Marc

“Your son is going to die.”

The most painful words a mother could hear.

Just as the knife pierced his heart, those words broke hers, and I am certain that she has felt, and continues to undergo more agony and pain than he ever did. He is the victim of the crime, but we are left to suffer, bearing the burden of the pain and perpetration.

I am never one to feel sorry for myself. Self-pity and wallowing never help you overcome the pain but this situation is, and will always remain, a chain around my heart. And every time I am overcome with sadness I think of his mother, the woman who brought him into this world, brought him up and watched him leave, standing there helplessly, as his casket was placed carefully deep into the ground.

“Hey cuz, you know my sister is in Lebanon, so here you are my sister. I love you like a sister and I will look after you like a sister.”

I wish I took him up on that. I wish I let him in a lot more. I wish I connected that Internet and phone line like I promised I would. I wish I were more patient with him. I wish he never met her. I wish his mother could see him again. I wish she could hold him. I wish he could be there for his sister on her wedding day. I wish his mother could feel that satisfying feeling when she fixed his favourite dish and he devoured it with delight once more. I wish he could walk in the room and make everyone smile. I wish he never met her. I wish he could dress up as Santa Clause again and hand out the gifts to his aunts, uncles and cousins. I wish he could have another motorcycle accident. I wish he could come over so mum can lecture him about settling down. I wish he could wish me Happy Birthday and then call me “twin” because we were born four days apart. I wish he could smash his newest BMW. I wish mum and I could have breakfast at his latest bachelor pad. I wish we were waiting for him because he was running late. I wish he never met her.

I wish he were still alive.

I do not know what happened on the night. Nobody ever will. And she is so diluted that through all her lies I doubt she remembers.

He did not deserve to die. And she did not deserve to be let off without consequence. I have heard her say that she and her family have suffered and since being acquitted is looking forward to moving on.

“There are no winners, and what happened happened, and we can move on from this from now.”

This is what she told the media upon her acquittal. She has that option. We do not. His family does not. His parents do not. His siblings do not. We will always be haunted by his death, his unjust death. He died in vein, without any justice. So, I think there is a winner here and it is she. The woman who killed him walks free. There are no consequences for her actions, just memories. Memories of him, memories of what she did, memories of her arrest, trial and all the accompanying tribulations. But she can write all these memories off as a bad experience, a hurdle in her life, and keep moving forward. We will never shake this off. Not ever. He will never come back – we cannot move on because he will never be undead.

I come from a big family. He had 17 other cousins, first cousins who were even closer to him than I was, so I do not know why I am so affected.

The most affected.

Is it because his mother lived at my house during his passing, funeral and trial, so I was directly faced with the effect that all of these events had on her? Or is it because I knew she would wait for us to leave so that she can cry loudly, yelling his name and talking to him for hours. My house became a place of sadness, the residence of gloom. Home is where the heart is, but what if all the hearts sheltered there are broken?

This experience feels like a dream…a nightmare. I will never awaken. Nor will anyone else. It has been two years - he could have been 35. What else could he have been? I wonder all the time. You cannot fight destiny. The sad thing is this was his fate. So wasteful.

And her destiny? Well so far being acquitted of murder charges and being a finalist for Miss Australia. I am excited to see what else is in store.

2012...The Year That Was

Such a slow Sunday. I have done nothing but lose myself in thought.

The fork in the road is still prevalent in my life, although only recently, and by recently I mean in the last week, I have decided which path I will travel down.

Sure the future looks bright, but I can’t help but think of what was. What brought me here? What was on that road? What led me to this eventuality?

The answer to these questions are infinite, but I will start by looking back at the year that was – 2012.

It began by my trip across the US. Deciding I would be travelling exactly 8 days prior meant that I did not have time to anticipate the trip – it just happened – and I think for this reason I enjoyed it immensely. No planning, no thinking…just living!

New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Las Vegas and Los Angeles. My heart fluttered as I walked the streets and concourses of these amazing cities. Breathing it all in, taking it all in – I never yearned to travel to America but I am so glad I did. My life changed. Some of these changes have already taken effect and others, well, I guess I am yet to experience. Oh, and I had no idea “San Francisco” was spelt the way it is. I always thought it was an “s” after the “n” – as in “Fransisco.”

Heartbreak city. I ended a two and a half year relationship in April. This was a direct result of some of the “growing up” I did in the US. I wanted more from the relationship, and could not foresee my desires becoming apparent. I am not talking about being engaged or anything like that – more an intangible sense of emotional security and trust. I wanted to know that the hard work that goes into creating and maintaining a relationship would pay off.

Working in retail - something I never thought I would do. Then again it is my mother’s store, so nobody can condemn me for helping out in family business.

September. A dark month.

“Not Guilty”.

The tears, pain and anxiety will never be forgotten. It was worse than when he was killed because although he was gone, we believed some justice would be served.

Nothing.

She walked out of the courthouse, free, and he remains in the ground with his family eternally bound to the pain of losing him – a son, a brother, a cousin, a loved one, a friend. The pain will forever imprison our hearts.

Days of blackness.
Days of sorrow.

Days of tears.

Losing faith, but still praying. Losing hope but still yearning.

I still await the true results of her actions, the true consequences only to be handed down by The Lord. No warning will be set. I will not receive an email by the law enforcers of NSW telling me the date of the hearing and explaining where the nearest train station to the courthouse is. It will be when He decides is best.

I never lost faith, although everyone around me did. Justice shall be served. I guess this experience allowed me to realise that my faith is strong. Only when it was truly tested and challenged did it shine through.

Today Tonight. What a tough interview! Hearing my aunty trying to voice to the entire country her feelings in a language she cannot speak. Even if she was fluent in English, which words could appropriately describe the pain of losing her son, and having his killer walk free? Do such words even exist?

We thought the interview was solely to voice our “side of the story”. We discovered, after shooting, that they had also interviewed her, the killer. We accepted to air both interviews as one story, and it did on November 5th, 2012. We felt extremely anxious and unnerved watching the trailers as we did not know what to expect.
The result was…okay. Not good and not bad. They showed her side and they showed ours, although they brought up the fact that her “story”, the fable about him hitting her over the head was probably fiction seeing as though no scientic evidence was concluded. Of course she would have made up a story – it is human nature. Even children do it in the playground when they think they are going to get into trouble. The court system just failed to see that.

The year was turbulent. It started off great but ended roughly. There were a lot of pain and a lot of tears. 2012 has scarred me but the one thing that has not changed, and never will, was my support system. My best friends and my family were always there.

The road that is “2012” was broken, but I am starting to find my happiness, so perhaps the tough journey is needed for the destination to shine. Yes I know, too many metaphors in this piece, and a tad cheesy, but hey, its true.

Here is to a great 2013 – hit me with your best shot!

My Affirmations

I believe that everything happens for a reason.

People change so that you can learn to let go,

things go wrong so that you can appreciate them when they're right.

You believe lies so you can eventually learn to trust nobody but yourself.
'
And sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.

Dear Me: A Letter To My Twenty Four Year Old Self

When I was 21 I was introduced to a book titled "Dear Me: A Letter To My Sixteen Year Old Self". This book contained letters that celebrities, sports stars and "high calibre" people have written to themselves at 16 years old - pretty self explanatory from the title. This book changed my life. It changed the way I perceived situations and made me a more positive and enlightened person. I read every letter carefully, word for word, and realised that life is a self fulfilling prophecy. You should never be too worried or distressed about anything because, quiet simply, life goes on. I learnt that You will ALWAYS look back and think "wow, that was so silly and trivial", and my personal favourite "from that situation I have learnt..." You will laugh at what once made you cry.

I wrote one of these letters to myself. In fact, I am certain that I have posted it on this blog site.

Now I am 24 years old and have reached a tough spot in my life. I would not call it a "dead end" because I refuse to turn back - I will persevere. I have completed my degree and still don't know what to do with my career, I ended a relationship after 2.5 years because being with him made me realise what I do not want in a partner. I know that sounds harsh but it I suppose its one of those "learning" experiences.

I want to travel! I want to learn! I want to discover! I want so much! I want it all! I want it now!

I wrote a letter to my 24 year old self. In this letter I am not looking back I am looking in. I am telling myself what I need to hear. I put pen to paper in the hope that the words will grant me inspiration.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Dear Me: A Letter To My Twenty Four Year Old Self"

Dear Me,

Don't be so sad.

If anyone is not going to treat you right then they are not.worth.it.

You are strong, brave, smart and loyal. Anyone would be more than lucky to have you in their life.

Be strong. Be brave. Know your strength. Exude your strength. Don't let anyone stumble all over your heart. They are not worth it.

Live for yourself and believe that there are so many opportunities out there waiting for you. Thats right, get excited, smile and feel the butterflies in your tummy because it is going to be one hell of a ride.

Yes, you want to be loved, who doesn't? Just make sure they are worthy of your love and devotion in return.

FAITH.

Faith is such a strong word. But you must have faith. Have faith that things happen for a reason. Have faith in the fact that people come into and leave our lives for reasons beyond our control or comprehension - but the reasons are there, and even if you do not completely realise or understand them you just need to have faith that they do exist and that they will always play out for the best.

Have faith in timing. Everything happens precisely at the right time. Come to peace with this. I know it is hard to understand and believe but whatever happens does so because it is meant to at that exact moment.

People will enter and leave your life precisely when they are supposed to. This phenomenon is out of your control. Do not try to keep people in longer than they need to be in your life. Let them go.If they return, then you can be sure they are truly meant to be there.

Have faith in karma. Be the best person you can be, even in the worst situations. Always maintain the best intentions. You will be rewarded. Every experience is a learning curb. Take what you can and be done with the rest. Let it be history. Your history. Whatever.

Smile!
Be true to yourself!
Value yourself!
Shine!

These truths will allow karma to taste so sweet that the teeth of whoever bites into you will rot.

Do not worry about the future. Do the best you can TODAY. Do not berate your past. It's the road you took to get here. It may have been bumpy, but you're hear nevertheless.

Let yourself loose control. Let yourself be.

Whatever.
Let it be.
Let it happen.

It won't always go the way you like, and thats okay. Remember you have faith, and faith is what makes it all worth it.

Don't stop laughing.
Let yourself cry.
Feel with your heart.
Think with your head.

Never loose faith.

Chicken Soup

I made chicken soup for the first time last night.

I was not feeling sick, and I have not read the book so it had nothing to do with my soul. I simply thought it would be nice to concoct something wholesome on a cold July night, especially when I had nobody to see and nowhere to be.

"Dad could you bring a whole, fresh chicken with you tonight, I am going to make soup."

When I arrived home I couldn't see the chicken. Mum usually left it in the sink so that it could defrost, but she was overseas and there was no chook insight.

Disappointment surged through me. He promised he would buy me a chicken and he hadn’t. I was about to pick up the phone and blast into his ear thought the tiny speakers when I opened the fridge…and there it was. It looked as though Heaven was shining its light and an angel choir was humming soulfully. I was especially impressed when I looked at the packaging and saw that this bird was “certified organic.” Mum never spoiled us like this. That was when I decided I would ask dad to buy me things more often.

Suddenly I began to panic. How was I going to make this soup? I had planned to look up recipes on the internet throughout the day, although I never got the chance and now this “organic” chicken was staring me right in the face and I did not have a clue what to do with it. I didn’t want to waste this “certified organic” chicken and make tasteless gunk with it. I thought back to when mum had made soup. “Rice, lentils, vegetables and tomato paste.”

Okay, here we go.

The first thing I did was make sure there was water in the kettle. Then I turned it on. We have one of those fancy ones that sirens once the water has boiled. It sounds almost like a police alarm when you are being pulled over. As soon as I heard that loud, incriminating sound I knew that it was game on…

The chicken was in the pot and the water was boiling ferociously. I began looking through the pantry to see what lentils we had. This was going to be a healthy soup. I found orange kernel-looking things that seemed edible. I opened the jar and popped my nose in, wafting, trying to determine whether they smelled familiar. Nothing. I scurried over to the computer to Skype mum. I succumbed to the pressure of the “certified organic” chook and decided that I needed help.

“Mum what is this? Can I use it for chicken soup?”

I held up the large jar to the camera at the top of the screen.

“No, that won’t go with chicken soup. Just use rice. If your are going to use whole meal rice boil it before you put it in with everything else because it takes longer to cook.”

Okay. Back to the kitchen.

I switched the kettle on again and lifted the two-kilogram bag of rice from the bottom of the pantry. Rice was the first thing I learnt to cook. I was thirteen or fourteen years old, and whenever I was on school holidays and mum would head off to work I would get out the frozen veggies and the basmati rice and pretend that I was hosting a cooking show. I would even speak into the imaginary cameras in a British accent. As I got older I started adding more “exciting” things to my generally tasteless dish. Sometimes chicken and other times curry, but no matter what I put in or how it tasted I was always so proud of myself, perceiving myself as a “domesticated Goddess.” Mum and dad always refused to eat my rice though, so my sister had no choice but than to taste my concoction, continually telling me that it “had no taste” or that “it need[s] a lot of salt”. I have come a long way since my amateur days…I hope!

The big wooden chopping board was out now. First I sliced the carrots, then the spinach. There were no other vegetables in the fridge. I opened the freezer to see if there was anything in there that I could add to my soup, “Stir-fry mix?” The picture showed that there was cauliflower, snow peas, corn, carrots and broccoli in the bag. I hate cauliflower and this was not a stir-fry. What else? I kept searching until at the bottom, tucked away where nobody would ever find it was a scrunched up bag of frozen vegetables. There was not much left but I thought I may as well use it.

By this time my chicken had boiled so I emptied the broth into the sink and re-added water into the pot. I did this because I had seen mum do it. She told me that the first round of water carried all the gunk and fat of the chicken, and it is always with the second batch of water that you should make the soup with. I added salt, dried aromatic leaves and black pepper into the boiling water. I also started cooking the brown rice. “What was the formula again? Ah yes, two cups of water to every one cup of rice.”

The chicken smelled scrumptious. I picked a bit of the breast and put it in my mouth. “ Oh yum!” I am pretty sure that it tasted even better because I knew it was “certified organic.”

I removed the chook from the broth and slowly placed it on a plate. I imagined dropping it; just watching it fall out of the tongs, smeared all over the floor, with puddles all over and steam escaping from its flesh. “Get it out of your head.” I carefully placed it along the open window to cool.

The broth was still boiling. I added ginger paste, tomato paste, garlic paste oregano, basil and mint. Just a pinch of each. I also cut open a lemon squeezing as much as I could into the broth. Same with the lime. “What else can I add?” I opened the fridge and saw lemongrass paste. “Yep in that goes.” And then I added the vegetables. The carrots and spinach were swimming within the broth, coming to the surface with the bubbles. It was fun watching my creation come together. I added the rice and let it all the flavors fuse.

There was only one more thing left to do. I needed to add my chicken into the soup so I began shredding the meat off the bone. It had not cooled down completely, so I burnt my fingers a few times. Served me right for being so impatient, but I was just so hungry and did not want to wait any longer to taste my first real chicken soup. I added all the meat into the fiercely boiling soup, allowing it to mix with everything else. The smell that was searing through house reminded me of my childhood. When I was sick mum would always make me chicken soup. I felt better once I had eaten her terrific concoction, not because it was wholesome and hearty, but because I knew that it was made with love and care.

I turned the stove off, placed the lid on the pot and allowed the soup to simmer. I packed everything away and wiped the marble bench tops. “Let me check if there is anything else I can add into the soup.” I opened the fridge, looked inside the vegetable compartment… and that’s when I saw the parsley.

Gaps Within Generations

My mum’s Spanish Filipino friend, Maria, hosted a dinner party last Saturday night. The guest list was limited. Some might even argue that it was “exclusive.” My dad, mum, aunt from Lebanon, myself and Maria’s her 28-year-old daughter Monica were invited. That was it. Because she was from the Philippines, Maria yearned to cook authentic Seafood Paella for us, a common Spanish dish about which she boasted, saying “my dad says I cook it well…so I must cook it pretty fucking well!”

But cooking and condiments is not what this piece is about. What screamed out to me during the evening were the behavioral differences between the generations, and how obviously different Monica and I treated this dinner party compared to our middle aged parents.

I have always prided myself on having a “young mum”. She is into fashion, good restaurants and movies, and I love that I can share my joys and interests with somebody so close to me even though she is a whole generation “older” than me. But like I said before, Paella night at Maria’s acutely reminded me that she is not my age and she did grow up during a different time to me.

Lets begin with when we first walked in. I haven’t mentioned yet that I am 23 years old, even a few years younger than Monica, although it seemed we shared the same outlook on social behavior. As soon as “my parents” hustled through the front door, they put down the delicious ricotta cheesecake that they brought as a polite gesture. The next event was my mum declaring, “…We all have a drink.” So the middle-aged people did exactly that. Maria, my parents and my aunt sat outside with two bottles of wine and began drinking.

“Caroline would you like a drink?”

“No thank you I do not drink.”

“Oh Goodness. Mon does not drink either.”

Monica and I sat inside on the couch in front of the heater, talking and chatting over a bowl of crackers. Then they started smoking. Benson & Hedges, Marlboro and Winfield – such an array of cigarettes for only 4 people.

“I think I am drunk.”

Laughter.

“No really I am tipsy.”

We decided to join our fun loving parents outside, who seemed to be having a blast. We could barely breathe due to the thick layers of cigarette smoke lingering in the air, but it seemed as though my mum could not stop laughing and Maria was swearing and…well…acting drunk.

Time to eat. Monica and I enjoyed small portions of Paella and large amounts of salad. Our mothers had the opposite. And they were drunk. As soon as they had finished eating, they bolted back to the balcony to feed their other addictions. More wine and even more cigarettes…

Monica made herself a cup of herbal tea. I was ecstatic as I also really enjoyed a cup of tea after my dinner but thought it would be out of place to ask for one. She made me one too and we headed to the balcony, holding our mugs, to join our “cool” mums.

“Here come the grandmas with their tea.”

Laughter.

That was what it hit me! What on Earth was going on? The 50 somethings were drinking and smoking and having a great time, whilst the 20 somethings, also having a fine time, were holding mugs of hot and healthy herbal tea and sitting on a couch, under the blanket engaging in deep conversation.

I am not berating the older generation and praising my own, but I was surprised and stricken at the difference in social comportment between the generations. Is it because Monica and I have been educated, both formally and socially, that we don’t see the need to drink and smoke when getting together with friends? Actually, when my friends and I get together for dinner at one’s house we prepare healthy foods, cooking and including a lot of salads in our meal. Ordering pizzas or picking up greasy hamburger and takeaways is a thing of the past. And what about the herbal tea? I am sure it is not just Monica and I who are into it. During my most recent visit to the “Aroma Festival” at The Rocks in Sydney, the organic tea stand was extremely busy, as impatient 20 somethings waited in line to take home their organic jasmine and green tea cylinders.

Perhaps it is that we have both grown up in Australia -a developed country- rather than in the Philippines as Maria had or in the Middle East like my parents and aunt. In both these countries smoking and drinking is rife, and government interference with substance abuse and addiction is kept to a minimum.

Another thought that crossed my mind when thinking about the generational differences was how society excludes smokers and drinkers from “being with the rest of the group.” When you go to a restaurant you need to go outside to smoke-usually far away from the restaurant. Think about it. Just picture how much it interrupts your lunch or night out with friends. You physically need to get up, excuse yourself, stand in solitude (sometimes a friend may join you), fight the elements and then come back to your seat, where the rest of the group would have continued with their conversation or moved on. Tough guidelines regarding smoking have almost made it a “criminal act”, demonizing the smoker and turning them into an outsider. Monica and I have grown and up and developed our social skills in this kind of strict environment and for that reason consider smoking and drinking a burden more than a “cool thing to do.” I voiced my observations to mum once we arrived home from the party and she said that she had noticed the generational distinctions too. I explained my “burden” theory and she said that when she was growing up, in the 1980s, it was cool to smoke, and if you didn’t smoke you were an outsider. She explained how her friend had an electronic cigarette that omitted smoke, so that he may feel like he was “part of the group.” Boy how times have changed. These days nicotine patches, gum, vapor drops and nose sprays are rife, all to deter people from smoking.

I would argue that the two main causes for generational distinctions when it comes to social behaviors are education, which has taught us the dangers and consequences of an unhealthy lifestyle, and subsequently the benefits of healthy habits and social deterrence, drilling the “rules” so deeply into our culture that it has become apart of our lifestyle. No longer will I go to a bar and have an alcoholic drink at 10pm, because I will be at the bustling coffee shop, which is open until midnight every night, enjoying my healthy and refreshing pot of green tea.

Quaint, Friendly and Down To Earth

My Review Of Jasper Hotel - Melbourne

If you are looking for a flashy, posh and bustling hotel where men constantly hold Blackberries to their ears, wear business suits and carry watches even more expensive than their vintage Rolls Royces, then this is not that place for you.

But, if tranquillity and personalized service is what you are after, then Jasper Hotel is your mini goldmine, conveniently located at the tip of Melbourne's CBD.


The reception staff must have been anticipating our arrival, as upon walking in they greeted my boyfriend and I by his name, which is unusual since he has a Middle Eastern, excruciatingly hard to pronounce, but all the while exotic name.

Tim, the manager escorted us to the elevator and showed us to our room. I have always stayed at large, more bustling hotels and never had I been treated so attentively by the reception staff.

Very refreshing.

The rooms were clean and well presented. Our beds were made each morning, and toiletries adequately replenished.

The hotel was conveniently located across the road from a major tram station, allowing us instant access to every angle to beautiful Melbourne city.

I preferred that we were not located directly in the heart of the CBD, as it allowed us to walk and discover gorgeous boutique restaurants and book stores that we wouldn't have visited otherwise.

Breakfast was amazing!

I did not even have to try the food to decipher this, as Jasper Kitchen was hustling and bustling morning after morning after morning after morning. The gorgeous aromas of fresh bread and coffee wafted through the lobby and into the elevators, and my boyfriend and I just couldn't wait to devour our meals. I must say, the poached eggs are simply fantastic!

Finally, I would like to thank Karl, who organized an airport shuttle bus for us within a few hours, when one would generally need to give 24 hours notice.

I would definitely stay here again, and recommend anybody who is looking for a quaint and down to Earth haven that is close to but far enough from the shops (just in case you run out of money) give it a try!