Years.

487. Living room. We have just finished the main meal; now, endlessly, I stride back and forth, putting the pair of scissors away, filling up the half-empty pink Brita, rinsing water glasses, adjusting whatever else in the living room that is seemingly out of harmony. 

"I feel old," I whine, "cleaning up like this." "It's a good thing... cleaning up... no?" Pierre hesitates, as if he wants to be on my side, to agree with whatever I am whining about at the moment, but at the same time he has difficulty with seeing evil in something as innocent as cleaning up. "Yes, I know, and I used to worry that I wouldn't be able to voluntarily do this, and then I figured that I would eventually be able to. But I thought that would be when I'm old, not like now." Pierre seems to ponder on this confession, silently. It is very likely that he is trying to figure out what is more psychotic, me cleaning up obsessively like an old lady, or me worrying about feeling like an old lady when cleaning up obsessively like an old lady. 

What his final conclusion is we will never know, because I do not ask. Instead, I ask if he wants some ice-cream. "We have three flavors," I am excited. "Vanilla, chocolate, and banana." Either greedy or simply indecisive, Pierre says that he will have all three, which I find to be an excellent idea, so I too have all three flavors. "Oh oh, we should put M&Ms in as well!" I exclaim, contributing my own and equally excellent idea. As Pierre reaches for the M&M bag (Gisele's remaining cinema snack from over two weeks ago), another thought comes to my mind. "And, we can also have our ice-cream with chocolate-covered coffee beans," I am practically singing out of delight, "and these!" Looking at the jar of Vermicelles arc-en-ciel in my hand, Pierre mutters, "Yeah, you are old..."

488. "I have been reflecting a little," is one of Gaston's top five favorite sentences. Half of the times, I would make fun of him for saying it. It just sounds so French. In Sora one evening, Zoe, Mario and I even had a semi-lengthy discussion with Gaston about which hypothetical situations he would use the verb think, and which the verb reflect. "About vacations for next year?" Zoe asked. "No, that would be thinking," Gaston replied, reserving his reflection for more serious things. At the time, I wanted to remind him that he once "reflected a little about why our dish washer did not work properly," but Mario beat me to it and gave yet another example that did not warrant Gaston's reflection.

Today, however, I find a moment that warrants my reflection. On what has happened in the last ten years, to me, since the day New Yorkers tragically saw their world in flames. I have read and listened to numerous personal recounts on their September 11, and how it has affected them. Even for non-New Yorkers, the catastrophic event has led many to a completely different and hitherto unimaginable direction. While I was and am feeling sorry for the immeasurable losses, it is hard to say how September 11 has directly affected the course of my life. (Unless you consider the fact that September 11 has abruptly changed someone's life, who then briefly met me and abruptly changed mine, the butterfly effect, but that is stretching it a little. Mine probably would have been changed by some other event or person, anyway. I digress.) 

Sitting in front of the tiny laptop that night, I was doing what a geeky fifteen-year-old chess player would: playing chess on an online server, which happened to be located in America. All of the sudden, everyone seemed to be screaming, line after line after line of orange texts streaming down on the black terminal screen. It was hard to believe what I was reading. As I turned on the TV in the living room of my Australian family, an airplane was crashing, live, onto the second tower. I remember feeling shell-shocked, automatically reaching for the remote control to mute the sound, because otherwise the confused and panicked voices of broadcasters -- who were clearly speaking without a script -- would wake my homestay parents up. It was a household rule: no loud TV after their bedtime. It did not occur to me at the time that my homestay parents might have wanted to know, that as they were sleeping safe and sound, people on the other side of the world have just lost all sense of security. For the next twenty minutes, I sat in the dark living room and watched the silent horror unfolding again and again in front of my eyes, and then went to bed, unable to connect what has just happened in New York and what was going on with my own life. There is very little I remember about the next day (my homestay parents telling me about the news, me telling them that I already knew), or the weeks after, only that there were talks about the possibility of a Third World War, my parents wondering about available flights for me to return to Vietnam, me wondering what it would be like, being in a Third World War away from home, or being in a Third World War at all. 

Thankfully, for my parents, for myself, and for everyone else, a Third World War did not eventuate. I was quickly preoccupied with my little world again, worrying about whatever that a teenager would worry about. My physics assignment! What would I write about? (Princess Diana, and how she would have stayed alive had she worn a seat belt.) My sixteenth birthday, the first birthday away from home. Who would I celebrate it with? Who would even know? (If I could travel back in time, I would tell my anxious fifteen-year-old that on the birthday itself, I would instead worry about how to fit in all the celebrations, because the cute boy with slender fingers and shoulder-length dark hair would invite me to have cake and coffee in a chic Italian café in the city centre, my friends would have lunch with me, and my homestay parents would surprise me by taking me to my first Vietnamese restaurant, which would become my favorite for all of the Adelaidean years, and then a homemade birthday cake. But the fifteen-year-old me would probably just laugh at me.) The Sydney boy that I have been talking to, does he like me? Like like, not just like as a friend? (Yes, it was obvious, and he would be your first boyfriend, but not your first serious boyfriend. That would be the cute boy with slender fingers and shoulder-length dark hair, the vegetarian who showed you how to make the best instant noodles ever, who in a state library gave you a book on sex education and who taught you to distinguish between personal attacks and constructive criticism.)

None of these lessons I have properly mastered, but at least I am much better at them than I would have been otherwise, had I not met that cute boy, whose fingers are still slender but whose dark hair is no longer shoulder-length. So many other things have changed since, and if I had told my fifteen-year-old self, that ten years later I would be living in Europe, almost finishing my second year of postdoc in mathematics, during which period I played in the Chess Olympiad for the second time and my personal life changed upside down, my fifteen-year-old self would probably freak out, in equal parts of happiness and disappointment. (You are in Europe? You are a what? A mathematician? What on earth?) But then, I would tell my wide-eyed fifteen-year-old that it is what it is, and then I would wait. To see whether the thirty-five-year-old me would be time-traveling back to give me a sneak peek to what would happen in the next decade.
But that is probably just wishful thinking, not reflection.

Friendships II.

448. A makeshift coffee room, third floor. With our drinks in hand, ten of us are standing around the room, forming three thirds of a circle around Gisele, who is sitting because she is pregnant, and the table with wine bottles and cakes. Speech, speech, someone starts the usual celebratory chant, and Mario, embarrassed, passes the bucket to Bowser, who, to my surprise, actually starts a speech. "Well, thank you all," Bowser says, appropriately waving one arm in a welcoming manner, "for coming for Mario..." We all laugh, and Mario takes it over. It is soon evident that, while having arranged his double-celebration from last week, Mario has not prepared a speech at all. 

Earlier today, on Skype. "Buon compleanno!" I have told Mario, after having consulted both the Internet and Cassandra, my Roman-born officemate. "Thanks!!!" Mario replied. "Well done, you are improving your Italian!!!!! Today I will check the pronunciation! :)" I sent a smiley back, and the image in my head at the time of a cheeky boy was slightly different to the image of a shy boy at the moment, standing in front of his colleagues and friends, trying to find the right word. With a lot of foot shuffling and embarrassed smiles, Mario tells us what we have already known, that today is his birthday, and that he has recently gave a post ("Position," the ever-helpful Bowser quickly points out). A position, Mario kindly humours Bowser, and that is why we are here today. He thanks us for something, I do not remember what, but what I remember, is that he hopes to continue working here for the next few years and to continue being friends with all of us. We hope so too, Zoe says, and her sentiments are echoed in the lovely smiles around the room. 

It's hard not to agree with Zoe. Wouldn't you want to be friends with the boy who smilingly hosts friends and a friend of friends for days, who kindly drives the guests for hours, be it across the width of Italy or well past midnight, for sightseeing with thoughtful explanations, for street festivities miles and miles away, for dinner at a "really good restaurant that my friend has told me about" in a nearby city, who teaches you how to play volleyball(ish) in the sea? The dinner, in addition to its promised excellent food, turned out to be on an open terrace overlooking the magnificent Italian coastline, with full moon shining onto the dark water, colourful fireworks in a distance, and -- towards time for panna cotta, tiramisu and mille foglie -- a live band just under the terrace. In the fresh air of that evening, somehow the topic of the London train (or the miss of) was brought up. Tell the story, Zoe playfully prodded, and what with her having already known and Gaston's having actually been there at the time, the only person I really ended up telling was Mario. At the end of my embarrassingly gushing storytelling about how calm and kind Gaston was, given the circumstances, Mario has concluded, "This is what we say: Gaston has gained a lot of heaven points..." 

Agreeing with Mario at the time, I have wondered whether Mario realized that what he has been doing those particular days was also earning him many, many heaven points. Buon compleanno once more time, here to Mario, and to all the heaven points he much deserves. Especially after providing us free wine and cakes.

449. So I guess we are really going.
Celery: so we will book now a double room for us
Celery: and may be one of you two can book the triple for you?
Celery: Mushroom is fine with it, just called him
Zucchini: on the phone
Celery: ok
Zucchini: can we do it tomorrow morning?
Celery: hm, the risk is that tomorrow morning there will be no more room left
Zucchini: Gazpacho-y?
Zucchini: now i can't
Celery: and it is not much work
Me: <insert long, winded explanation about how the GB has rejected my card earlier, on the account of having 24 cents left and the monthly salary hasn't come through, unlike it has for my ING friends. (Way to go, Fortis!)>
Carrot: <insert hotel link> 
Me: Celery, I'm sorry but I can't really help you here [ed: why on earth did I say "help you here", when he is asking us to book our own hotel room, not his??]
Me: if I had either the money or the card, I would do it
Celery: Triple room: only 1 room left
Celery: so i booked
Celery: people
Zucchini, one minute later: can you send the link of the hotel again?
Carrot: one sec
Carrot: <insert hotel link again>
Zucchini: thx
Zucchini: triple room is gone?
Carrot: because Celery has booked it
Zucchini: ah *phew*
Carrot: D
Zucchini: ok, back to my call then :)
Carrot: ok
Celery: ja leben ist hart ;)

450. Friendship means that even after not having been in touch with each other for a while, you can instantly feel saddened with just four words of bad news out of the blue.

Friendships.

25. Two little boys, around six or seven years old, are wedged tightly in a 1.5 seat, the kind that seems to be on every bus here in Brussels and that never fails to puzzle me every time I see. (Why 1.5? Is it for lovey-dovey couples who can neither bear the thought of being separated into two seats, nor physically squeeze into one? For the Hulk? Or, perhaps, for the Iron Man and his chunky suit, when he is in town and needs to travel by bus?)

"Comment tu t'appelles?" sings one boy, an arm draped over his friend's shoulders, the other waving in the air, loosely to the music. "Je sais pas ton nom." continues the friend, giggling while drumming fingers on the other boy's leg. "Comment tu t'appelles?", the invisible microphone is passed back to the first boy, who, too, is now drumming, but on his friend's head. "Je sais pas ton nom.", sings the second boy, switching to tapping. "Comment tu t'appelles?"... Completely oblivious about the creepy Asian girl who watches them from afar, the boys merrily perform their little musical, two-line double act for the rest of the bus ride. 

26. The English Literature section at FNAC. Seen on a little green circle sticker on a book's cover (presumably to increase readership): an arrow piercing through a heart, and below that, 
  "GREAT ROCK! 
      MUSIC! 
CRAZY PEOPLE! 
       LOVE!" 

I need to get one of these stickers for my papers. It might work. 

27. "It is purple, see?" said Mario to Luigi, while tilting his head towards a tram passenger, who was, indeed, wearing purple. "No, I am still not going to wear purple," replied Luigi. "What if Princess Peach is going to wear a pink dress?", I generously offered a bargaining chip. "I am never going to wear a pink dress," Princess Peach spoilt my deal. On the tram at almost midnight, the four of us, scientists by training, were trying to convince each other to dress up as our Super Mario Bros characters; to which end, Luigi would need to wear a green and purple suit, Princess Peach a pink dress, and Mario something red and blue. We did not, in the end, succeed in making each other look ridiculous, but we did have a very pleasant evening together.

Some four hours earlier, nine boys and girls had met up to have a leisurely dinner at the cozy Pizzeria La Bottega Della, where starter plates were mismatched and individual menus were unavailable, but the antipasti, the pizzas and the tiramisu, oh the tiramisu, were delicious. To quote Hugo, "Tonight, we are in Italy..." As we traded slices of pizzas and passed around the bottles of wine, conversations flowed easily, switching from one language to another. Between us, there were at least six nationalities, and even more languages. At one point, having graduated from the How-to-read-one-line-on-the-chalkboard-menu and the How-to-count-from-one-to-ten classes, I asked Mario for his mother tounge's version of "Whassup, maaan!"; the question later went around the table. The Italian version was, by far, the best ("Come butta, amico!"); the Portuguese version was probably as so-so as the French one (respectively, something like "Yeah-ee!" and "Zee-va!", the latter apparently supposed to be the reverse of "Vas-y!"); and the German version was... well, whatever it was, it was by unanimity the lamest. 

The good Italian wine at dinner and the Belgian beer outside a corner bar afterwards probably contributed to making the evening enjoyable, but whatever the factors were, the evening couldn't have been anything but enjoyable, after its lovely start. When Mario and I arrived at the restaurant, Gisele, Hugo and his former flatmate have already been there. After the typically European hello kisses, Mario and I took our seats, mine between Gisele's and Mario's. Wordlessly, Gisele slightly leaned over across me and showed Mario her right hand. Looking at the sparkling diamond ring on her middle finger, I wanted to say congratulations but no word immediately came. The last time I had congratulated Mario for his "engagement", it had turned out that engagement in his country did not mean the same thing as engagement in, well, the rest of the world. So now, I thought, maybe diamond rings in Belgium did not mean the same thing as diamond rings elsewhere. Maybe Gisele had bought herself an expensive ring and wanted to show Mario her great taste in jewelry. But, I knew that Hugo had planned to propose, and there was no mistaking the joyous expressions on the faces of Gisele's and Hugo's, so I congratulated the engaged couple. Later in the evening, Gisele would make fun of Hugo for his choice of vacations ("Why would you want to go on holiday to suffer, camping out in the cold and sleeping with guys?"), and Hugo would joke about to whom he wanted Gisele to pass on the engagement ring (his sister, not her mother), in the unlikely case that he would not survive the upcoming hiking trip. Listening to them bantering through the evening, I felt a sense of happiness and hope. May they have enough love, patience and kindness to be with each other for the rest of their lives.

Maybe we should campaign to get them have a Super Mario Bros-themed wedding, where Luigi will actually wear a green and purple suit.