot had to hover in a circle for half an hour as the visibility was really poor. He was then given an instruction to land at another airport so not only had we wasted half an hour orbiting in the sky, we also had to spend an hour on the bus to get back to the first airport for our next flight.

When we had safely landed, people applauded and cheered. We did too, out of respect to the pilot and the whole celebratory ambience, although very nervously as we had to rush. We had allocated a long four-hours stopover but now it didn't seem that long any more. Once we stepped onto the ground, we held tight to our backpacks and sprinted as if we were participating in an Italian _Amazing Race_.

While we were running and at the same time trying to look for the quickest route to the other airport, we saw a couple from the same flight.

"Excuse me, are you going to the other airport?" I asked the middle-aged pair.

Bad timing. It seemed like they were having a fight because the woman just gave her partner a dry look and walked ahead. The man heaved a sigh and turned to us.

"Yes. The information desk said that there will be a bus driving us to the other airport. It should be somewhere in the parking lot."

He gestured for us to follow him while he quickened his pace to catch up with his significant other. It didn't take long before we noticed a huge, white, tour bus, but we had to wait for a good twenty minutes to ensure nobody was missing. The thing is, some of them had already left the airport on their own. We had less than three hours.

When the bus started to move, we were relieved and hoping that the traffic was smooth. What we didn't know at the time was that the weather was still pretty bad and our plane to Barcelona was having the same problem as our flight from Budapest. It was simply too dangerous to land.

We got there about an hour later. As we waited in the queue for the plane, the two remaining hours were ticking consistently by, until half an hour later when the stewardess made an Italian announcement and all of a sudden most passengers became grumpy and started to run. Something was wrong but we had to wait until the stewardess repeated the same announcement in English, taking her own sweet time as, one by one, people left the queue.

"We're sorry to inform you that the plane is unable to land at this airport due to poor weather conditions. You will be transferred to the other airport by the same bus, where the plane will be waiting. Please remain calm and proceed to the bus stop."

Okay, so it wasn't a totally dead end but we'd just come from there and it had taken one whole hour. Now we had to go back and sit in the bus for another hour. Time was going fast.

We managed to board the plane just in time, but we were exhausted. We fell asleep once the plane took off and our eyes were shut until it touched down. I think I had a dream about being stranded again; it was a nightmare.

It was 3pm by the time we reached Barcelona. The backpackers' hostel we'd booked was located out of the city centre. It was our third hostel so we were quite excited to see if the €10 inn was at least as comfortable as our previous experience.

The building was not easy to find as it was a converted residential block. It was owned by a typical British man – polite, organised – who clearly laid down what the rules were. There was a curfew but that wouldn't be a problem for either of us early sleepers. Opening the door to our new room, we were pleased to see that the quaint space was clean and neat. It was an en suite three-bed room so we would be sharing with a stranger. Our roommate wasn't in but judging from the clothes hung in the cupboard, it was definitely a man. Or a woman who loved baggy, smelly T-shirts. It didn't really matter because we found that people usually behave when they're on their own. It's only when they're in a group that they get a little restless.

We unloaded our things and headed back outside. We still had the daily pass so we went back to the city centre which only took twenty minutes. The bustling Las Ramblas greeted us first; and rightly so, as it became our favourite place in the city. We kept going back to the boulevard which seemed like the heart of Barcelona with endless streams of tourists, locals, artists and street performers. We were warned beforehand by our Catalan friends to keep our belongings close, as pickpockets roam the area freely. Indeed there were a few suspicious-looking men loitering, watching out for careless vacationers, I assumed.

Mercat de la Boqueria must be the only place so far that we kept frequenting whenever we were out. It's cited as one of Europe's great food markets where you can find local provisions, but we were after the fruit juice. The colourful combinations were as tempting as Angeline Jolie to Brad Pitt. We had over six combinations over the span of only a couple of days. My favourite was blueberry and coconut, perfect for any occasion by the beach.

We followed the crowd to the other side of Las Ramblas into the Gothic Quarter, the old city of Barcelona. Walking along the narrow cobblestone path was like being in a medieval labyrinth with many buildings and remains from old times as far back as the Roman settlement. When the sun set, the lights made the whole place even more regal.

We went back to our hostel before ten and met our roommate for the first time. He was a middle-aged Spaniard from Madrid, now moving to Barcelona for a new job and looking for a flat to rent. The properties in Barcelona cost a fortune and to rent just a small studio apartment sets you back €700 a month. At least there's a subsidy in Nice but there in Barcelona, you're on your own. He didn't talk much, which suited me fine.

We were up early the next day, trying to be as quiet as possible so that our roommate could have a little more sleep. The breakfast was served on a tray by the same Englishman. It looked like he was running a one-man show. We had croissants with strawberry jam, cookies and hot chocolate drinks. We were the only people in the dining room so we watched MTV, the only channel that we could understand.

We were out by eight with full tummies and a new daily pass. We discovered that Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926) is a big name over there. A great man during his time, he left a legacy of handiwork that can be seen all over the city especially in the imposing La Sagrada Familia. It should be named one of the world's wonders, having been in construction since 1882 and not expected to be complete until 2026, at the earliest. Sometimes I think they're doing it slowly on purpose to get people to talk about it.

I'm a football fan only once every four years but I just had to go to Camp Nou, the home of the football club Barcelona. Previously we had paid to enter Old Trafford, the home of Manchester United, while visiting a friend there. It was worth it at least for Rafiee, who has been their loyal supporter ever since I've known him. This time, however, we chose not to enter Camp Nou since none of us could remember all the players' names, anyway. Even then, it was a precious feeling just being there. It was like, wow, I'm walking on the same ground as Xavi or one of those handsome players.

When it was time to leave, I found myself missing the city while looking out of the train window. Like Cairo, Barcelona reminded me so much of Malaysia. The weather was appropriately warm and sunny; similarly the people were jovial and passionate. The food, paella for one, reminded me of our local seafood fried rice. The tropical fruits that we couldn't get enough of at the market were also pulling me back. I said goodbye with much hesitation. I didn't know when I would be coming back again. It could be years, when I get too old to remember that I had in fact ever been there.

At the airport check-in, we silently hoped everything would go more smoothly than last time in Venice. We still had two countries to go to and we couldn't afford to miss any of them because the routes were connected. At the same time – just our lack of luck – in central Europe it was snowing so hard that some airports had to be closed temporarily.

In Barcelona, however, the weather was so beautiful that you'd be silly to expect even drizzle. As usual an announcement was made for the passengers to board the plane, and once we'd strapped ourselves in we were certain nothing could go wrong now; at least before we got to Amsterdam.

One of my habits whenever I get on a plane is to grab the flight magazine. I'm one of those unfortunate avid readers who can't read in a moving vehicle without getting a deathly headache, so I always make sure I finish the magazine before the plane moves an inch.

With lots of practice behind me, as expected I finished the magazine before the pilot pressed another button, but after going through the in-flight menu twice (which I had subconsciously memorised), the plane still didn't move. Something didn't feel right.

I looked over the window and saw a number of technicians and engineers in safety jackets assembled underneath the left wing. There was a leak, that much I could tell, but I also knew that leaks always happen. You just have to screw something tight and off we go. But wait, now the pilot was leaving his cockpit and rushing towards them. After about ten minutes, with passengers starting to get fidgety, the stewardess made an announcement that we would be running a bit late due to a leak. She didn't say exactly how long we would be waiting but when more technicians came over, I knew it would be a while.

Sure enough, she made another announcement ten minutes later, saying that we had to get off the plane and wait in the departure hall while they fetched a new plane from London. Funny how she made it sound like London was just a few kilometres away and we would be leaving before we knew it.

The passengers mumbled incoherently and unstrapped themselves, took their hand luggage and made their way back to the airport. I should've taken the magazine and the menu to keep myself occupied because it turned out the plane wasn't coming until five hours later.

I wished I was as forward-thinking as those who booked the sockets as soon as we got back to the airport and plugged in their laptops to surf the web and watch movies. I bet five hours felt like nothing to them. I bet they didn't feel like banging their head on the wall and wailing, "Why me, God??? Why the flight to Amsterdam??? Whyyyy???"

We called our hostel in Amsterdam about our delay. The man said he worked at the desk all night. I believed him in a heartbeat. At 5pm, he already sounded as drained as if he'd been shovelling in a graveyard all day.

We did what everyone else sensibly did. We grabbed a bite to eat and talked, looked at our watches and continued talking until we were too exhausted to say another word. Most shops were already closing. Then we took a bench each for a three-hour nap. Cold and achy, we felt what it was like to be homeless. It's not nice at all. It brought back memories of Pisa, Geneva, Nice and Venice. Come to think of it, we should've got used to it but it was never a breeze. At least this time we would still make it to Amsterdam on the same day and there was no subsequent flight to miss.

The stewardesses started to show up around nine at night. At last, what felt like forever was coming to an end. The plane was ready for us. We got inside the flying bird, fell asleep again and one hour later we landed in Amsterdam.

It was close to twelve. We were not the only ones worrying about our way out, as most public transport would have stopped operating by midnight. Along with some other passengers from our plane (we recognised them easily now that we'd spent hours observing each other in an empty hall), we rushed towards the metro station to get one of the last trains to our destination.

Like other budget hostels we'd picked, our Amsterdam hostel was also quite far away from the centre and the buses had indeed stopped running. It was almost 1.30am so we decided to get a taxi. Hailing one was easy: they were everywhere, to our relief. The drivers were mostly foreigners, which came as no surprise. In the dark I couldn't tell them apart, with their moustaches and accents.

We settled for one of the Pakistani taxi drivers, because he was the nearest. We were not in the mood for small talk so we didn't say much to the driver apart from letting him know where we wanted to go. Rafiee and I occasionally exchanged remarks on how beautiful the city was at night. Then suddenly, the driver intervened.

"Excuse me, are you speaking Indonesian or Malay?"

Stunned but relieved that I hadn't said anything nasty about him – which had become our bad habit because we'd got too comfortable with the fact that people didn't usually understand our mother tongue in that part of the world – I asked him how he'd figured it out.

"My wife is Malaysian, but we have a lot of Indonesian neighbours so I can understand a little of both." He grinned; he was definitely enjoying this. We really should have stopped assuming we were the only two people in Europe who could speak Malay.

We talked about his life and family for the rest of the journey. It never failed to amuse me that no matter how far we travelled, we still bumped into people who were connected to us in a way or another. In fact, the more we travel now the more we realise how eerily true the six degrees' separation theory is.

We got to our hostel two hours after midnight, paid the fare and told the driver to give our regards to his Malaysian wife. As we stepped into the quaint hostel, what we'd read about the stairs became a reality. They really were that narrow and steep. I'd be surprised if no kid ever broke a rib, falling down those evil stairs. I myself had to resist the urge to crawl up, and slide down, instead.

The man at the desk whom we'd talked to earlier looked as tired as he sounded. He was also a foreigner. He smiled weakly, gave us some forms to fill in as a formality and handed us the key. The desk was in the living room and there were still a couple of people who were on the laptop at that hour.

We changed our clothes in the kitchen before going into the bedroom as we didn't want to switch on the light, but we needn't have worried. The room seemed full, by the look of the unmade beds, but there were only three people sleeping in them and the light was still on. Where was everybody at two in the morning?

We switched off the light and went to bed, only to be awakened by the noises of the party-goers. They were Spanish, known for partying like there's no tomorrow. They were as drunk as Chihuahuas on crack but they didn't switch on the light, which was impressive. But then we had to put up with the sound of them bumping into things as they each made their way to their respective bed.

I couldn't for the life of me remember what time I finally got to sleep but I knew Rafiee was awake, too, when they came in because he stopped snoring (which is rare, even if an earthquake hits). I think we got only four hours' sleep but we had no time to waste. We were ready for breakfast at 6.30 and while I was in the shower, Rafiee was already in the living room chatting with the man at the desk who turned out to be an Afghan. He left Afghanistan shortly after the war broke out and although he had no immediate plans to return, he was saving to go home when the war was over as his family members were still there. I felt bad for being grumpy because I hadn't had my eight hours' beauty sleep.

He returned to his work and we left the hostel armed with a map, as usual. The Netherlands is a lowland country. It's thought that approximately a quarter of it would have disappeared into the North Sea if there weren't any dikes to regulate the water levels. As you land at Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, you're actually four metres below sea level. That also means Amsterdam would be one of the first cities in the world to drown if the sea level rises even marginally.

The capital is naturally the largest city in the Netherlands, but the Dutch government and parliament are, unusually, based somewhere else. It was not an issue for us, though, because we were in Amsterdam particularly to see the sex and drugs scene. You can legally purchase up to five grams of cannabis in over two hundred so-called coffee shops, which should keep you high for several days. Don't be surprised as you walk with your small children in a flea market to find marijuana lollipops. Just make sure you check the ingredients of any green candy you're getting for your young ones, lest you end up with hyperactive children for a week.

I know I was supposed to say that I was looking forward to seeing the museums as the city has the most museums per square metre in the world, but while you can find a museum anywhere around the globe, you rarely see lingerie-clad women behind glass windows exhibiting what kind of satisfaction they can offer you. That is sort-of a museum, isn't it?

On a healthy note, there are twice as many bikes in the country as cars and there are more bikes than people in Amsterdam alone. Interesting, eh?

Ah well, I bet you're still thinking about the women of the Red Light District.

We were out on a frosty morning, looking for a place to buy the day pass. We had no exact plans but as long as we had a map, it was enough for us. We found that at least in Europe, the most convenient and fascinating way to get around is to get the day pass and the map that has the tourist attractions marked on it. Then make your way on foot as much as possible. That way you can immerse yourself in the essence of the place without having to live with a random family with whom you have to make small talk every time you bump into them on your way to the bathroom.

As we made our way around the many canals (I strongly doubt we covered all 165 of them), we could see a number of pretty house-boats that made us feel like leaving everything behind to live in one, with only a box of green lollipops to keep us stuck in the moment. Instead, we took some photos and moved on to the Anne Frank House on the Prinsengracht canal. It's a museum depicting the life of a Jewish girl who hid with her family in a small room in the building during the Holocaust. The ending to her remarkable story was so tragic that I chose to skip it. I read the book, saw the movie and cried both times. I couldn't sleep for nights, just thinking about it.

One of the significant places we visited was Waterlooplein, which always reminds me of the loo, but the fact is it was named after the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. A square in the city centre, it's mostly known for its daily flea market, city hall and opera building. I especially loved the random knick-knacks they had there, like old telephones, antique photos and, of course, things from the reggae era. Rafiee looked like Bob Marley in one of the pictures I took of him trying on a crocheted Rasta cap.

The floating flower market at the Singel Canal is definitely not to be missed. I was told it's open throughout the year and first started in 1862. Flowers never go out of fashion, do they? You can find the traditional Dutch tulips without having to wait for the summer to see the flowers in Keukenhof Gardens, though that would be a magnificent sight too.

If there was one thing I can clearly remember from our travels in Amsterdam, it would be the fries. It's not just the usual fries, it's the Flemish fries with a choice of over ten sauces and combinations. We must have had six of them in just one day. I don't think the fries go with the peanut sauce (the one that we usually have with _satay_ in Malaysia), but apart from that, they go perfectly with the rest, like feta cheese, gravy, garlic sauce and even curry.

I wish we could have stayed longer just for the fries, but the bus was booked and it was time to leave. We departed early in the morning and the trip was smooth, but then again it could be that we were both asleep most of the time. When we got to Brussels a few hours later, it was like waking up in a different world altogether.

There were no flying cars or people in bubble suits, but the rest would fit nicely in the distant future, especially the high-rise glass buildings. As I opened my eyes from my deep slumber, I had to search for a hint of blue sky, as it was blocked by massive concrete structures. Welcome to the ultimate capital of the European Union.

I had to rub my eyes to make sure I wasn't imagining things because I was seeing a huge set of metal balls that must have been about 100 metres high. Only in Belgium can you see steel and aluminium molecules of iron enlarged 165,000,000 times. Named the Atomium, it was originally built for the 1958 World Fair and is now the symbol of the country. Why the atom concept? Well, why not?

Rafiee, as always, came prepared. Just like with other destinations, he had prepared the directions and the places to go. It was even more important this time because we would be spending only a few hours in Brussels. We love travelling but to be honest, after ten European countries, they started to look identical. Then why did we still trek the region? Well, no matter how similar two countries are, there is always something different and that one small difference often makes the trip worthwhile. In Brussels, for example, it's the peeing boy.

For several centuries the little statue has been urinating freely, to tourists' delight. It's a small figurine doing a simple daily routine and yet people endlessly encircle it to watch and take photos. Come to think of it, Manneken Pis would have flooded the city if it was any bigger. Having worn about six hundred costumes, it's one fancy peeing boy. If you're lucky enough to catch him getting a new costume change, he pees beer instead of water; though I can't imagine people opening their mouths to have a sip off a little boy. Seems a little disturbing, doesn't it?

We walked ahead to the Grand Place, the central square of Brussels where you can find a number of majestic buildings such as the city's Town Hall. Just standing in the middle of the square and turning 360 degrees gave me some kind of beautiful feeling, like I couldn't believe I was there. It was a sunny day and I was with the love of my life; it felt like nothing could go wrong.

The smell of fresh Belgian waffles interrupted my exuberance and, like somebody under a spell, I started walking towards the many street vendors. The waffles were so deliciously enormous and generously topped with whipped cream, Belgian chocolate and fruits, I felt that I could live on them for ever. Well, provided I don't go into a coma due to high blood sugar, that is.

We finally got home, tired but still eager for the next trip because it wasn't a typical European city. It's also half Asian, split by the Bosphorus River. It was Istanbul in Turkey, the only city that's situated in two continents. Turkey also has a lot of neighbours, being bordered by Bulgaria, Greece, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan (which Rafiee thought was a hoax, referring to Harry Potter's Azkaban), Iran, Iraq and Syria. You'll be surprised to learn that Istanbul is the third largest metropolitan area in Europe, after London and Moscow. And it's not even the capital city. Ankara is the official centre of Turkey, but Istanbul remains the most popular city in the country.

While I was looking forward to their famous baklava and apple tea, Rafiee couldn't wait to have a go at their strong coffee. They said you can't find it the same outside Turkey. While the backpackers' hostel we chose was right in the heart of the city, the price was still cheaper than the rest of the hostels we had been to. Europe but with the Asian price tag. The best of both worlds.

Crossing the Bosphorus River, the Topkapi Palace nearby is one beautiful sight from the Galata Bridge. It was the Ottoman Sultans' primary residence for nearly 400 years. I was informed it holds many important Muslim holy artefacts such as the Prophet Muhammed's cloak and sword, but unfortunately it was closed on both days we were there. We could only pose for photos at the gate as a token of our visit.

To get to the hostel, we had to walk past two of the landmarks – Sultan Ahmet Mosque, better known as Blue Mosque, and not far from it, Hagia Sophia mosque, which was formerly a church (so you can still observe both Islamic and Christian features). These are some of the finest creations that Istanbul boasts and you should see them both by day and night. The lights provide the structures with a grand ambience.

We'd booked a room of six beds and after we'd stood there knocking – and eventually resorting to banging – on the front door, at long last a sleepy teenage boy emerged and opened the door, apologising and rubbing his eyes. Part of me was fuming for having to wait for ten minutes outside in the cold, but I couldn't help laughing at the funny face welcoming us.

He was a young Turk who was probably not a day over fifteen. He was plump but in a very cute way, and he looked so innocent that you couldn't possibly be mad at him.

"Sorry, sorry. Welcome to the Topdeck Hostel. Um, what kind of room did you book?" he asked, while rummaging through the messy desk.

"Six-bed room." Rafiee was obviously losing his patience but when the boy found the key and gave a triumphant grin, even Rafiee cracked a smile.

"Let me check the room to see if your beds are ready. You can wait here." He pointed to the floor that we were standing on and grabbed some clean sheets from the cupboard next to his reception desk.

After about ten minutes of thumping noises, he came out and led us to a small, en-suite room. There was nobody else, but the beds were all in a mess. He showed us where we would be sleeping for the next couple of nights, handed us the key and wished us a pleasant stay. Seconds later a dishevelled man came in. He reminded me of the many homeless men back in Budapest who understandably don't shave as often as an ordinary human being should. He had obviously been staying in the room and was now checking out, because he set about packing up his things. We said a quick hi and got back to our own business, us unpacking and him the opposite.

Again, I took it for granted that my mother tongue wasn't widely understood in that continent. I'd started speaking Malay with Rafiee, talking about the funny boy at reception and how small the room was, when suddenly the shambolic young man intervened.

"Excuse me, are you guys speaking Malay?"

Oops, I sure was glad I hadn't said anything about his Robert Pattinson hair, which was going to be my next subject.

"Ah yes, how did you know?" Rafiee asked.

"I lived in Indonesia for three years and in Borneo for about a year so I can speak a little of the languages." He grinned. " _Apa khabar?_ " (How are you?)

" _Khabar baik. Betul pandai cakap?_ " (Fine. You can speak well?) I tested him, as most people declare they can speak a foreign language with just a few introductory phrases they've memorised from the guidebook.

" _Boleh tahan. Lebih senang belajar bahasa Melayu dan Indonesian dari contohnya, Spanish."_ (Not bad. It's easy to speak Malay and Indonesian compared to say, Spanish.)

Alright, he really could speak Malay. I will no longer assume that people who don't look Malaysian can't understand our so-called secret language.

He turned out to be an Australian who had just graduated in mechanical engineering from an Australian university. He worked for a year before he realised that he didn't want to be stuck in a nine-to-five rut. Instead of daydreaming of going off, like most of us, he pulled the plug and took a gap year, which became two and now four, travelling while working as – what else? – an English teacher. Like Mika and lots of her friends did, it seems like teaching English around the globe can actually last you years of world travels. When we met that day, he was on his way to Africa. He'd got a job in mechanical engineering there and thought that it was the right thing for him to do, to remain in the field but without borders. We said goodbye and took a photo as a reminder not to gossip in our secret language any more.

Istanbul was probably one of the few smooth trips that we had. The flights were prompt and the public transport was easy to use. The only flaw was getting roommates from hell.

Well, from Korea actually.

I seriously think that was their first time backpacking, because how else can you explain people speaking loudly and going in and out of a hostel room at 3am without bothering to keep the noise down? Lack of common sense would be my second guess. One time they didn't even have the courtesy to flush the toilet. Did they honestly think their waste would magically vanish in the morning? But not even that could spoil our time in this fascinating city. It was our little paradise with its abundance of adorable, healthy stray cats and dogs, and finger-licking halal food.

Although there's no shortage of wonderful street food, the Grand Bazaar is also one of the fancier places to find local delicacies. While you're at it, you can always get souvenirs for your family and friends back home. To be honest, however, I'd suggest you go hunting the small street stores as they sell the same things but at a lower price.

We had our baklava, apple tea and strong black coffee. Two things they have in common are being extremely sweet and strong. And they will still offer you more sugar for your tea and coffee. I never thought there was a taste sweeter than sweet. My late grandmother, who died of diabetes, would turn in her grave if she knew. Nonetheless, I haven't found a fresher, yummier baklava since then.

As usual, we walked most of the time. As we crossed the Galata Bridge on a fine afternoon, we saw a row of people fishing and even selling their catch by the roadside. The many fishing rods hanging over the bridge was a distinctive local sight. One man saw our enthusiastic faces and offered his fishing rod so we could take a touristy photo. We took it. Turks are some of the nicest people we have ever encountered so far. We were greeted with genuine smiles everywhere we went and merchants never seemed to tire of making jokes with passers-by.

Another example was when we took the boat from the European side of Istanbul to the Asian part, and a Turkish middle-aged man started talking to us out of nowhere. We hit it off right away, talking about our countries and families. At the end of the thirty-minute trip, he gave us his name card just in case we got into any sort of trouble in the city.

On another occasion, Rafiee and I were walking down a busy road when we were approached by a plump, local young man looking so gloomy that we had to stop. He asked us to visit his carpet and kilim store.

You didn't have to be a seasoned traveller to know at once that the man was going to trap us into buying something, so we said no. We kept giving excuses, such as we were students and we hadn't brought any money, while he insisted that he just wanted us to visit to bring him luck.

I don't know why we couldn't resist his invitation, like we normally did with so many other stalking street-sellers. Perhaps it was his sad eyes, or maybe our hearts just went out to him at that moment. So we followed him to his store where he introduced us to his father, a jubilant old man.

Tucked away in a quiet street, they hadn't had a customer in three months. We started to regret our decision to come in when they happily served us apple tea and talked about their collections that they'd bought from their hard-up fellow villagers. They enquired about us once in a while, which we naturally assumed was just a trick to make a connection, in the hope that we would eventually purchase something; but we politely went along with it.

Then they noticed that I was interested in one of the hand-woven kilim bags. When they asked me if I liked it, I wasn't sure what to say as I instinctively thought that by saying yes, they would make me buy it. I said yes anyway. The next thing that came out of the father's mouth was not something we were prepared for. "Well then, that is my gift to you." Shocked, we promptly handed them some money but they refused and the father even gave us a warm hug when he saw our distressed faces. "You are like my children, so think of me as your father. Any trouble in Istanbul, you can come here. This is your home too. Keep your money, the bag is my gift to you. Just bring me a gift from Malaysia when you come back."

I had tears in my eyes when he hugged me and said those words. If you happen to go to Istanbul, perhaps you can pay them a visit – but don't just go there hoping to get a free souvenir!

Turker Ayaz, Binbirdirek Mah, Boyaci Ahmet Sk.

No: 20/A Cemberlitas, Istanbul, Turkey.

Istanbul was our last destination before going to France for the collaboration project. We spent the remaining weeks enjoying Budapest because we were sure it would be our last time there. What was to be the shortest semester turned out to be the longest one. We stayed there until winter was almost over.

In the end, apart from Nice, Budapest had become our comfortable European hometown. We didn't feel any negative prejudice. I suppose that can be attributed to the fact that the locals are more apprehensive towards the gypsies, like the French are towards the Algerians, so they don't feel the need to make well-behaved Asians feel unwelcome. Budapest also gave us the closest feeling to home as the malls and eateries are open until late, unlike in most European cities. After some time, however, we started to miss our real hometown.

It didn't matter that people were treated equally there. People still stared. The stares were more out of curiosity but still made us feel like we didn't belong. Perhaps because our friends had left and we were living in solitude since our neighbours couldn't speak any English apart from saying "hi", or perhaps because we knew it would be less than a year before seeing our home again; either way, the homesickness grew stronger around this time. Sure enough, higher suicide rates have been recorded in the winter. It must be the gloomy, depressing atmosphere playing with our heads.

One morning when I woke up feeling extreme itchiness on my fingers, I saw them turning red and purple before my eyes. In horror I instantly remembered a movie where the hiker had to cut off his finger because it was frostbitten, and now I had frostbite in all ten of them! You can imagine how that made me feel. Thankfully it was just chilblains. According to Wikipedia (which helped me apply the right treatment – rubbing my fingers with onions and soaking them in warm salted water), they occur when you're exposed to cold and humidity, which damages capillary beds in the skin. Consequently, you suffer itching, blisters and inflammation. The prickly fingers annoyed me to the core, but at least I got to keep them all intact. That's another reason why winter was our least favourite season.

Before we left, only one potential tenant came looking at our apartment along with Daniel. He was Japanese and Daniel once again asked an Asian-related question.

"You guys speak the same language, don't you?"

We were stunned. We'd never been asked that question. Seeing our flabbergasted looks, he took the cue and apologised in embarrassment.

"Of course not. I'm sorry, I don't know why I keep asking that kind of question."

"You obviously need to visit Asia someday," I responded sympathetically.

The serious Japanese man was clearly not amused. He was probably feeling the same way we did when we first saw the building six months before. He also had something else on his mind. "Are there any gypsies living in this building?"

Alright, he might have heard the creepy stories but I was offended, for some reason. This downright discrimination was making me uncomfortable. Who knows, in some other parts of the world somebody could be asking the same question about Asians. At the same time I couldn't really blame the man. Although generally we know not all gypsies are bad, the bad apples are enough to maintain a stereotype that eventually leads the good apples to conform.

We told him the truth, that no gypsies were living there. But he never came back. Daniel wasn't troubled. There are always students looking for a place when the new semester opens. We were leaving at six in the morning and he came promptly fifteen minutes beforehand to get the keys and return our deposit.

We'd learned our lesson from Nasser. Always get your deposit back before you leave. Daniel might not be as difficult as Nasser but we didn't want to take any chances, especially in another country. As we looked out of the tram window, we said goodbye to the place that had been our home for the past six months. It didn't cross our minds at all that we would actually be coming back to Budapest sooner than we thought.

Chapter 9

Going back to Nice (yet again) brought back lots of memories, most of them good. We heard Mr Walker had finally bought his dream car but we didn't get to see him, as the programme schedule was hectic. One hundred students from all around the world; surely it would be frenzied.

We were meeting at the faculty on Monday. Most of the students would have known each other from the pre-arranged hotel as they were staying in the same place. Rafiee and I found a one-bedroom apartment close to the hotel with our own garden. No offence, Mr Walker, but it was way better than the 25-square-metre studio apartment.

Everyone looked nervous but excited nonetheless. I suppose after a few cyber meetings and with the aid of Facebook, we felt like we already knew each other. If I were to tell an anecdote for each person I met, I would need to write another book altogether. Suffice to say, thirty-five nationalities confined in a small building inevitably brought a party, even though we spent most of our time working in each designated room.

My group consisted firstly of two funny French boys. One had a Facebook page for his cat. I was told it was normal so I tried not to laugh when he told me. Then there were two Vietnamese who I believed were industrious, but with their limited English, they found it easier just to wait for people to tell them what to do, which didn't go down well with our ambitious British member. There was a tall, straightforward young German who fitted the positive German stereotype. Our group leader, a Bolivian, was one of the few lads I knew who had both skills and integrity. I was the only girl in the group.

We worked most of the time but on weekends we partied hard at the hotel. When I say "we", I mean "they". Not staying in the same place was both a blessing and a drawback. I couldn't be hanging around the lobby waiting for some party to break out, but since I was too lazy to party it didn't much matter that I wasn't involved. While I was home watching TV and cooking with Rafiee, most of my friends were drunk but they miraculously appeared sober the next morning. They would be talking about the previous night while I had no clue who that crazy-animal Steve guy was.

The first Saturday all of us went on a field trip to see the River Var. Var means river in English. I guess in the old days these people literally called a spade a spade. Three buses were leased for the day and although it was not that far from Nice, it took a whole day as we had to stop every half an hour for some educational briefing, which was enlightening for the first two stops.

It was hard for me to enjoy the field trip because I'd had a much more exciting one back in Budapest. Lajos and his colleague drove our small group almost 200km to Baja where we got on the motorboat and learned how to measure the river current using the Doppler effect. That wasn't even the best part. Later we crossed the Sugovica, a murky old tributary of the great Danube river, to a remote area of the riverside where a forest man lived with his wife and two kids with no electricity or running water (aided by a borrowed headlamp, I had to do my business in the forest in the dark ... and I still preferred it to a public toilet in Cairo). They lived _au naturel_ , drawing water from the river and cooking over a wood fire.

Aged around six and eight, the children could swim in the icy-cold river, drive their father's motorboat, catch fish for dinner and kill them with no mercy. I recorded a video of the little boy banging the poor fish's head with a nasty-looking stone. The fish was then finished off by the father chopping its head off. I wouldn't want to mess with that boy, no matter how small he might be.

So after that eventful field trip in Budapest when the family also made us the traditional Hungarian fish goulash for dinner (yes, the same fish I'd caught on camera a couple of hours before) and which was possibly the best field trip ever, you can understand how every other trip falls short.

I was telling the others about our Baja field trip when I saw them – a group of French reporters with huge cameras and a microphone. I didn't pay much attention as they mainly talked to Reynold. Then while I was taking the hundredth photo with my friends on some rocks, Reynold came over and grabbed me.

"Come on, someone wants to talk to you. Your French is good." His eyes glinted as he beckoned the reporters over.

"I can't speak French! My English isn't that good either." It didn't make any difference. I should've known escaping Reynold's demand was only wishful thinking.

"Don't be so modest. I've heard you speak. Your French is good. Go ahead; they just want to know a few things."

"But, but ..." Kyla, Aaqil, Rafiee and the rest were following me with amusement. They refused to get me out of the sticky situation as nobody wanted to take my place. The reporter started briefing me in French and I just had to interrupt her.

"Can't I just speak English, _s'il vous plait_?"

" _Alors, Francaise est mieux._ " Of course French would be much favoured above English on the national TV. Why did I even bother to ask?

We started with the basics – my name, my country of origin, my motivation. Reynold was beaming with joy because I was representing his establishment and I only knew the positive vocabulary. Then as he walked away to find more people to spread the joy, I switched to English and threw in some French words out of respect.

What I intended to do was to promote the programme by illustrating the significant benefits it would bring but somehow, in between French and English expressions, I ended up sounding like a desperate third-world national trying to save Mother Earth. That's what happens when you are thinking in one language and speaking another at the same time. I was still proud that I managed to use lots of French words and managed to make up for the desperation I had conveyed at the start of the ten-minute interview.

The outcome, however, wasn't as I expected. Now I believe it when people say the media can twist your words and make them sound however they want.

When Reynold sent us the link to the news recording for those who didn't catch it on TV, I was beyond horrified. They'd dubbed the whole thing and only played the part when I didn't sound smart. Sorry, Malaysia, for making you seem like you don't even have clean water. I wouldn't be surprised if my incoherent speech had scared away potential French tourists. I dreaded the day when Reynold would show us the whole clip in the presence of everyone but that's the price I paid for my five-minute fame.

The field trip ended with a late lunch at the top of a mountain where we unwrapped our sandwiches and drinks. It was one of the moments that I treasured. Sitting with Rafiee and our good friends on the grass and looking at the French Alps on a sunny day was a perfect way to conclude the trip.

Two weeks went by in a flash. We got to know many wonderful people but there was simply not enough time to get to know them all; there were too many. The final presentation was a little sad because it was the last part and everyone would be going their own way in a couple of days. As I write this a year on, I haven't seen anyone from the programme ever since, except for my classmates. If not for the photos and of course the video, I would've thought it had just been another beautiful dream.

It was also at this time that I realised we had to go to Budapest again for my thesis presentation, which was good news because it was our favourite city among the ones we had stayed in for more than three months. Initially my supervisor was supposed to be Reynold as he had a close connection to my internship company, but I changed my mind when I found out that the tuition fee in France was €500 higher, and also because I liked Lajos better; and after a couple of angry e-mails from Reynold, it was confirmed. I was going back to Budapest after my internship.

In the meantime, the finishing ceremony was held in an old castle, no less. It was exquisite and with my pair of jeans, I felt uneasy until I saw most of them wearing faded jeans and T-shirts. Unless you're in North Korea, it's hard to find such a large number of people wearing the same thing at the same time.

That day was when I learned that the French are really serious about their gastronomy. One of the most severe offences, apparently, is having dessert before the main meal. The caterers prepared a huge selection of French staple dishes and the desserts were arranged at both ends of the room. Not knowing the French customs that well, some of us started to grab the desserts. How can you expect people to stand still when colourful macaroons and rich, filling crêpes are freely available within their reach? I swear the French caterers rolled their eyes as if they had seen us spitting on their children. Reynold then came rushing with some papers to cover the desserts while obsessively repeating the mantra, "No dessert until main dish. No dessert until main dish."

We wrapped up the event with lots of hugs, kisses and photo-taking. That was the end of our short programme in France. I celebrated by buying homemade macaroons from a famous bakery in the old town since I didn't get to eat many at the ceremony. They were heavenly. Baklava has finally met its match and from the taste of it, macaroons may be in the lead. Not knowing what was coming our way, my only concern at the time was if I could get my hands on the original macaroons, dubbed the world's best, from Laduree.

If I only knew what was coming ...

Chapter 10

Taking the same flight as Rashed, who would be doing his internship in the same place, as well as Gusti, we reached Copenhagen in the evening. Our new landlady was waiting at the train station to welcome us. Rafiee had been in touch with her several times. She had even e-mailed us photos of her and her son's family. Even in her correspondence I could sense something atypical coming our way.

The thing about sharing a house with a lady owner is that it doesn't matter that you're paying for it. You still have to follow her rules while you're living under her roof. We didn't know that, so we were in for unpleasant surprises. I was selfishly relieved that Rafiee was the connection so that I didn't have to communicate with her as often. You will soon find out why.

We were a few minutes late as the train was delayed. Susanne called Rafiee to ask where we were. She said she had prepared some soup for us, which sounded exactly what we needed after a long, tiring day. We were thinking of an early bedtime as we'd been up since five in the morning.

When we got to our stop, we saw her. Nobody could possibly miss the tall, strong 65-year-old lady with a rainbow outfit as if she was confused which colour to wear and had decided to wear them all. She waved and, with a huge smile, came over and hugged us. During the walk to her home, she did most of the talking.

"This is a quiet and peaceful neighbourhood. I've been living in the same house for the past thirty-eight years." She stopped at a crossroads, turned to us and asked playfully, "Can you guess which way to the house?"

You see, carrying a 10kg backpack and dragging a 20kg suitcase each, the last thing we wanted to do was to play a guessing game but she seemed like a harmless old lady so why not humour her.

"This way?" I guessed, randomly. Who can make an intelligent guess when they don't even know where they're going?

"Yes and no. It's both! Both roads lead to the house because the neighbourhood is basically a square but this one is closer, I think. We can try the other one next time." She was obviously pleased that we'd fallen for the trick question.

All the lights were switched on and all the curtains were raised to reveal a snug and charming cottage. Our little corner was an extension of the house that looked like a cabin, which I fell in love with instantly except for the fact that we had to share the bathroom. At the time, I thought I could live with it since we'd had a good experience living with Laila.

The entrance led to the kitchen which could also double as the living room. Almost immediately, Susanne started to explain every little thing in sight – literally.

The mats. "You should pat all the mats against the wall outside, every week."

The gas stove. "Please make sure you wipe this dry every time you use it. Last time, the tenant left it wet and it got rusty so I made him buy a new one."

Gulp; point taken.

The dining table. "We should replace this nice cover with the plastic I've just bought. It's practical; you can easily wipe it when it gets dirty. Don't you think so?"

We nodded and helped her switch the nice table-cloth with the translucent plastic table-cover.

For the next two hours, even over the welcome dinner, she briefed us ... no, more like lectured us ... on how to store our things, how to wipe the shower unit dry (it comprised the wall, shower curtain, floor and yes, even the shower equipment itself) and basically, how to live according to her way.

Imagine having travelled the whole day and then having to listen to this overbearing lecture before you've had anything to eat. Even after dinner, she insisted we go with her at 9pm to buy groceries in a nearby shop.

I excused myself as my tummy was hurting from eating too much on an empty stomach (or it could have been the stress, for all I knew), but not without her nagging that I should be forcing myself to go for a walk. Great, she'd known me for only a couple of hours and suddenly she was the expert on my abdominal pain.

Rafiee went with her reluctantly. For about twenty minutes or so I had peace. I just lay down on the bed looking at the ceiling, wondering if she hadn't been telling the truth about having previous tenants. How could it be possible (or even healthy) for a normal person to stay with this lady? How could we last six months in this prison?

They came back after what felt like only a few minutes. For once I hadn't missed my husband and wished he could have been gone longer so I didn't have to hear Susanne's voice again so soon. Rafiee showed me what he'd bought; nothing that we had ever purchased for ourselves.

"She made me buy this pineapple juice because it's good for the digestion. This rye bread because it's healthier than white bread. In fact, she might as well have just put everything in my trolley herself." Rafiee looked too worn out to argue. I was too tired to put any blame on him. He'd been brave enough to be alone with the landlady from hell. I wasn't about to make it worse.

"That's okay. I mean, we hate all of these things, but they're certainly healthy, so just think of it that way."

A knock on our door caught us by surprise. What now? We opened the door to a chirpy Susanne.

"I forgot to tell you that if you need an extra mattress, just let me know."

She only had a single bed so Rafiee had to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

"Okay." I smiled weakly, with what strength I had left.

"Oh, by the way, welcome, and make yourselves at home."

I would've laughed at the irony if it had been somebody else's situation but I couldn't find the humour in it at the time.

That night we didn't even unpack like we always do when we get to a new place. So there we were, Rafiee on the floor and I on my single bed. We looked at each other.

Rafiee spoke first. "What on Earth are we going to do?"

Suddenly I felt my eyes welling up with tears. I'd never felt that homesick before. I felt so far from home and I was just ready to run away and not think of the consequences.

"Let me find us a new home for us," I told him.

Rafiee wasn't convinced. "But sweetie, I tried for months and there was nothing else."

He was equally stressed out, the more so because he'd spent months trying to find us a place to stay, and after all those scams, this one had turned out to be a boot camp. I myself had read about people who were already living in Denmark, actively seeking a new place to rent but failing, even after three whole months. I knew my chances were small but anything would be better than this.

Rafiee fell asleep on his mattress while I must have e-mailed about twenty people before I managed to sleep. When I woke up the next morning and checked my e-mail, two-thirds of the landlords turned out to be con men. The rest never replied. I have the suspicion that property owners prefer letting their places to locals to avoid any potential problems.

I video-called my dad and mom in the morning. I think they were even more worried than the time we got stranded due to the Iceland volcano eruption. It made sense. The traffic disruption had only lasted for a week and we'd been happy staying with our friends. Six months in this reformatory could turn us suicidal.

Giving up hope of finding a new sanctuary, we finally unpacked two days later. Susanne kept knocking on the door to give us maps, extra towels and more instructions. On Sunday she insisted we went with her to the neighbourhood celebration of Fastelavn. It's like Halloween but mostly for kids to dress up in costumes, collecting treats and playing the traditional hit-the-cat-out-of-the-barrel. Thankfully they no longer use a real cat and instead replace it with lots of candy.

She offered us some ornamental hats which we thought quite bizarre, so we passed. She didn't seem happy about it. The good news was that she didn't wear any of the funny hats. The bad news was that she chose to wear the scary Indonesian Barong mask. Original, I'll give her that.

She wasn't in her best mood a few hours before setting off. She had asked her previous Romanian tenants to help her chop woods for her fire and Rafiee, being a gentleman, offered his assistance too. They were axing merrily and freely while I was doing my own thing inside, until a loud crash was heard, followed by the howling scream of what seemed like a soul in torment. One of her many statues had been broken by a flying block of wood that one of the Romanians was working on. To make things worse, the broken statue had been sculpted by her late boyfriend so understandably she was really upset.

However, we were baffled when she stormed into the house and slammed the door without saying a word. The men were confused and probably scared too, because she was unpredictable. Rafiee came inside our cabin and told me to stay put because she might be coming out with an axe.

About ten minutes later, she finally appeared. "That's okay," she said calmly, "whenever a bad thing happens, we should only point the finger at ourselves. I shouldn't have put something as valuable as that in the garden, so it's not really your fault."

I could tell she had been rehearsing this line and making herself believe it. The guys offered to glue the pieces together. They looked full of guilt ... or was it fear I sensed? Either way, Susanne calmed down and they worked on the statue for the rest of the afternoon.

The Fastelavn in our neighbourhood was a fun event where we were introduced to our neighbours. It wasn't just the kids; the grown-ups also played dress-up, albeit a little more toned-down than our landlady in the Barong mask. They prepared hot chocolate with whipped cream and Fastelavnsbolle, a must-have on the day. It's a sweet, round bun filled with cream and covered with icing and sugar. Danish baking is really scrummy.

Since I had a couple of days before my internship started, Rafiee and I took the bus to the nearest city centre one icy evening and saw in amazement how every stretch of water was frozen, including a big lake. The swans were gliding on the thin ice like in an ice-skating show. It was already March but it was still freezing cold.

When we came back, Susanne knocked on our door to ask if we'd been to the beach.

"Oh no, we just went to Horsholm," I told her.

"You should go to the beach. The sea is frozen and Rafiee can hold your hand while you walk on the beach. It will be so romantic." Her eyes gleamed with what I suspected were memories of her boyfriend walking hand-in-hand with her on the beach.

I didn't believe the sea could be frozen but I said yes anyway, we would go soon. I was still annoyed with her for trying to live her life through ours and for the fact that I had to wipe the whole shower unit dry every time I used it. More often than not, I tried to cut short any communication with her.

We took a stroll through a freezing forest to the beach the next afternoon. The sun was deceptive. It was shining so brightly but we still had to wear our gloves as it felt like December. The walk to the Oresund Strait connecting to the Baltic Sea took about twenty minutes, passing a number of typical Danish homes, horses in a field and of course the icy forest that seemed a bit too dark for a sunny day like that.

We came out alive, nevertheless, and the view took us by surprise. Susanne might be a pain but her sources were right: the sea was indeed frozen. If it hadn't been for the blurry outline of the Swedish coast across the sea, it would have looked exactly like the Arctic. The photos we took turned out looking like we really were in the Arctic. My mom even thought I'd had the photos edited or faked in a studio.

When we got home that day, Susanne handed us our mail. It was from the _Danish Immigration_ Service. We opened my letter first and from our basic understanding of the language, we learned that I had to go and pick up my residence permit. Rafiee's envelope was thicker and it didn't look good. We asked Susanne to translate, just to be sure, and apparently, my residence permit was ready whereas Rafiee had to see them in person. It didn't mention anything about his application.

We stayed positive. We figured they just needed more documents for Rafiee. After all, we had lived in three different countries and we'd never had any problems with our applications. Who would deny someone's right to stay with their spouse if they had all the necessary requirements, right?

Wrong.

We'd thought the UK had the strictest entry policy. Guess what, Denmark was three times worse. With a new Refugees, Immigrants and Integration Minister in the job, a change in policy came about which didn't favour us. I could easily afford to support my unemployed husband and we had no intention of doing any terrorism but apparently it was not possible for the authorities to see it that way.

I cried my heart out at the desk when the lady said that Rafiee's application had been denied and he had to leave in three months. I'd never spent a night without him since coming to Europe, and we'd started this journey together; were we really going to end it this way? I regretted my decision to come back to this country and the place that I used to love was now my nemesis. I hated being there and everything about it.

We were both beyond devastated. It caught us off guard. I immediately made an appointment with all my three supervisors in the company to discuss the possibility of my staying for three months and working in Hungary afterwards where we both still had a valid residence permit. I was going to do anything within my power to keep us together but my power was as commanding as an ant's in a jungle of giant paws.

Two supervisors had no issues with the arrangement. The big boss didn't like the idea at all but he promised to take care of it. He called Reynold, who happened to be his good friend, and naturally Reynold was confident that he could get the necessary help from the European Union for Rafiee to stay. I was mystified at the extremity of the endeavour. Yes, it was like the end of the world for us but surely it wasn't that big of a deal for the EU? There was nothing much I could do so I did the unlikely: I put my faith in Reynold.

I started working with a heavy heart, worried but at the same time convinced that they would be able to sort the problem out. However, when there was no news from anyone a month before Rafiee was supposed to leave the country, I got antsy. Understandably, when I bumped into Erik, the big gun who'd insisted everything was going to be alright, I just had to ask.

"Oh hi, can I ask you a quick question?"

He looked at me for a nanosecond before he said no.

Taken aback, I'm glad I still managed to act nonchalantly and ask when I could ask him my quick question.

He said tomorrow and started walking away. My goodness, I'd never got a brush-off that harsh before. But I also remembered the board meeting in Newcastle when the professors cautioned me that the Danes can be blunt. I guess I'd just had an example of it and it left me with the bitterest after-taste.

I had always thought I'd rather have people being direct with me than being polite face-to-face and once you turn your back, taking out their mighty sword and burying it deep in your back. Malaysians are infamously known for that – they're polite and will say things they don't mean, just to avoid a confrontation.

At the time, however, I wished I was in Malaysia.

When I finally met Erik, with my heart pounding so hard I wondered if he could sense it, we talked about it and he made another phone call to Reynold. It turned out the EU would take some time to take hold of the matter and that I would have to submit an appeal to the Ministry of Refugees, Immigrants and Integration. I couldn't help feeling like an unwelcome immigrant whom the locals saw as a nuisance.

Once again I remembered how I used to look at the immigrants in my own country. I never treated them cruelly and I was always polite (even behind their backs!) but I'd be lying if I said I never entertained any negative thoughts. When a group of immigrants were laughing gleefully, I would silently whine about what a ruckus they were making. When I got to know a foreign woman who was working in Malaysia and had left her small children behind, I would wonder how she could do it without guilt.

I met a lot of immigrants throughout the two years, with different reasons for leaving their countries behind. One of them was a Brazilian cleaner who came to Susanne's house once a fortnight. In a normal situation, I would probably not have thought of consulting her. But my husband was about to be deported, so I wondered how Mary could have managed to stay here and if she could direct me how to go about it.

Mary was married to a Danish man. Her three kids were still in Brazil as she herself didn't get a clearance to stay until recently. Her application was rejected twice (only certain rich nationalities were given an easy way in) and she was ordered to leave the country. She didn't and the police came checking their house a couple of times. Her husband refused to let them in every time and he had to sign a paper confirming that his wife had indeed left. It took over a year before Mary could legally live and work in Denmark and when I was there, the couple were trying to get Mary's three kids the legal permission to live with them.

She told me to appeal, as it was the only way she was able to re-apply for her residence permit after the first rejection. One day I took a day off to go with Rafiee to the Ministry with a strong supporting letter from Erik and good luck wishes from the supervisors. We got there at five to nine but the lady said it was still too early, so we had to wait outside in the cold.

We talked about the possibility of our application being rejected, in which case I would drop to my knees begging Erik to let me go early so that I could join my husband in Hungary as soon as possible. I'd had the thought before, as disturbing as it was, that if I wanted something so badly and nobody was going to give it to me, I would threaten to kill myself and expect a good Samaritan to grant my wish. I probably wouldn't do it in a million years but the desperation was that intense. I was tired of crying, and I was certain our appeal would be accepted: there was no way they wouldn't grant it. We were definitely not prepared for any another possibility.

When we were allowed in, we had to register and wait for another twenty minutes before an officer took up our case. To my surprise, it was a Moroccan man. Or rather, he looked and sounded Moroccan. He could have been born and raised as a Dane; I was not exactly in a position to judge other foreigners.

We sat down anxiously and spread all the paperwork we had prepared on the table. It should be enough. It had to be. The man silently went through them, with me looking at the wall, thinking hard and sometimes throwing a nervous glance at Rafiee, who tried to reassure me through his smile but failed miserably.

Then the officer looked up and smiled. I couldn't read that smile, it was too polite.

"You have a concrete case ..."

"But?" I shouldn't interrupt him but I knew that tone too well.

"But we are already handling so many cases that are even more pressing; not to say yours is not urgent but lots of those others have been pending for some time and families have been waiting ..."

My spirit had started to dampen by then.

"So we will take at least five months to process this."

Five ... freaking ... months?! I yelled inside because it wouldn't help to scream in his face.

"We'll already be out of the country by then," Rafiee argued. "Is there any other way?"

"I'm so sorry. I know it's a terrible situation to be in but that's the best we can do at the moment."

We didn't waste any more time. We surprisingly stayed composed despite this unexpected outcome. We stayed silent until we got outside the building.

"So?" Rafiee turned to me.

I couldn't answer as I was already choking with tears. He took my hand and said, "Come on, sweetie, we can get through this together. Let's go have lunch first; what about that Chinese buffet you like? Then we'll think this through, okay?"

Gosh, how did he do that? It seemed like we automatically took turns being upset. It was never both of us feeling like crap. One would throw in the towel before the other and instinctively the other one remained calm and even jovial at times.

It wasn't until our second helping that we started talking about the gravity of our situation. At that moment we hoped 1) Erik would allow me to work in Hungary with Rafiee or – well, that was it. All other options involved us being separated. Rafiee was typically more concerned about me being alone than him going home alone.

We phoned our parents. All of us were prepared for the worst. My mom asked me a question that I dared not consider, "What if he just stays with you ...?" Alright, technically that would be illegal but with the free movement between Schengen countries, people with a valid residence permit in one country can basically stay in another Schengen country for more than the allowed ninety days because there is no stamp in the passport that indicates how long they've been staying there.

The problem was, Rafiee's passport had been stamped in big, bright-red wording that clearly said that he had to leave Denmark by 25th May. I had a feeling Erik was too strict to let me leave after only one third of my contract duration, so I spent the next few days researching and reading the whole document of Schengen-countries policy, looking for a loophole that we could use.

Sure enough, Erik's reply after three days (he had explicitly told me not to ask him until then) had a little sympathy but not enough for him to agree to what I wanted.

But by that time I had found something. It was just a tiny ambiguity but it was our only chance of staying together. We only needed to buy an extra three months. I don't recommend this to anyone because I may be wrong, but I was at the end of my tether. From my understanding, since Rafiee had a valid Hungarian residence permit, he could actually leave the Schengen area as a Hungarian resident and switch to his regular visa-exempt Malaysian visitor status when coming back. He exited to Turkey and came back with no trouble but it could have been just luck that the border-control officer stamped a new arrival date without further enquiry.

Now that he was back in the country like a fresh tourist, we still weren't sure if it had been the right move. Would some officers come knocking on our door to check if he was still in the country? Then would they check his passport and determine that what we had done was prohibited? We decided to play it safe and tried to stay low-profile as much as possible, to avoid any unnecessary probe. Suddenly the headlines about illegal immigrants being caught and locked up were amplified and we were both living in fear. The curtains were always drawn and every knock sent a shiver down our spines.

It's easy to take your partner for granted, especially when you wake up to the same face every morning for at least two years in a row. I realised I could survive without Rafiee but I couldn't live like that. He simply completes me. Those two years alone with him only reinforced that. The thought that he could be taken away from me at any time was the most terrifying thing. I told my supervisors that everything was fine but nobody could really confirm if it actually was, and we didn't want to risk people asking questions so I tried not to mention him at work.

Meanwhile, Susanne was still playing her role as our controlling mother. She left notes in the bathroom at least twice a week, always with suggestions for what we could do (read: what we _should_ do). I think she found it outlandish that we could live without ever going out other than to do our grocery shopping. I suspected that she might have thought we were two psychopaths planning a murder, sitting silently in our room with the curtains drawn.

One day she insisted we go with her to a fancy folk-dance event in a country house thirty minutes away from our house.

"Come on, there's a dinner before the dance." She tried to bait us. She obviously sensed Rafiee's weak spot for food.

"I don't know..." I honestly didn't want to go but we had said no so many times it didn't feel right to say no again.

"It's just 70 Kroner and you'll love the dance. You'll meet lots of people and there'll be music ..." she went on and on. I lost her at 70 Kroner.

Not that we were so penny-pinching that we couldn't afford an eight-euro dinner but the fact that we were paying for something we didn't want to go to in the first place wasn't the most appealing idea.

Rafiee and I looked at each other and as if we had communicated through telepathy, we both said yes against our better judgment. Rafiee hated to disappoint the fragile old lady no matter how irritating she could be, and I honestly was curious about the folk dance.

The fateful evening came eventually and Susanne's older sister came over to ride with us. She looked exactly like her but she didn't sound as eccentric. So far so good; it was only a thirty-minute drive and we were told that the party would only last a couple of hours.

The journey was as ordinary as it could possibly be. We were just a little nervous that Susanne had to look at the other person's face whenever she was having a conversation with them, which wouldn't be an issue if she herself hadn't been the one behind the wheel. When we got to the country house, many were already sitting at the tables. We spotted some Asian foreigners who'd all come with their Danish partners but nobody made an attempt to interact, so we left it at that. Susanne took us to an empty table where Rafiee and I were sitting with Susanne on my left and her sister on Rafiee's right.

"So, are you still working?" Rafiee continued our small talk with Susanne's sister while Susanne mingled with her friends. For someone that domineering, it was strange that she still had so many friends. Then again, I'd bet my life that they'd never lived with her.

"Oh no, I stopped working a long time ago." She rolled her eyes as if it was the most obvious thing. "My doctor told me to retire early because my work was so stressful that I'd started to lose my mind." We laughed uneasily as we didn't know how else to respond to that. When she turned to talk to the lady next to her, Rafiee and I looked at each other meaningfully. It ran in the family.

Surprisingly we did enjoy ourselves that night, for at least a couple of hours. We couldn't devour the dinner as it wasn't completely halal, which frustrated us as Susanne had been aware of our restriction since day one when she offered to make us the welcome soup. We let it go and settled for the beans. Afterwards we danced and danced and despite Susanne grabbing people's arms, including ours, to follow the rhythm religiously, we genuinely had fun.

The Danish folk dance was originally done by poor people and farmers, so it's not as sophisticated as a ballroom dance; but I think it's more upbeat, since you have to do some skipping. One of the best parts about that night was that the music was played live so it felt real. It was quite interesting seeing old people who had the energy to dance and tap and jump like they'd never grown a day older than eighteen. It was a sight to remember. Everyone was suddenly young again. Of course I also remember the human odour and the flab shaking in my face, but that was just part of it. The whole thing was spectacular.

Later that night we had to travel back home with Susanne's friends because she wanted to stay longer. Just as well; we needed some interaction with normal people. Her friends were warm, nice and – well, regular. I still don't understand how they got into her circle; must be the music. We slept like logs until morning.

With Sweden literally just a bridge away, one weekend Rafiee and I took the train to Helsing _o_ r with Gusti and Rashed. It was the port city that we'd been to the year before. This time, we also took the ferry crossing over the Oresund Strait to Helsingborg, another port city of Sweden.

Most people opted for the indoor warmth but since we didn't normally go on the ferry, we decided to go to the top instead and boy, the cold sea breeze almost changed our minds but it was too exhilarating to miss the experience. It took about twenty five minutes and once we landed, as expected we didn't feel like we'd come to another country. The Swedes and Danes have a lot of things in common, from food to architecture.

They have the usual things – old houses, churches and castles. I think we spent more time lying on our backs, having our home-cooked lunch in the park and soaking in the sun, than visiting all the tourist attractions. What I vividly remember without referring to the photos is Helsingborg Castle (or its remains, more like) where you can get a perfect view of the port city and the Oresund Strait, from the top.

I probably should've tried the infamous Swedish dish of fermented herring, or what the locals call _surströmming_ (translated as soured Baltic herring), but I don't regret it. Why, I think I'd regret it if I _had_ tried it. I've been informed that the rotten smell of _surströmming_ is the most repulsive in the world. Judging from the videos I've seen of people throwing up as soon as they open the can, I can tell that claim is not exaggerated.

We never met a single Malaysian in Denmark but perhaps it was because we didn't go out often, owing to Rafiee's visa issue. However, one day when he went out for a walk Rafiee came across an Indonesian man who was married to a Malaysian lady. He was excited to hear that we were living nearby so he invited us over to his house for dinner.

Pak Adi and his lovely wife had been living in Denmark for thirty years, which gave me the impression that it was indeed the world's happiest country. Why else would a Malaysian give up our local food to migrate to a country of raw herring?

At the risk of using a cliche, the grass always seems greener on the other side – until you stay there long enough. By this couple and other friends, I was told that crime rates in Denmark have increased with the growing influx of immigrants. No wonder all refugees now get a bad name.

When _Soren_ Pind, the new immigration minister, took over, there were debates about whether Denmark still shared the same sentiments as the rest of the EU, as he instigated more regimented policies on foreigners. Germany was against this but France and Italy understood. They are both situated close to Africa, so the opportunists from that part of the world would enter either country and subsequently spread all over Europe through the Schengen non-existent internal border controls. Although not everyone is uncomfortable with foreigners, it was still hard to feel really at home with all the suspicion going on in people's heads.

The Midsummer Festival came round again. The year before, we'd joined the celebration with people from all walks of life by the huge lake of Esrum; this year we thought of joining our little community in the forest. Well, actually, Susanne insisted we go. Just to be safe, I selfishly invited Gusti and Rashed as well. Friends through thick and thin, right?

Barely a couple of days before the longest day of the year, Susanne told Rafiee that he had to help set up the tents as those who did would be able to book a table. Fine; Rafiee had always been helpful, so he didn't mind – until the day itself, when she took him to the spot, introduced him to some people who were already there and then left him.

"I have so much work to do at home. You don't mind, do you?" She flashed her old-lady smile that would make anyone feel inhuman if they said yes.

Bitterly Rafiee stayed but he ended up having a great time. He became friends with the other community members, especially one who used to work as an engineer himself. When they were done, he invited Rafiee over to his house to see his garden. Maybe it was just that neighbourhood but it seemed like the Danes take pride in their plants. Even Susanne was always calling us outside to look at her back garden when the flowers started to bloom. That was usually the cue for her to ask Rafiee to mow the lawn – and she wouldn't maintain it afterwards. It only made Rafiee feel even more used.

Good thing I'd invited our other two friends to join the celebration with us, as Susanne began singing and people tried to keep her quiet. She also coerced us into singing our respective folk songs. Gusti, Rafiee and I sang together as she wouldn't leave us alone until we did, and Rashed ended up singing the Bangladeshi national anthem. By the time the bonfire was lit, we were drained and just wanted to go home as soon as possible.

Also welcoming the summer, Copenhagen Carnival has become an annual event in the parks and streets of the city. The carnival is centred on various music genres from samba to electronic, so you can see people in colourful costumes. Even during its first time in 1982, about 500 dancers and 60,000 spectators were present. You can imagine how it is today. At one time, they had a little concert inside a bus and it almost toppled over from all the jumping and dancing. The celebration went on for three days but my ears could only take so much, so I had more than I needed in just one day.

Similarly, the Roskilde Festival is a hit, especially among the youngsters. It was, after all, created by two high-school students back in 1971. Initially for hippies, now it offers more mainstream music. Artists like U2, Eric Clapton, Sting, Kanye West and many other big names have performed at the festival, which is why it's one of the biggest and most celebrated music festivals in the world. It lasts for four days every year and people set up their tents on the campsite a few days ahead. This is also one of the times when naked figures materialise, naturally. I was thinking of getting a ticket but they were all sold out even a few months before I arrived in Denmark. Just as well; I don't think I would enjoy getting in the muddy mosh-pit and touching somebody's hairy skin.

People celebrate the summer like it's the single best season for them, which it probably is. I would say most Danes, if not all, absolutely favour the season. It's when people take out their barbecue sets and grill until dark, which is not until as late as nine. Whenever you're in any neighbourhood around this time, you will get used to the smell of smoke and happy chats. We missed our hometown when this happened, but Rafiee distracted us by getting a few disposable barbecue sets and various raw food that we could grill ourselves, like sausages, chicken, seafood, corn and garlic bread, to name a few.

On days when Susanne would be staying elsewhere overnight, she would loan us her back garden and we would barbecue to our hearts' content. We would also sneak out her badminton gear and beach chair from the store room. The back garden wasn't meant for badminton but we weren't bothered. A few times the shuttlecock would land on the roof and I had to climb over Rafiee's shoulders to grab it. One went permanently missing when it plummeted into the neighbour's garden. We waited, but nobody seemed to be home so we kind-of forgot until now. It was one of the many things we would forever cherish. It was like being in our own world without a care and it didn't matter where we were.

Like Amsterdam, Copenhagen is also known as a bicycle city and the truth is, the whole country is keen on cycling. Children bike to school and even lots of my colleagues rode their bicycles to work when the weather permitted. The roads are cyclist- and pedestrian-friendly, so they have no qualms about it. Can you imagine being on your bicycle in Kuala Lumpur? God save you. It's do-able but honestly, you may as well just walk across fire – it may or may not be fatal but it's painful, dangerous and hot.

One summer morning, Susanne offered us her bike and her late father-in-law's. We took the deal, foolishly forgetting that things never came easy when it came to our eccentric landlady. We ended up spending half a day cleaning the bikes under her strict instructions, as well as learning the right way to ride – as if it was our first time. Come to think of it, I'd had it easier with my first time.

She explained in great detail how to use the brakes, gears and how to fix them if they broke when she wasn't around. We would have cycled down a landmine, if there'd been any, just to hide when she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Go on, use the brakes when you get to the hill! Now! I said NOW! Oh good, that's nice. Congratulations! Now try one more time." She would applaud whenever we successfully used the brakes and gears. Oh the horror; no words can explain how embarrassing it was. The neighbours who were out strolling observed us as if it was a free circus show and we were the talented monkeys on bikes.

I guess the pain was worth it. We spent the second half of the day biking by the coast and through the forest on the way back. We stopped at Rungsted Harbour where dozens of people were already enjoying the sun by the beach and having nice seafood cuisine in one of the many restaurants. It was a tall bike and I still don't get how shorter Danish people could ride that thing, but I fell off once and I hurt my groin on another unrelated occasion. We biked a few more times after that: Susanne kept knocking on our window to tell us not to waste another day inside the house as sunshine is rare in the region.

Two months before my internship ended, Susanne went away for her summer vacation but not before inviting us for a dinner in our own place, using our own dishes and silverware because she claimed she had not had time to do the washing-up. I wondered if she'd thought about it when she was lying in the garden earlier, for most of the day. It was a nice dinner, though. She always tried to serve us typical Danish food, something that we appreciated despite it all.

Susanne was disappointed to hear that we hadn't visited every single museum in the city. We're not into staring at fossils but we did visit a couple of free museums whenever we were in Copenhagen. She wasn't satisfied but accepted our resistance to exhibitions. She asked what we enjoyed more and we simultaneously said nature, so she proposed to drive us to Mons Klint a few days after she was back from her vacation. It's a stunning sight of bright white chalk cliffs on the island of _Mon_ in the Baltic Sea.

We had no way of saying no now, as we had no other reason not to go apart from that we dreaded her company even for ten minutes; but we didn't want to say that. We did the next best thing – we agreed to go on the road trip but said we'd like to invite Gusti and Rashed. She loved the idea; the more the merrier. Unfortunately Gusti had a prior arrangement but at least we still had Rashed.

The time that Susanne was away was the best we had. We had more barbecues and we didn't wipe the shower dry until the day before she was scheduled to come back. It sounds bad but believe me, it didn't make any difference at all if the shower wasn't totally dry all the time. At least we finally didn't feel like Hansel and Gretel living with the old witch. She came back eventually with even more energy than before she'd left. She was looking forward to our little road-trip.

Susanne told us to be ready by nine in the morning but, as usual, that meant an hour later. Rashed gladly resumed his sleep. All four of us finally got into the car at around ten. I asked Rashed to take the front seat and being a nice gentleman, he didn't protest. Well, provided Rafiee or I took the front seat on the way back. Susanne introduced us to her stuffed tiger toy which reminded me of the time she told us to say hi to her teddy bear in the kitchen on our first day. There are only so many ways to interact with lifeless stuffed toys. Rashed looked at us, confused, and I just smiled, hoping that would convince him there was nothing to worry about. The 160-kilometre journey itself was lovely. We passed endless arrays of wheat fields and blue sky with intermittent, huge windmills.

It was sometimes hard to peacefully take it all in when our landlady didn't stop talking for more than two minutes. How a 65-year-old managed to maintain such stamina is beyond me. We made a few pit stops, one of them at a small wooden store selling fresh vegetables and fruits from the village. It was a wonderful place to stop. They had homemade jams, fresh hazelnuts, honey and even homemade ice cream. I wished I could buy it all to take back to Malaysia but we still had a few more months in Europe.

Once during the journey we saw a police car driving towards us. Rafiee and I instantly tensed up. We were in a car of foreigners with one Dane; this would tempt them to stop us to see what were we up to, wouldn't it? They slowed down as they passed us and took a good look at each of us but somehow decided that it was normal for a Danish driver to carry loads of foreigners in her car. We counted our blessings.

Three hours later we drove through a suspicious-looking forest and I seriously thought we were lost until the forest opened up to reveal a modern building: the _GeoCentre Mons Klint. It_ ' _s a geological museum that first opened in 2007, so something that new amidst lush green forests tends to look out of place, like a UFO on top of your rooftop. Nevertheless, it_ ' _s one impressive building as most of the structure is underground to reduce the environmental effect._

_We had a quick lunch and started to move towards the edge. Right now we were on top of the cliffs and we had to make our way down to have the best view._ Since Denmark mostly consists of flat terrain, Mons Klint is easily one of the country's highest points at 143 metres. The old, tall, limestone cliffs looked even more impressive with the blue waves crashing and washing over the rocks. Walking along the shore would've been romantic if not for the free guided tour from our energetic landlady. Additionally, she made us take a few limestone rocks as souvenirs. Ah well, at least the place was worth the drive.

Going down was not a problem and even Susanne was able to manage it, but going up was another thing altogether. I lost count after the 400th step and Susanne's legs were obviously shaking, so we stopped a few times along the way. While her legs might have given way any time, her mouth didn't seem to need the rest. She talked so endlessly that I felt like jumping off the cliff just to be free from the blabbering. My guess is she was just lonely and as much as I wanted to be a good person, she was pushing it. My ears could have developed a new trauma due to the time spent with her. If they were ever diagnosed, I would've named it Susanne's Syndrome.

It was close to 4.30 when we reached the top. We spent half an hour in the GeoCentre, browsing. Susanne asked me to choose the best pendant for her, all heart-shaped. I chose the tiger's eye as it was the only gemstone that I recognised. She seemed happy with my choice and proceeded to buy us an ice cream each. She gave me mixed feelings all the time. On the one hand, she had a heart like a child. She found beauty in every single thing. On the other hand, she imposed her passion on others (read: Rafiee and me) too much and it was suffocating.

The museum closed at five so, having no other reason to hang around, we started our way back. We exited through the same town that we'd come in through: Stege. Formerly a fishing town, it's also the largest on the Mon island. For a less touristy town, it's actually quite a nice place to explore with its old, timbered houses, narrow streets and local eateries. By this time all of us were so tired from the hike that we just absorbed the charm from behind the car window.

For someone of her age, Susanne was a really confident driver (she might not necessarily be a good one, swaying from one side to another when she turned to us to talk). Rafiee had to keep her talking to make sure she didn't fall asleep, but that wasn't hard to do. Both Rashed and I fell asleep now and then, but I remember hearing her voice all the time. There wasn't a second when I woke up and she wasn't talking. Rafiee kept nodding and responding with "Uh-huh", "Oh, okay", "Hmm" and the like. I know he wasn't really listening but who could blame him? Hours of endless one-way chatter can derail one's focus.

We got home safely and slept soundly through the night. The next afternoon when Rafiee accidentally bumped into Susanne (accidentally because we usually put our ears to the door to hear if she was anywhere near the bathroom before leaving the room so that we could avoid talking, or rather, listening to her), she was bragging how lively she felt despite driving and hiking for hours in one day. See, she could be innocent and annoying at the same time. So it was hard to be around her.

The closer we got to the end of August, the more excited and nervous we became. Excited because we couldn't wait to move on. Denmark wasn't our favourite place. Nervous because Rafiee still had to go through the border control before he could exit the country. What we would miss was the fresh fruits. Gusti had a cherry tree at his rented place so he would pick them and give us the fresh, plump cherries. In our neighbourhood, we had wild strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, grapes, apples and nectarines. Danish strawberries are claimed to be the world's best and I have to say, there's some truth in that. They're huge, juicy and sweet like no other. The locals often have them with cream, which I grew to enjoy but only on days when I felt like I'd had enough salad to counter the fat. We had fun picking the fruits whenever we were out. Most of them cost a bomb back home but there we were collecting them in a basket, and there was an endless supply in our fridge. I still miss that.

During one of our Skype video calls, my sister Aisyah suddenly had an idea of coming for a visit. Somehow our dad and mom, who would never even let her go out of state with her friends, were supportive of the idea provided she took direct return flights. That left only two cities in Europe – London and Paris. She couldn't decide which one was better so I decided it should be both. She would be coming to London and leaving from Paris. In the middle, we would make a stopover in the city Rafiee and I had missed during the Iceland volcano eruption – Dublin. Yay, finally!

One major obstacle before ending our time in Denmark was giving a thesis presentation in the presence of about fifteen people in the company, including Erik himself. I literally broke my pencil just thinking about it. I'd heard so many things about Erik and I was sure he was going to make it as difficult as possible. There was no way I could be completely ready for his attack. I took the bullets one by one with as much dignity as I could possibly muster under such distressing circumstances, made some corrections based on his comments and mailed one copy of my thesis to Reynold in Nice. Then I put it all behind me and started to focus on our next itinerary. I was just glad he didn't ask me about Rafiee in front of everyone else.

Susanne didn't share our excitement. Every time she thought about us leaving, or talked about it, she would cry. I'm not talking about watery eyes but real sobs like when you lose your house, and I'm not even being dramatic here. She insisted (did you notice I've been using the word "insist" so many times when it comes to her?) we had a dinner together before we left and of course we couldn't say no.

It was a memorable dinner and mostly for good reasons. It was supposedly at six thirty but she didn't start making the meal until six, when she came back from grocery shopping. It was worth it, though, as she prepared food that we'd never had before. We began with a starter of tomato, avocado and fish _frikadeller_ on rye bread, with Danish remoulade and sprinkled with a generous portion of chopped spring onion.

Then we moved on to the pre-main meal – boiled artichoke. Eating the darn thing is a lengthy process. First you have to peel the leaves one by one, dip it in the sauce (Susanne made her own tasty, creamy, parsley sauce) and scrape off the soft bottom portion with your teeth. As you progress towards the bottom (which can take as long as fifteen minutes), you'll encounter the edible hairy core. Unless you like to be choked with prickly hair, please discard the hair using your spoon before scooping up the sauce and eating it in all its hairless glory. I think I will only eat another artichoke when I absolutely have nothing better to do, which will be never.

The real main dish was a baked flatfish marinated with all types of herbs, baked potatoes and mushroom gravy. Susanne was slightly frustrated to hear that we had had flatfish before so we quickly mentioned that it wasn't baked as she did it, so in a way it was new for us. That cheered her up again. We ended the dinner with the traditional Danish dessert of _rodgrod med flode_ (red berry pudding with cream) that the Danes just love making foreigners say because of its unique pronunciation. All in all, it was a satisfying dinner. Preparing Danish food was something that she was always good at and I have to admit, sometimes I do miss those times. Sometimes.

The morning we were leaving, I gave Susanne my mom's brooch that she'd left with me and Rafiee gave her a teddy bear that she candidly named Rafiee, as our tokens of appreciation. She sheepishly handed me a little box. Inside it was a silver necklace with the tiger's eye heart-shaped pendant I had chosen at _Mons Klint. I was moved._ Despite the many infuriating moments she had caused us, I genuinely think that most of the time she had good intentions (with or without the necklace). Not everyone got her; not even her children, who never visited her at all in the six months we were there. At the end of the day, she's like your annoying grandmother, who means well but may not seem so with her breathing down your neck. I left a farewell card in our room for her to find when we had left (I knew she'd love that) and while she waited with us at the train station, she got someone to take photos of the four of us: Rafiee, myself, herself and, well, the stuffed Rafiee.

We left the limestone rock she'd told us to take from Mons Klint in the train as we were already struggling to keep to the 20kg limit of baggage and our minds were immediately on the border control. You see, we still didn't know if Rafiee was legally allowed to stay in Denmark and now we were going straight into the lion's den with a big, smelly piece of raw meat. It was a suicidal move but Aisyah was flying to London and we had to be there. Rafiee gave me one credit card and some cash while dramatically telling me, "If I don't make it, then you go ahead. I'll find a way to see you again." I felt like in a low-budget, soppy, war movie but I didn't say this at that time because it was perfectly possible that only one of us would get through that border. I was praying inside, every second. Please God, don't get us this far just to end it like this.

We tried to put on a poker face while in the queue, but it was hard to keep our heartbeats steady when it was our turn. I handed the officer my passport first and as expected, there was nothing amiss and he coolly stamped my exit permission. He took Rafiee's passport next and checked page by page as usual but somehow, by luck or by sheer accident, he missed the page with the stamp on that said he should have left three months ago. Uh-oh: he made a second round to double-check and yet again, he missed it! He didn't ask any questions about whether Rafiee had been with me all along or where he'd flown from etc. which came as a real surprise. We had prepared so many solid answers for all the possible questions that we could encounter, but we were glad we didn't have to use any of them. He let us go with a smile on his face and motioned for the next person to come forward.

Whoa, that was nerve-wracking, as if living in fear for three months wasn't enough to give us a stroke every time a stranger knocked on our door. We were finally out of the country and nobody had to go into some immigration detention centre. Now we could move on to the fun part – meeting my sister and going to London, Dublin and Paris together.

That was not even going to be the end yet. Rafiee and I would be staying in Budapest for a week for my thesis presentation before the big finale – graduation in the perfect party place:

Barcelona!

Chapter 11

I know I said we didn't really like London but if it's your first trip to Europe, it should be at the top of your list. It just has to be. We met up with Aisyah in a different airport on the same day after six hours waiting on a cold steel bench. That's how much we loved her.

When she emerged from the arrivals gate with that sheepish smile of hers, I just had to pull Rafiee aside and we hid together behind a pillar. The ten-year-old in me couldn't resist. Five minutes into Aisyah looking confused and I think a little annoyed, I showed myself and sure enough she saw me in an instant and came rushing to give me a spank for playing around. She looked sweeter than when I'd last seen her in person two years before. She was a teenager when I left and now she was a young lady but she was still my little sister.

Rafiee's brother and his family had recently moved to London for his work so it was the perfect time to pay them a visit and squeeze in free accommodation at the same time. Unfortunately it was so recent that they hadn't got a car yet so we had to take the bus, switch trains and walk with three huge suitcases (my sister had failed to grasp the 'travel light' principle). I developed much of my arm muscles on that trip, moving to three cities in a week with 20kg on my hand and another 10kg on my back. London was bearable; wait until Dublin where our room was on the fourth floor and there was no lift. It wasn't good.

Back to London, we spent the rest of the first day catching up and after a really good night's sleep, we started our itinerary. We went to all the places that Rafiee and I had been to, plus the one that we should've gone to but didn't because a bunch of stones simply skipped our minds. It was Stonehenge, about two hours away from the city of London.

You've most likely seen it on your desktop background. It's the one with large standing stones in a circular position on a green field. Smart people have been debating what it was for. Most believe it was used for ritual activities during the Neolithic periods, but it looks like it could also have been an astronomical observatory. To me, I just felt like I was going inside my laptop. That desktop background was one of my favourites.

It's really old, believed to have completed between 3000 BC - 2000 BC. Old it may be but it's structurally perfect in respect to mathematical and geometrical properties. For something that looks so simple (like I said, it's just a bunch of rocks – well, huge rocks), you wouldn't believe that approximately thirty million hours of labour were spent in the construction. It's a magnificent structure but after the bus trip (of which Aisyah would have almost no memory at all since she was asleep throughout the journey and woke up occasionally to ask if we were there yet) we wanted to do something else other than circling the mighty Stonehenge for the umpteenth times.

So we had lunch and homemade ice cream on one of the wooden benches overlooking the green field with mini rocks arranged in such a way that one would think they were mocking Stonehenge but the truth is there are approximately nine hundred stone rings in the British Isles. Some of them can be seen on the way to Stonehenge and are said to be burial sites. I wonder what it was like in the old days when you tried to tell your deceased uncle's friends where he rested in peace: "He's buried in one of the stone rings – no, no, not Stonehenge, way too expensive – just one of the small ones, I think the third one before you reach the big one."

As usual, we covered all the touristy places with no problem. Aisyah is better than Sarah when it comes to travelling but she still doesn't like to walk far unless we're in a mall and the sales are on. Mom had to force a pair of trainers into her luggage as she felt she could walk the distances in her fashionable flats. As we knew she hadn't come prepared, we purposely took public transport whenever possible. Sometimes we unavoidably had to walk a bit far but she temporarily put tiredness aside when she was enjoying a cone of ice cream. Needless to say, we bought her ice cream every single day. On one occasion it was a sticky toffee pudding with hot butterscotch sauce and frozen vanilla ice cream which made her walk all day without any protest.

Next on the list was the place I had been looking forward to for over a year – Dublin! It wasn't the city itself that I was eager to see as I was sure it had all the same things other European cities offer – castle, museum, park, more cathedrals, etc. I was ready for some romantic landscapes outside Dublin. There were so many one-day tours to choose from (and we would've also gone to the Giants Causeway, Ring of Kerry and Cliffs of Moher if we had stayed there for like a week) but at last we settled on the mountains of Wicklow, the breathtaking glacial valley of Glendalough and the quaint village of Kilkenny. There was only one reason – those places were the settings of some of our favourite movies (though the husband will unlikely admit it about _PS. I Love You_ ).

We should've known that hostels don't usually have lifts. Otherwise, it's hard to maintain their low-budget tagline. There we were at the bottom of the staircase, looking up to calculate the damage it would cause us by the time we'd got to our room on the top floor. Three pieces of luggage, 20kg each. Rafiee took up the challenge of climbing up and down the four floors half-carrying and half-dragging the load. Aisyah and I could only cheer him from our doorway and have water ready for every trip. I can't imagine what would have happened if there'd been no man around. I consider myself tough but I'd have broken my skeletal arms before the second floor.

All our nine roommates were out and it was too early for us to be cooped up in the room so we decided to go out and get something to eat. I thought England was grey enough but Dublin beat it. Even the T-shirts sold in every souvenir store had funny illustrations of the weather. One that particularly grabbed my attention was the sketch of four sheep (it's usually sheep or leprechauns; nothing else is more popular there, except for Guinness, of course) supposedly representing each season but all were holding an umbrella. A recent study revealed that Ireland is the third-worst place to live in Europe due to the weather. It was raining every day we were there, or at least light showers. Still, I would've never thought it'd make into the top three worst places to live.

Perhaps it's one of the reasons the city seemed dead during the day. We paid a visit to the necessary landmarks such as Dublin Castle, Trinity College, St Stephen's Green, Grafton Street and basically all points marked on our reliable made-for-tourists map. Some of you might be asking, "Huh, what's so special about a college?" Well, my dear, it's just another university that happens to have an amazing and massive old library that houses over 200,000 ancient and valuable books as well as the new ones and of course the Mona Lisa of literature – the Book of Kells. Now lots of you will be wondering, "Say what? A book?" This particular book is the world's finest illuminated medieval manuscript containing 680 calf-skin pages of a decorated version of the four Latin-based gospels written in AD 800 so it's not just another book you can get from Amazon.

Those places are easy to get to with the aid of a good map and a good pair of legs. Even Aisyah didn't think we were pushing it too far by walking to most places and that's because the city of Dublin is not that big. It's actually quite small; if you walk aimlessly for a few hours you're bound to make a complete circle. Everywhere we went to, no matter how popular the place is, we had no problem taking photos without a massive amount of tourists around us; unlike say, London, where I had to do a major crop operation on most photos.

When the sun started to set, however, it was a different scene altogether. Suddenly people seemed to be coming out of every pigeonhole and I had never seen such a big crowd as in Temple Bar – the area, not the particular bar. Since Vincent in Nice, we'd been made to believe that the Irish are fond of drinking and at that moment at least, it was proven right. It was like everyone hypnotically flocked to Temple Bar where you can never run out of pubs so it's a mega-fun place for serious bar-hopping. The cobblestone streets only give that authentic feeling like in the old days.

I absolutely loved the ambience of the Irish joyfully hanging out with their lads and lasses speaking in their adorable accent. I also found the music too appealing to resist so we checked out a few bars where we could settle down for a couple of hours to good music. Most were playing Irish folk music and everywhere was packed. We could barely find a comfortable space to stand without having to touch some strangers with alcohol breath.

We found the right place in the fourth bar we visited. It was rustic but clean and spacious, and we were drawn to the music as the band played a lively folk song with the sound of tin whistle, guitar and violin. It made us, well at least me, feel like tapping my feet and dancing like an old Irish pro. We ordered some harmless drinks and sinful desserts while enjoying the music for the next hour. My favourite song eventually came up at a request of some American couple, undoubtedly influenced by the movie _PS. I Love You_. It's _Galway_ _Girl_ , I-ay-I-ay-I-ay! The song was actually an anticlimax for us and I found the rest on the playlist could not measure up to my _Galway Girl_. We collectively agreed to head back to the hostel and call it a night though lots of people were only just coming out. Besides, we had an early start the next day. It was our day trip and Rafiee needed all the rest he could get after the arduous task he'd assumed a few hours ago. His snoring kept me awake at first but I soon fell asleep to a wonderful dream that involved mountains, sheep, leprechauns and Gerard Butler.

We left at eight and although the tour was available daily and it was a weekday, the bus was still three-quarters full. The tour came with a trained local guide who entertained us with Irish stories and songs. Even the most devastating history was made amusing by this witty lad. The sky was gloomy, which was not what you would want on a day trip to the mountains. I hoped and I prayed the sky would clear up by the time we got close to Wicklow.

Somehow it did. And suddenly it was a perfect day to be in the countryside. Situated to the south of Dublin, Wicklow is a place where you feel like having some silence away from the city life (to be fair, Dublin during the day is pretty calm) and being at one with nature, without having to camp and pee in the bushes. History has it that Wicklow town was founded by the Vikings around AD 795. I had never associated the coarse Vikings with such a dreamy landscape but then, the idyllic hills, rugged mountains and glacial valleys would steal anyone's breath away.

We stopped at the city of St Kevin at Glendalough where scenes from _Braveheart_ and _PS. I Love You_ were filmed (alright, alright, I'm a self-proclaimed movie buff). This is where the many walking trails start. You have to buy the map, which we didn't feel like doing because we had visited so many cities without having to purchase any map, and now that we only had a few hours, we felt like we could manage with the marked trails alone.

We first had to pass what looked like it had been a little monastic settlement during its heyday. First there was the Gateway, a two-storied monument with two granite arches. There were a number of corroded tombstones within the vicinity. It was confusing because I wanted to see the names and dates but they were placed so close together I was sure I was stepping on some monks' graveyards. I moved on without delay to the Round Tower, a 30-metre granite bell-tower, which had also been a storehouse and a place of refuge during attacks. This was a little bizarre because it was so prominent it'd be the first place I would ransack if I were the enemy.

Inevitably there were also cathedrals and churches but nothing like the big imposing ones in the city, and a small Romanesque building called the Priests' House. The present name implies that priests were either living or dying together in the same house but I was told the original purpose remains unknown. Our fellow passengers started to disperse and without following anyone in particular, we took the boardwalk trail which was a safe measure but didn't indicate if we were going to find the famous scenic lake.

The walk was a great way to soak up the natural oak woodland. That was the only plant I could identify, but for a botanist it would be a paradise. We stumbled upon some wild berries, a pleasant discovery for Aisyah. They were sour but watching her picking and inspecting them was a sweet moment. It didn't take long before we found the big lake among the mountains. We were the first to arrive, so after being in awe of the postcard beauty, we took photos; but yet again, even the best photo couldn't measure up to the real-life magnificence. It was probably ten minutes of seclusion but it felt like only three before throngs of tourists found it too.

We left and walked back to our bus but we were fifteen minutes early so there was only one thing to do – get our daily dose of ice cream and sit on the grass. I could live there for ever (provided I had my own bathroom and high-speed Internet). It was a simple, raw and beautiful place. When everyone was ready, we moved again and the driver stopped in the middle of nowhere, shortly afterwards. He gave us ten minutes to take in our last moment in Wicklow. There were only hills and meadows, beauty at its core. Like in a romantic movie, the chilly wind was blowing softly and dark clouds started to make an appearance. I buttoned up my jacket, took a deep breath and just took my time to register how I felt and what I saw. I looked adoringly at my husband; his lips started to move and he asked, "Where are the feral goats we read about on the website?" Oh well, can't say that hadn't crossed my mind earlier but even without the goats, it was picture perfect.

On the way to the former Irish medieval capital of Kilkenny, the driver stopped at the Brownshill Dolmen. When he made the announcement I didn't know what to expect. Was it another village? Or a hill? It turned out to be a 100-tonne megalithic portal tomb dating back to between 4,000 BC and 3,000 BC, believed to have been used as a burial ground and for religious rituals. It felt a little off, taking photos of a big rock in the middle of a wheat field, but knowing the history behind this monument made everyone appreciate its significance.

By the time we got to Kilkenny it had started to rain. We were already pushing our luck with a sunny half day in Wicklow. The drizzle was bound to come, sooner or later. At least there were shelters in the city and we were starving, so after a quick look at Ireland's finest Norman castle, we sped through the rain to find a good place to eat. We chose a lovely wooden restaurant with vintage posters all around the wall. Everything we had there tasted so authentic it felt like having lunch in someone's home, except that we had to pay for it. As it's a tiny city, I could still find the place if I went there again but I've totally forgotten the name. I only remember the creamy seafood chowder, the perfectly mixed cheesy chips, the rich Irish stew and the sweet apple crumble with cranberry sauce. With a full tummy and the rain having subsided, we started our little walking tour.

Kilkenny is another quaint and romantic city. With a population of 26,000 it's the smallest city in the country in terms of population and yet one of the most popular. We were told one of its attractions is the nightlife but we didn't stay until dark so I can't attest to it. It's not hard to believe, though, since it's an Irish city after all, and to be fair, the place is often swamped with tourists. It offers a number of medieval buildings but the fact that you can just take a relaxing stroll without the hustle and bustle of a big city gives it a charming appeal. The winding streets that go through the city are famously known as Kilkenny Slips. Because the city is small, we saw all the interesting things in just a couple of hours. We were back in Dublin before dark.

We wrapped up our last night in the city with another trip to Temple Bar. Really, there's nowhere else you should go when the sun sets in Dublin. We had an early night again before people got too drunk to be civil even though our flight to Paris was not until late afternoon. That also gave us time to do some last-minute shopping for our families and friends. I don't usually fancy the shopping part but the souvenirs they sold were extremely cute and funny and I ended up genuinely enjoying browsing through them and laughing at their quirkiness. I bought one T-shirt that says, "Ireland, where the craic is mighty", which couldn't be any closer to the truth. Craic is not a real English word so don't fret if you've never heard of it. It's Irish slang for everything great – fun time, great conversation, etc. which was exactly what we'd had during our stay.

I felt a little melancholy when we were leaving for the airport. In just a short time I felt like I'd bonded with the city and it became one of my top favourites. Going there was a perfect way to celebrate the end of our stay in Europe. It's like Paris to me. I could've gone there several times without getting tired of it. If anything, it would only make me fall in love with the place more. With beautiful memories gained from Dublin, we left for Paris and arrived there a few hours before midnight. Knackered and still stretching our arms by carrying our heavy cargo, we made our way to the metro station and realised that there were twelve stops before ours. We slumped on the chairs at the back and half-consciously commenced people-watching.

It was an unusual impression of Paris for a first-timer like Aisyah and yet a normal view of how Paris has looked for decades. Travelling through the suburbs, there were only 40% of French-looking people in the train while the rest had various different skin tones and features. In fact, France had the highest percentage of immigrants among its Western counterparts in 1931. This hasn't changed a lot. They might be the third generation onwards which means they could be as French as the president himself, but their physical appearances conveyed otherwise. The African and Arab communities are expanding just outside Paris and while this shouldn't pose any major problem, the unemployment rate is relatively high due to discrimination and this drives the youth to take matters into their hands. This doesn't always end up in a peaceful manner.

Our hotel was naturally not in the city centre so the walk from the station was quite daunting. Fortunately, as on a very few occasions, this hotel was easy to find. We slept soundly through the night after a warm shower and only started the next day at ten in the morning. I think what woke us up was our tummies growling like fuming lions, asking to be fed. We were out and about, sightseeing, very soon after getting our food supply from the nearby Carrefour.

For Aisyah's sake, we chose to get the 2-day pass for the hop-on, hop-off bus tour which might have contributed to her conclusion that Paris was the best city out of the three she had visited. It was quite cold but she always insisted on sitting on the top deck for the best view. She was really taking in the Parisian air.

When you've been on a bus for two days, sometimes you yearn for some adventure. So one afternoon we decided to forget public transport and stretch our legs. We got lost in no time and after an hour we got so famished that we could have eaten a horse, but preferably not an expensive one. It was unfortunate that we just had to be lost in a posh neighbourhood where every meal cost at least €15.

After a quick discussion, we chose the closest one – an Italian restaurant. It was still on the pricey side but we figured we'd get what we paid for. They had framed photos of supposedly famous people on the wall so we had no reason to doubt them. The fact that we didn't know any of these "famous" people was not mentioned. We ordered the usual Italian dish that people just can't get wrong – pasta, and onion soup. I ordered pasta aglio e olio and all I got was boiled and greasy pasta. The chef also seemed to have forgotten the salt, which had me asking for salt, pepper and chilli flakes from the waitress, who looked like she was experiencing constipation. My guess is that the Italians detest people modifying their cooking even by sprinkling some salt and pepper to make it edible. With the extra three ingredients, it was like we were cooking our pasta ourselves. Even then, none of us could finish our food. The onion soup also tasted like _merde_ , pardon my French.

I actually thought of leaving the restaurant from the moment I took my first bite but we were simply a bunch of polite Malaysians who wouldn't do such a thing even if they had been served a plate of raw bovine _testicles_ _._ We looked at the other two occupied tables and realised that the people sitting there were also shaking salt and pepper into their meals. It wasn't because we didn't know how to enjoy Italian food. It was by far the worst restaurant we had ever been to, in our whole lives combined. I wish I'd memorised the name, to save you from suffering the same disaster. Nobody deserves to be put in that situation.

What everyone deserves is good macaroons, say, from the original establishment of Laduree. Who cares if you have to queue for twenty minutes outside the store while it's pouring with rain? The macaroons are described as what heaven would taste like if it was a food. Or so I was told. So are they really? I had my first taste of macaroons in Nice. They were absolutely divine. Since I was in Paris and there were five Laduree stores, it didn't feel right not to go into one and see what the fuss was about.

The first thing I noticed (from having to queue outside the store) was the cute, pastel display. It was like in a fairy-tale where houses are made of colourful candy. As the line moved, the even more tantalising exhibits and the posh interior started to make their appearance. I almost felt like I didn't belong there unless I was carrying a Coach handbag but the staff weren't bothered. Refraining from selecting our macaroons based on colour, we chose a dozen each of different flavours. I would've devoured the macaroons as soon as we were outside the shop but Rafiee and Aisyah convinced me that they would taste better if I took the time to cherish them. So I reluctantly agreed to wait until we got to Pizza Hut for our dinner.

I know eating at a fast food chain in France where the best chefs hail from is quite an offence but you can't believe how crowded every fast food outlet we came across was. We only chose Pizza Hut because we wanted to play safe after that horrendous Italian restaurant and it wasn't a bad decision at all because they had a number of new, local meals that we wouldn't find in Malaysia. I particularly couldn't resist ordering their chocolate fondant.

So we sat down, ordered heartily and opened the magical box. The box itself was a pretty little thing that I couldn't help but open as gently as I could. I took a macaroon, turned it around to make sure I wasn't dreaming, sniffed it so that I could imagine how it had been made to perfection and slowly took a little bite. The verdict? Hmm, it was alright. To be honest, I preferred those in Nice as I felt the Laduree filling was too much. But hey, don't take my word for it. Maybe my expectations were too high; maybe if I'd tasted Laduree macaroons first, I wouldn't have liked the ones in Nice as much. Maybe.

Our last evening in Paris was spent watching the sun set over the Eiffel Tower. We initially wanted to wait for the lights display but it was done on an hourly basis and we had missed one by only a few minutes. Aisyah didn't think it was worth waiting for the next one so we made our way back to the hotel, packed, showered and watched French television until we all fell asleep within five minutes.

We were leaving on the same day from the same airport. This time I didn't feel any twinge of sadness having to watch my little sister leave. Having said that, I had to keep reminding myself that I'd be back in Malaysia and see her again in just a couple of weeks. _Au revoir,_ Paris, this time for good.

We arrived in Budapest in the evening and it was a 180-degree change from Paris. It was scorching hot! I took off layers of my sweaters and started to breathe again. We knew our way like the back of our hands and arrived at our booked apartment room with no fuss. The young landlord showed us around and left shortly afterwards, as he didn't live there. There were three bedrooms, two toilets, one shower, a kitchen and a living room. It was good enough for us and the other occupants – two Turkish girls. We knew they were Turkish before they even introduced themselves. The clue was in the loud music they played. They looked European enough so we knew they came from somewhere close. We had been to a number of European countries and the only place that loud music can be played with no guilty conscience is Turkey, or at least Istanbul. So when they said, "We're from Turkey" we didn't even blink.

Apart from the noise disturbance, they mainly minded their own business, which was perfect for us. Being stuck in a room with a temperature of 35 Celsius was pretty much like hanging out in an oven, being slowly cooked. After a quick search, we found a table fan in the living room and although we knew the girls might need it too, we decided the early bird should have the worm.

The final thesis presentation was only for me and Kyla (the other students had registered in other universities) so it wouldn't even take a full day but we were staying for a full week as the accommodation was cheaper than Barcelona. That made all the difference.

Kyla arrived two days later and we planned to meet up before the presentation. Our meeting point was a metro station where I saw something that I had never seen in Budapest before. An old man in a wheelchair was trying to climb the staircase, which was an impossible feat, without any help but the crowds didn't seem to notice. I almost believed that he was a ghost who'd died trying to climb the stairs with his wheelchair and I was the only one blessed with the ability to see him, like Jennifer Love Hewitt in _Ghost Whisperer_. Then I realised a girl was looking back and forth from him to the crowds.

I approached her. "Why is nobody stopping to help? " I asked the blonde girl.

"I don't know, but do you think the two of us can lift him?"

I had the same thought too, and I shrugged. There were about twenty steps and if one of us got tired, we might drop him and that would be a really nasty fall. I told her to wait while I ran upstairs, hoping that Kyla was already there. She was stronger than the two of us put together. The girl did kickboxing! She was on time as usual and already waiting for me, most probably cursing me silently for being late. I quickly explained things to her, to get her to come back downstairs with me.

Kyla went to talk to the metro officer. "Hi, excuse me. There's an old man in a wheelchair trying to get on the staircase and nobody's helping him."

His response was simple and made our blood boil. "So?"

In the meantime the other girl was trying to stop strong-looking men and finally managed to get one, though it was obvious he was as reluctant as if we had asked him to adopt us. With his hesitant help, we lifted the man in the wheelchair slowly from one step to another until we reached the top. I got some blisters to show for it and dozens of people came up and down the stairs but none stopped to help. I wasn't asking for gold but I was slightly taken aback when the man in the wheelchair just left without as much as a smile. Did it bruise his ego that three girls and a man had had to carry him?

"Budapest is still a third-world country in comparison to other European countries. It's still every man for himself here. You can't really blame these people for having that attitude," Kyla said when I loudly questioned the world's injustices. I felt like I'd been deceived. I loved Budapest and I didn't mind living there for as long as I needed to, but after that incident I wasn't so sure any more. It was a side of Hungary that I hadn't seen before. I had never seen such large-scale, unfeeling coldness. It was like their hearts were switched off. I pondered the depressing experience I'd just had, for the rest of the day. Sorry, Kyla, if I ruined our outing.

I didn't remain upset for long. The next time Rafiee and I walked into that station, we saw the same man in the wheelchair going up the escalator heading to the same staircase he'd been struggling to get onto the day before. My jaw literally dropped. I think I can see what was going on. He was a regular and those people who didn't stop to look knew he was always there. I guess they were also asking themselves why a disabled person would purposely get himself into the same situation every time, and at some point they got tired of making guesses and just let him be. I found solace knowing that it wasn't because the Hungarians are a cold lot, and that I'd been misled that day. Well, at least I like to think so.

The presentation didn't take long since it was just Kyla and me. We both got the same top mark so it was only right that the professors proposed a celebratory lunch in a classy local restaurant nearby. It was our last meeting with them as they had a long-standing quarrel with Reynold and the Hungarian partners unanimously chose to leave the covenant. We were the last batch to experience the fantastic semester in Budapest. It was a devastating blow. I genuinely feel that I'd learned the most and had the best fun there and to be at the graduation without those dedicated professors seemed wrong. The damage was done and I had no power to do anything about it so I just enjoyed our last conversation and my authentic fisherman's soup.

Kyla left the next day, leaving Rafiee and me with the loud Turkish girls. For the first time I had nothing to do and I felt sluggish. I was about to whine to Rafiee when I realised he had had nothing to do for two years, just so that he could be with me. I'd known that since the beginning but it was easy to forget when he never uttered a word of complaint. He didn't have any regrets (except for going to Denmark in the final semester; we both wished we had gone somewhere else) and he'd do it all over again.

The week felt so long after getting an earful of free music, day in, day out. I don't know if the fact that we couldn't understand a word made any difference. We left Hungary, this time for good, and headed to our penultimate destination. I bought some Hungarian pastries to take with me to Barcelona as it felt like I would be extending my connection to the country just a little longer. Too bad the pastries were so good they didn't even make it to the airport.

Meeting my mom this time wasn't awkward at all. I suppose we'd already crossed that line. Since all of us had brought luggage, it was natural for us to hire a taxi to the hotel. Good thing as well, as it turned out to be quite a distance and the weather was even drier and hotter than in Budapest, if that was possible. My graduation was not until two days before we were scheduled to leave, so that gave us plenty of time to look around.

As with Aisyah, Rafiee and I made a second trip with my mom to all the places we had been before. Sure enough, my mom also loved the colourful fruit juice so much that we went there every single day for our fix. The only place that we hadn't gone to last time was Park Guell and I have no idea why it didn't appear on our previous itinerary, considering how unique it is (despite the term "park").

The intricate garden was designed by none other than the man himself – Antoni Gaudi. It was literally uphill work to get there because it was up high like France's Montmartre. At least it hadn't been 37 Celsius in Paris, though. Rest assured, there are enough souvenir shops and mini markets along the route should you need to be distracted or if you're on the verge of becoming severely dehydrated.

After what felt like a never-ending uphill climb, we soon laid eyes on the two appetising buildings at the park entrance. I had to touch them to convince myself that they weren't real candy. They looked so colourful and playful like they could be straight out of the Willy Wonka movie. Even though the houses were not designed by Gaudi, he lived in one of them for close to twenty years and today it is known as the Gaudi House Museum, or Casa Museu Gaudi.

The whole park stands on a desert-looking rocky hill and a beautiful, multicoloured mosaic structure greets visitors as they walk past the flamboyant houses. My mom was the one who initiated the visit even before she flew to Barcelona. She had seen a documentary in which she had unsurprisingly forgotten the name of the place but clearly remembered the curvy bench resembling a sea serpent. Gaudi got the inspiration from an unlikely source; the shape of the buttocks of a naked workman who had apparently sat in some wet clay. Whoever the inspiring person was, he sure had a nice bottom.

The sun was burning us alive but the street sellers didn't find it bothersome as they unswervingly called out for generous tourists. Then out of the blue they all started to pack their things, even those entertaining potential buyers. They were all sprinting to different directions while nervously looking behind their backs. I looked in the same direction and understood instantly. The illegal street-sellers were running away from the police who were patrolling the area. Our surroundings were suddenly cleared out, but only for moments. Once the police were gone, the brazen street-sellers appeared again from behind trees and enclaves and got on their business like nothing had happened.

Last time Rafiee and I were in Barcelona, we didn't have enough time to venture out of the city. This time, however, we did. With so many options available, we decided to go to Monserrat, the mountain. This isn't just any mountain, obviously. It's a sacred and religious site which solitary monks used to occupy (I have a feeling my reclusive dad would love it there). Some even believe it is where the Holy Grail of Arthurian legend is still hidden. Having several peaks, the name Monserrat means jagged mountain in Catalan and this accurately portrays the mountain's rock formation. You can choose to make a hiking trip out of it or to do what we did: appreciate the beauty from the funicular railway. There's honestly nothing much to do up there apart from sightseeing (and for some, a spiritual discovery) but the view alone is worth the visit. Another highlight that you may want to consider is the famous monastery boys' choir which can be heard in the Basilica in the afternoon.

Now that the tour was coming to an end, there was only one crucial thing holding us there. Why, graduation of course! That was the official finishing line of our two-year adventure. Since I easily get frustrated when shopping and he strongly believes I have no fashion sense, Rafiee had helped me pick my graduation outfit back in Budapest (yes, including the ribbon headband) and my mom helped me with my make-up.

I felt like a schoolgirl again and I realised this was because it was my childhood dream and I was living it. Despite all the obstacles we'd faced including being homeless on our first few days in Europe, we'd made it. At the risk of sounding trite, I was creating my happily-ever-after memories plus a bonus, with my Prince Charming. I'd come a long way and it hadn't been a normal path, and having Rafiee from the beginning to the end made it even more special.

We got there together with Rashed, Shafat and Laila, who were staying in the same hotel on my recommendation (the hotel should've given us a free stay for the extra three guests I got them). I was informed that being ten minutes late is still on time for the Spaniards so I suppose it should have come as no surprise when even the professors started to show up fifteen minutes after the scheduled time. None of us had a problem with that as we were all too busy catching up and getting to know each other's families. This is what it must feel like at a world summit, I remember thinking. Families from all corners of the world came to share our celebration.

I went towards Melina and introduced myself to her mother.

"Oh, she doesn't speak English," Melina warned me.

"Alright then, I'll speak the more universal language," I assured her. So I turned to look at her mother, waved my right hand in front of her face and flashed the friendliest smile that I hoped to be interpreted as "Nice to meet you" instead of what it must have looked like to her – "I come in peace". Well, it's the thought that counts and I was sure Melina would explain my peculiar behaviour.

It was amusing to see how closely the children resembled their parents. Like Freida's mother, who looked like a Barbie herself; and lots of us had mistakenly greeted Ludwig's younger brother before being interrupted by Ludwig himself nearby, "Er, guys, that's my brother. I'm right here." I wondered what others thought of my mom and me. Kyla said it outright: "Wow, your mom is even shorter that you!" Jeez, I think you meant to say I'm taller than her.

After a few speeches from each partner (except from Hungary of course), we were handed our diplomas one by one in alphabetical order. We took each other's photos and mine was beautifully captured by Kyla the aspiring photographer. Behind me I could hear the sound of snacks being unwrapped (and I bet the whole hall could hear it, too) and true enough, I turned around to see my mom's legs comfortably placed on the empty seat in front of her (she said she couldn't reach the floor). Oh dear, was I glad the ceremony didn't take long.

After more photo-taking, we all walked to a really nice Spanish restaurant. The whole place must have been closed just for us. I was seated with my mom, Rafiee, Laila, Kyla and Aaqil. It was the perfect company. Everyone was laughing and moving from one table to another. It was also the last time I saw some of them.

We had another celebration that night, families excluded. That one was crazy. Well, crazy by my definition anyway. We met up at a metro station but after half an hour waiting, we realised not all of us were coming; but we were more than enough, as it was soon proven in a Greek restaurant. It started innocently with food-ordering and chatting about our future plans. Then as we finished our meals, the restaurant staff began tempting us with their performance. Greek music was in full blast and like in a rehearsed music video, the waiters stopped doing whatever they were doing and started to dance.

As if it wasn't enough to invoke the wild child in us, they started picking us at random to dance with them. One of the lucky ones was Kyla and the bold dancer even led her to dance on a table. I don't know what kind of dance the guy was showing to Kyla up there but I'm pretty sure even snakes can't move like that. It lasted for five minutes and Kyla tried to forget that it ever took place but I got it on video just in case I have to blackmail her in the future for calling me short.

That wasn't the wildest part. It turned out the Greeks have a particular tradition and although they don't do it any more these days, the Greek restaurants often find it too interesting not to be enacted for the tourists. When the waiters started to bring out plaster plates and handed them to us, I knew nothing good could come out of it. I was ready to close my eyes. They didn't have to tell us what to do as the dancers demonstrated it with a mischievous wide grin on their faces.

Before you could shout "Are you serious?!" plates were smashed continuously. Oh, the sound was deafening. I'm still recovering. As I opened my eyes, I saw a white flying object heading my way, that was definitely going to hit my head. The graduation ceremony flashed before my eyes. I told myself being killed in the enactment of a Greek tradition in Spain would make one funny headline.

What I'd thought in the chaos was a plate being thrown by an unknown arch-rival to end my life was actually a napkin. And a new tradition was born. Napkins were rolled into hard bundles that could cause pain but not death and were hurled at high speed from person to person. A few times we paused and were petrified by the sound of glasses knocking and almost falling off the tables and racks, just to resume the battle within a split second. It was total madness. Other customers were looking at us like we had gone mad and the waiters were too scared to approach for fear of becoming collateral damage.

It only stopped because some of us had to leave to catch an early-morning flight the next day. Otherwise, the restaurant would have had to kick us out. It took ten minutes to settle the bill (I'm not sure if anyone had to pay extra as I only paid my part and wasn't charged for any broken plates and dirty napkins) and another fifteen to say goodbye for good. Who knows when we will be seeing each other again, at least offline? If we were to visit everyone, we would've travelled the world.

A small group of us decided to walk to another metro station which was supposedly close to our hotels. This wouldn't have been a problem if we hadn't put the full responsibility onto the over-confident Kyla. What was supposed to be a short cut ended up being an hour-long walk until she admitted she might have lost her bearings. I think most of us knew that after twenty minutes walking around the same block.

It was a little scary though, to be out in the middle of the night with no sense of direction. Most people were getting too drunk and we saw a young man selling some drugs to an intoxicated old couple. I avoided any eye contact and focused on getting back to the hotel, which we all did eventually even if it was two hours past midnight. As I took my late-night shower (or early-morning, depends on how you look at it), I started to grasp the reality that it was over. Our adventure was over. My dream was coming to an end.

I did see Kyla and Aaqil again before they both left the country. I bumped into Karina in the train on our last day in Barcelona. That was the last time I saw any of them. I was surprised I didn't cry because I was anticipating a big flood of tears as we had been so close. Then I remembered what it was like when I was leaving my family two years ago. It wasn't really sad if you could instil in your mind that you would see them again and that the goodbye wasn't permanent. With the hope that I would see them again somewhere, just a matter of time, farewells didn't feel like an ending.

The hotel also felt empty as Rashed, Shafat and Laila left before us. As we dragged our luggage to the airport taxi, I felt sadness tugging at my heart. It wasn't just leaving Spain, but it also meant leaving Europe, which had been our home for two bittersweet years. Istanbul was the perfect stopover. Being both Europe and Asia, it sort of symbolised our gradual transition from Europe back to Asia. Rafiee, although excited to start his life again, was equally gloomy at the thought of leaving. But as we all know, an ending is just another beginning. When I started thinking about seeing the rest of my family again, especially my dear dad, I brightened up instantly. There was practically nothing I wouldn't give up to see him again.

We reached Istanbul on the same day. Since all of us had been there before, we purposely cut our visit short. Twenty-four hours should be enough for a quick stroll around the city to see the beautiful mosques, get some kebabs and baklavas and shop for cheaper souvenirs. On the way to our hotel, we witnessed the unique practice of Sufi whirling. What was once a holy ritual is now a paid tourist attraction. It's a Muslim meditation but not what you probably have in mind even if you're a Muslim yourself. With exquisite hymns playing in the background, the Sufi whirls incessantly in his traditional, wide, white dress until he reaches a nirvana-like state. We left before the Sufi finished his meditation but I secretly wanted to stay to see if he could still walk in a straight line after the rigorous spinning.

We booked a low-budget hotel with a sun deck (most hotels in Istanbul have sun decks trying to out-top others so it wasn't as exclusive as it sounds) but unfortunately our room was occupied when we got there because the occupant who was supposed to empty the room was terribly sick and had to extend his stay.

"We have a family room which will be ready in a few hours. You can leave your bags and go out to have dinner or shop in the meantime," the young Turkish man at the desk told us but my mom wasn't keen on the idea as we had been out for the whole day and would love to have a shower or change of clothes before doing anything else.

"It's too long to wait. Do you have anything else?" I asked, with a sense of desperation.

"Well, we have two separate rooms on the top floor ..." He didn't look like he was eager to give us the rooms but we didn't get why. Two rooms on top floor should be quite fancy, shouldn't they?

"So we'll take it!" My mom made her choice.

"But they're really, really small. I would really recommend you to wait for a few hours for the family room to be ready."

"Never mind." My mom had no energy to hear another word. "We're just here for the night. That will do."

She looked at me for approval and I had no reason to object so I shrugged and said, "We'll take them."

Rafiee pulled me aside and asked if it was a good idea considering we hadn't seen the rooms yet but I had to agree with my mom. It was just for one night; how bad could it be?

What do you know? It could get really, really bad.

Where do I begin? Well, the rooms were on the top floor alright, which was on the sixth floor. There was, however, no elevator. Thankfully they had some strong guys to carry three of our 20kg cases all the way up but I thought it would be too much to ask them to carry us as well. I dared not look up just in case I decided I'd rather stay in the lobby instead.

When we finally reached the top floor which was merely an old veranda that could very likely fall apart if some kids were jumping up and down, we opened the door to our small room. The desk guy wasn't joking. It was extremely small that it could barely accommodate the double bed and a cupboard. Placing our two cases in the corner took up the rest of the space and only one of us could stand on the floor (let alone walk) while the other had to wait on the bed.

As if that wasn't enough to drive our sanity away, everything in the room was filthy. The curtain, the bed sheet and the carpet looked and smelled like they had never seen the light of day and some mysterious growth had inhabited them. I strongly believed all of them had had different colours when they were first installed in the room. The second room was no better. It was the second worst place we'd stayed in after the Pisa train station in Italy.

We left our luggage and made our way down to talk to the man behind the desk and saw the family room that he'd offered us earlier. It was nothing like our rundown rooms. It smelled nice, too. Wiping beads of sweat from his forehead, Rafiee asked if we could revert to the family room.

"I'm sorry, that one is taken." He smiled, a little too brightly for the bleak situation.

Oh dear, I thought, this really is one long honeymoon.

Chapter 12

I had tears in my eyes when I saw my dad's car coming to collect us at the airport. I cried when I hugged him for the first time in two years. I had missed him terribly. He sighed awkwardly and characteristically, not knowing exactly how to react to an emotional 26-year-old. He looked older but other than that, he was just as I remembered him. I met my brother in the evening. He was looking like an adult, wearing his company jacket. We greeted each other like we had just met days earlier and we never talked about his "I'll miss you" text message.

Rafiee and I purposely took a month off to spend time with our families and friends before getting back to work, which auspiciously didn't become a concern as we were called for a number of interviews as soon as we landed. He actually got a job a couple of weeks before I did. The interviewer was impressed to hear about his risky endeavour in leaving everything behind to travel, and how he had taken the opportunity to experience diverse pursuits. What we initially thought would hinder his job applications turned out to be an asset. He was also offered a higher salary than he would be getting if he had stayed with his old job.

Kyla, Aaqil and I still keep in touch at least once a week. It feels good that we can still connect despite doing different things and being thousands of kilometres apart. I occasionally talk to Mika, Rashed and Gusti but some of them like Laila and Hasan just fell off the radar. Nobody seems to know what they've been up to since graduation.

A few things have changed here in our hometown. New buildings are up and it seems like there are more cars than ever. The players may have changed, but the political scene is still the same. We started to observe our surroundings with a fresh set of eyes, almost like tourists ourselves. Once we were driving past Batu Caves and we marvelled at the splendour like it was the first time we'd ever seen it, even though we drove past it all the time before we went to Europe. Rafiee now has a routine of buying breakfast or snacks for the foreign workers at his office. He said they remind him of himself when he was in Europe.

It's the final phase of culture shock: re-entry stage. Normal everyday things now feel new, as we were away for quite some time. Our friends have their own families and it's getting hard to meet up. More often than not, Rafiee and I would look back on our time in Europe, wishing we could re-live some of the moments. I still get agitated at our reckless drivers who use the emergency lane as if they're the only people in the country who have to rush, or uncivilised people who drop litter like the garbage can nearby is just an ornament; but I also greatly appreciate our uniqueness, like our family values and the different cultures we embrace as a multi-racial community.

Rafiee and I made a pact before we came back that we would still make time to travel and experience new things amid our work and family commitments. We didn't want the adventure of our lives to end in Europe. In the next couple of months we joined a couple of hiking trips and took a road trip to Southern Malaysia and Singapore, where we met up with Gusti and Ratu.

A few days after we got back, I received good news that I had to tell Rafiee before anyone else.

"Rafiee, dear ..." I took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant!!!!"

Oh wow, the look he had on his face at that time was priceless, especially when I showed him my positive pregnancy test. You'd have thought that his face was frozen in time.

"You know what this means, right?" he then asked me, when his face started to move again.

I was puzzled. This means we're having a baby, you silly.

He had the widest grin when he declared: "This calls for a babymoon!"

I laughed. I guess our adventure never really ends.

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Thank you for taking the time to read my book. Please take a moment to leave a comment at the site from which you downloaded. You may also contact me at www.IzniZahidi.com.

