It strikes me that people who are most at peace with themselves and nature tend to be the ones who have yet encountered material temptations. The Tibetans, for example, who live high up in the deep Himalayas. The matriarchal families living around the isolated Lugu Lake. The nomads on the Mongolian grasslands. The Bedouins at the heart of the Sahara desert... Those people tend to be poor. They live in a often stunning yet punishingly harsh environment where fresh water, electricity, sewage systems remain a dream. Life is bare where they are, yet faith is strong. They practice religion with a great rigour, handing their lives entirely to God's hand.

Every time when I travel to those ends of the earth and encounter those humble souls, it strikes me how bright their eyes are, how warm and generous their heart. Among them, I find an absence of violence, aggression and judgment, instead, an abundance of humanity and peace.

Back to Shanghai, an ultra modern city in every material sense, while riding an underground train home, it saddened me to witness a young man who would not give seat to a frail old woman on a walking stick standing right in front of him. Sadly, such a sight has become a norm in contemporary urban China, where the GDP has been soaring high while morality down the drain. It reminds me why I have so firmly decided to leave this country again. My home country, so familiar yet so alien.

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Here are 3 very beautiful people I left behind in Inner Mongolia. My young Mongolian brother and sisters. It was very sad when they'd decided that I would go back to see them again same time next year without knowing that soon I will be taking a 40-hour flight, on a one-way ticket, down south, to the furthest south, to Argentina. As many hours as the train journey I took to get to their yurt in the grasslands 3 weeks ago. All of a sudden, the world seems impossibly immense.

I took this photo from the van as we were setting off back to China. I know I shall take these wonderful smiles with me wherever I go.

My Mongolian family, thank you so much for your kindness and your beautiful hearts! Thank you so much for taking me on as a sister!

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Or are they those who wrap up our souls during those countless encounters and exchanges, albeit so very brief?

Can she be part of ourselves? The other half of our very own soul?

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My deepest sorrow for all of you, friends and families of the passengers of AF447 from Rio to Paris, who vanished to void on June 1, 2009.

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For I'm in China right now where anything as such was banned, in public that is.

And that I'd already left china, twenty years ago, precisely six months prior to the time when the brutal acts took place in Tiananmen Square where my university friends protested hunger stroke. However for me, when things so tragic so brutal happened in a distant place, it was really hard to imagine that it'd really happened!

Nevertheless, I felt very emotional yesterday, the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Massacre. While I looked at the photos of the candle vigil from Hongkong and London, I wish I was there among the praying souls!

I left China 'for good' precisely twenty years ago, for West Berlin. Ever since, life has taken me to such a rich, wild and emotional roller-coaster than I could have ever dreamed of.

While twenty years is nothing, according to Gardel in Volver, one of the greatest voices in the history of tango, it is quite something for me, for it is half of my life.

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For the last ten days or so since my return from Argentina, I've been busying myself with lots of activities. Yoga, taichi, more yoga, more taichi, pampered by full-body massages, reflexology and occasional facials. With less than 10 bucks a session, China offers the best massage services in the world no doubt! Six months of dancing and living in one of the busiest noisiest the most polluted cities in the world takes its toll. My body is full of pains. My skin dry and flaky. I need a rest. A damn good rest.

Meanwhile, I'm contemplating leaving again soon soon, and perhaps for a very long time if not for good. As it takes too much effort to stay upbeat in China so it seems. All I want is to be myself. I want to be normal, relaxed, happy. But here I can't. Miguel, my milonguero friend, loves China. He can't understand why anyone would dislike this country. He should have! Sick of Argentina, where he lived for half of a century, he's moved to live in the beautiful south of France. Grass is always greener on the other side.

Miguel might not mind so much the fact that youtube is banned here, as well as many other websites, publications and films. He might even be amused to see lap dogs wearing shoes (4 little shoes on each foot that is) walking on the streets and having the fur on their ears died funny pink and tails apple green. He might just be a little bit annoyed with people elbow him aside while he tries to get on to the subway, spitting to his path every now and then on the streets, puffing cigarette smoke straight into his face and with cars and motorcycles cutting his zebra-crossings short. Without the lingua, he can easily shut out people's obsessive compulsive yelling in public with share prices, property prices, business negotiations big or small on the phone off the phone, spitting in between, with colleagues, dealers, suppliers, friends, girlfriends, wives, ex-wives everywhere anywhere. Being a Westerner, he also escapes from being deemed as a failure at 55, still a bachelor, still childless. However, for someone native like myself, there is no escape unless I get out of the country!

Nowhere is perfect I hear. But I also believe that there is always somewhere where one can be more at ease with one's soul.

Yesterday, I lied for the first time to my masseur who started to ask me about my husband and children assuming that a woman my age is certain to have all of them. I told her that my husband is English, that he is in London looking after our 8-year old daughter while I'm away. You see, after years of trying to convince people to no avail that being single is being free, that I'm happy with or without children, I've finally decided to tell the tales that please the ears. Totally out of character if you know me.

The other day while walking home from the underground station, I saw a white little thing flying out from a third floor window. I simply couldn't believe what I saw. It was a new born kitten being thrown out alive. The image of the poor little thing dying in utter agony still pains me so very much. It's damn hard work to stay upbeat with a day like this.

Meanwhile, I'm busying myself with yoga, taichi, tachi, yoga and planning a run-away to Tibet. I'm trying trying.

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It's been such an inspiring fulfilling six months. I want to extend it into indefinite future!

Chau, mis amigos! Chau, Pipi! Un beso grande y un fuerte abrazo! Nos vemos pronto!!!

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Professor of the history of tango both at the Academia del Tango and the University of Tango Buenos Aires, Carlos also hosts a bi-weekly AM radio programme on tango and sells a huge collection of tango CDs at Buenos Aires Tango club.

He is a walking encyclopedia of Golden Age tango! Whatever you say, for example, 'it's a lie', he would pick it up and a tango with a guy who lies through his teeth would come singing out from his throat.

He can site endlessly the titles of tangos from every single composer, singer, orchestra, the time of the recording, etc, etc. So much so that you would start to wander whether he is human or not. As, believe you me, there are thousands around. My trick is to make him talk next to a CD player so that I can listen to his collection of magical melodies at the same time and it always feels like a treat! No one knows tango better than he does. From an academic point of view that is. Though his only and very reason for disliking contemporary tango is that they all sound too academic, too studied, less spontaneous, less gente de barrio (people from the neighbourhood). To cut it short, he calls them 'todos ruidos!' All noises. And he has a point.

The other day, during one of my final visits to pick up those albums I'm still missing, it suddenly occurred to me to ask him about Piazzolla. Maybe he does give some concessions to modern noises. Carlos looked at me without blinking his eyes behind his beer-bottle-bottom spectacles, 'Piazzolla is a bad vocabulary for me!' But then he went to his shelf and picked up an early album of Piazzolla from the 30s and said 'This is the only good one from him! Look at the photo of him! There he looks normal!' Piazzolla was 25 at the time. A clean-cut, nice looking young man in a sharp suit, like every other nice looking young man at the time I guess. He was smiling nicely in the shot and holding his bandoneon neatly on his knees. Then Carlos picked up another album from the shelf with Piazzola in the 80s. 'Look at him now! Doesn't he look like a mad man!' Hmmm...he does! In his mid-70s, Piazzollo looks scruffy with a head of messy thinning hair, in a shapeless shirt baring his upper chest. Furiously, he was in the midst of playing one of his modern compositions.

'But doesn't madness often make genius?' I probed.

'In this case, no!' Carlos snapped back.

By then I was too hungry for food to question the authority any further. But how about Amelita Baltar, whose Balada Para un Loco has tightened my breathes so many times?

'Ah, this woman doesn't exist for me!!!'

Later on back at home, when I told my landlady Margarita Carlos' views on contemporary tango, she laughed, 'It's amazing how some people can be frozen in time like an ice-cream!'

I know what I'm going to miss very much when I leave Argentina. Tango and ice-cream, to name just two!

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The more I take technique classes, the more I resist techniques. I know I'm on the last leg of rehabilitation from a broken leg, from loss of balance and muscular strength. But ultimately, do I really want to dance so impeccably? With neat footwork, the utter most body control and steps as precise as the Swiss clockwork? If so, what is dance really about? And art?

It's a relief to know that dance still remains out of the Olympics Games and dancers a different crowd from those of acrobats and gymnasts. Having said that, the boundaries seem to blur more often than not these days.

How many times have I watched a video clip or live performance of yet another speedy and technically flawless tango couple without having my blood gushing up in my veins and heart beating faster? Like what the Argentines say 'Bailan bien pero no me llevo nada.'

So what makes it to reach one's heart?

In the excellent tango documentary Si Sos Brujo, the old master Emilio Balcare commented on a tango played by a group of highly accomplished young musicians in Buenos Aires that it was very good, however, what was it the Fat Man (most likely the tango genius Anibal Troilo) said? To express tango you need to muddy it up...

When I first started to dance, the young Geraldine Rojas was the IT girl of tango. She was truly special! What made her dance so unique and captivating was her raw passion, her lack of pretense and her overflowing sensuality. She was then widely regarded as the true embodiment of Argentine tango! Una tanguera to boot! I found out later that she didn't have any formal academic training in dance. Today, more and more young dancers shoot to success and fame. Many remain competent academic dancers. However, I have yet to see the sparks that can set a forest on fire the young Geraldine once did.

There is something to be said about aiming for perfection. It's part of the learning process. It takes a hell lot of training. And the mastery of the techniques, superb control of our body movements is not to be sneered at. It sets us free. However, it's only half of the journey. The rest is to drop it all and starts to play. It takes guts to play, to be dirty, ugly, real, to slow down, to stop, all in order to be one's true humble self! It delights me to know that I'm on the path of such a journey!

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The thing is I'm in Argentina, a bit far from China where I'm from, a bit far from Europe where I've spent half of my life. So what to do without all those things I'm missing? Luckily, improvisation is my strength. Such as right now when I've just made up the most delicious rice dish I've ever tasted, lubricated by a beautiful red wine called La Linda from Mendoza Argentina. It's Good Friday, not that it means much to an atheist me from afar. Still it's a holiday when food matters, especially when one is alone!

The recipe goes with garlic and spring onions, finely chopped up and shallow fried, with a baby green pumpkin (no such a thing in China) and dried shiitakes (imported from the northern forests of my country), both chopped up into little chunks. Then comes the chicken potato curry saucy (Chinese curry that is) with decent chunks of curry potatoes and steamed jasmine rice. Stir fry. Stir fry. Until everything blends well in. Finally, add in finely chopped up juicy organic tomato bits and boiled beetroot chunks (common roots where I am but exotic produce where I'm from). They are refreshers to that intense curry flavor. That's it. A photo taken before I wolfed it down like a hurricane.

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He is now 3 months old and no longer the same poorly little thing lying helplessly in my arms only a short while ago but time seems to have lapsed and his sickness a distant memory. Life has been galloping fast fast forward.

I held him as much as I could the night he was leaving while him trying to bite my fingers, wrists, arms...He is so much bigger now. His limbs slender, body heavier, tail thinner and longer, paws fleshier. His ears are half way to the floor and his face... My God, I can no longer hold him still for a second! What has happened to that tender little thing who slept like an angel in my arms!

Still it's better this way. He looks like a proper dog now. A juvenile. He eats like a vacuum cleaner. He pees and shits wherever he pleases. He bites relentlessly on everything anything. He has no fear. He is a pain in the arse. He is a puppie bursting with life, a life he nearly nearly lost only a very short while ago.

He was the star of the evening. Everybody adored him, marveling at his cute puppiness, his liveliness, his innocence. Everybody tried to hold him in his/her arms for as long as they managed. Of course, he was completely unaware of what was going on. He kept on biting on everything anything, trying to pinch Jazmina's bones and chasing anything on the move. Then the adults took more photos with him, packed his stuff...toys, food, bedding and off he went, without knowing where on earth he was off to. However, he did stay still in my arms, nicely still, while I was taking him out of the house, no tossing turning, no biting like a maniac, just nice quite for a change. God knows what was going on in his little doggie mind.

After infinite kisses and hugs, he left in his mum and dad's car to his new house. Oh Pipi, all is going to be well for you! I know, I just know.

Os is heart-broken. He loves his dogs more than any humans and Pipi was no exception. Two months of single dad. Intensive care, sleepless nights, close to death devastation, relentless cleaning of pees, vomits, diarrheas and turds everywhere in the house all day for 2 months, tons of bounding, playing, sweet talks with this cutest little thing on earth, joy while watching him recovering, eating like a hurricane, growing like a miracle. But all of a sudden, he's gone like a dream! What remains is some newspapers on the floor, torn and stained. Pipi's toilette training. And a little note lovingly taped on the door. 'Please open the door very slowly! Puppie inside!' I took it off quietly. Suddenly I had an urge to cry.

And so I did the next day. A tearful day. Gloom.

Cristina rang to tell that Pipi arrived safely to his new house. He carried on to play straight away. Only that he cried a bit when they turned the lights out to sleep. But her husband stayed with him on the floor till he fell asleep.

The life of a dog! Sometimes I wish I was one of them. It doesn't seem to be too bad to have such little consciousness, unlike us humans, me in particular, who are utterly liable of being stirred up by memories like now, and that grey sentiment called melancholia. The memory of that impossible tenderness of a fury little life in my arms! The memory of being so overpowered by his utter powerlessness.

Pipi's departure reminds that of mine, very soon, from Buenos Aires.

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It's been a fruitful six months! With much inspiration, learning, falling in love with the sweetest puppie in the world, summer sun and peace in heart! I consider myself lucky.

The only thing I regret is not having taken myself out of the town. Buenos Aires can be a sucker. Six months stuck in town without a breather?! Still, it could be worse.

So I'm leaving. I'm leaving to rest my body, to refresh my mind, to digest all I've learnt, and to come back fresh and new.

I'm not feeling sad about leaving, as I have a feeling that I'll be back soon. Indeed, very soon!

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You land in my arms like a fallen angel
A fallen angel
Fresh born can hardly see
Stumbling here Stumbling there
A furry mini teddy sooo sweet
Beautiful
The old ladies cry 'santo' when they see you on the street.

You are sick so desperately sick
Mama doesn't want you
She pushes you and your hermanitos into this world
Then walks away from you all for good.

My orphan child
In my arms
Poorly
Silently
You fight, you stay put to fight
A rainbow warrior.

That night I cannot sleep
Sitting on the floor by your side
My tears roll into yours when your poor little body is torn by pains
I can't even caress you
It hurts too much
I know, baby, I know
For my heart is pierced too by your every scream.

Those desperate moments
When you drift away to where you are from
Perhaps never back
The heart sinks
The moon pales
I hold you tight on my breast
Willing my heart-beats stimulate yours
The warmth of my body by the side of your tormented baby soul
Long nights
Gloomy nights
Only wake to find you still alive the next day
You are a miracle, baby, a miracle.

It's tango I've come to Buenos Aires for
But I've stopped dancing because of you
Strangely though it feels fine it feels just fine
With your tender love in my arms
I no longer long for substitutes.

You land in my arms like a fallen angel
A fallen angel
With you dark brown eyes gazing into mine
Baby, you're the best gift to me!
Pichichin Pichichin
Pipi Chichi mi amor corazon.

Happy Birthday, Pichichin! Today you're 2 months old!!! Te amo mucho! Mama

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Things as such will make my departure in the foreseeable future a hard thing.

On a lighter note, I got into a mild argument with a local lady last week who was complaining about millions of tiresome expressions in Spanish on the same subject matter while all could be simplified as they are in English. We failed to agree with each other in the end but my guessing is that she is possibly more tired with the hazardous life here than her really truly expressive mother tongue.

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Here in Buenos Aires, it strikes me how many babies I come across every other day. Human babies, puppies, kittens. And they are so young. Some are new born, others a couple of weeks, or mostly one to two months old. Such tender young lives!

The other day I went with O to give food to a street dog who just gave birth to three puppies around the corner of his house only a few hours earlier. It was a punishingly hot afternoon for the mama and her babies. The bitch was panting impossibly in hardly a shade under a dying tree. Her fresh new-borns were lying on the mud barely moving. A lady from the neighbourhood came too with water. We piled up some broken bricks attempting to build a shelter for the family, willing them to survive.

A couple of days later when I asked about the family of four, I was told that they were taken away by a government van and gased. I was so shocked to hear this that I was speechless. No words, there are simply no words for this.

While writing this, I think of all the bare feet dirt smeared children begging on and off the commuter-trains in Buenos Aires. And the number seems increasing.

And here I am, dancing tango under the same starry sky of Buenos Aires.

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Today, I want to drop all my modesty aside and congratulate myself for who I am and what I'm doing with my life.

I congratulate myself for living in Buenos Aires, Argentina right now.

I congratulate myself for investing so much time and energy on absorbing tango (both the music and the dance), becoming fluent in Spanish, and being accepted by my new Argentine friends.

I congratulate myself for having lived and traveled in so many countries all around the world, for speaking many languages and dialects, for my ability to fit in and turn a new place home wherever I go.

I congratulate myself for having loved and being loved many times in life.

I congratulate myself for managing a life, totally independently, with disciplines, courage, an adventurous spirit, and much love from many dear friends, mum, aunties and dad.

I feel extremely lucky, privileged and grateful.

Happy New Year! May 2009 be another year of love, peace and wonders to all of you good people I may or may not know!

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What I want to say here is my observation of the stark contrast of Practica X and other hip clubs compared with a traditional milonga, i.e. the differences between the young dancers in Buenos Aires and the older milonguero generation. For example, the other day when I went to Practica X for the first time this time around, no one invited me to the dance floor the whole night. Same previously last year when I was around. And I hear similar remarks from my girlfriends. However, last night at el Beso, I danced non-stop for 4 hours! By the way, I am a choosy dancer I have to confess. So how come such a contrasting difference! Somehow the young Argentines seem much more exclusive compared with their milonguero uncles. Why is it so? Are the uncles more worldly citizens than the young who would more readily welcome a foreign woman into their embrace? Are the younger dancers more choosy as with whom to dance with? Or maybe it's the different seating plans which result in such contrasting experiences. I don't know. I just don't know. All I know is one has to persevere if one wishes to get a good dance at hip places such as Practica X. But what for? Do I have to go there to get a dance, simply because everyone else is going? I need a better motivation!

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Three years on, I'm back in the city for the fourth time. I'm still fanatical about tango but have become a little cynical with the whole tango scene. I'm semi-fluent in Spanish and often find myself struggling to shut people's grumpiness and hysteria out of my ears. I cook at home every day. I take buses wherever I go. I'm pissed off with the rocketing prices that have been doubled within 3 years, though the official figure for inflation is a mere 20%. I'm also pissed off that it took 7 weeks for the gas company to reinstall the gas in the apartment where I live. I still find people open and warm and endearing but they can also be a bit heavy emotionally and dramatic for nothing.

I live in the charming old barrio of San Telmo this time and today I took a little stroll to Plaza Dorrego for some early evening breeze. As I strolled along, I watched with envy all the tourists sitting at the Plazita hanging out while the sun was setting, drinking Quilmes, chatting, smiling. Soon they would wonder off to a charming restaurant nearby for a hearty dinner, gobbling up the best steaks in the world and sipping a glass of some tasty red wine from Mendoza. They would then stroll along the handsome Avenida de Mayo for a bit to let the meat go down their digestive system before taking a taxi to a beautiful milonga for a dreamy night of tango. The wonderful life of a tourist!

All these remind me of our experience with a lover. When he is new, he is refreshing and exciting and exciting and exciting. But when we get to know each other better and have become more intimate, or even get to the stage of co-habitation or raising a family, hmmm, we're then talking about something else.

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What's wrong?

Well, she just came back from a private tango lesson and didn't like it at all.

The thing is she went out dancing in a milonga last night. Had a great time. Danced with good dancers and got flattered from top to toe by the milongueros. Went back home feeling like a much pampered princess until just now when she took the tango lesson where her enthusiasm was extinguished by a bucket of cold water. During the lesson, She was told by her much admired teacher that she doesn't know how to walk, that her dance lacks presence, that she needs to learn how to carry her own weight instead of letting the leader carrying it, etc., etc. All that for 300 pesos.

Poor girl! But she is not alone.

Here in Buenos Aires, I'm constantly told by the milongueros that I shall not pay a single extra peso for more tango classes, that I should just dance with them in the milongas, as 'we milongueros dance with our heart! No-one is gonna teach you this in a class!' And they are quite right. Some of the greatest milongueros/as have never taken any tango lessons!

Meanwhile, in and out of numerous private and group lessons I've taken over the years, I'm demanded by my teachers to drill harder, to push my leg while walking, to stretch or bend my knees, to disassociate, to pivot, pivot, pivot... And no matter how hard I try, I still feel totally inadequate next to the perfect movements demonstrated by my talented teachers. So I blow more pesos on more classes. Heaven knows how much I've invested in this bewitching dance!

While appreciating the sincerity of both parties (I know some milongueros would dispute this), we fanatical tango-dancers can get quite trapped like my friend Sol. Putting the budgetary concerns aside, if we are already having a great time dancing in a Buenos Aires milonga, do we still need to take more lessons and to be told that we are not good enough? I guess this is when we need to ask why we dance tango in the first place. As with me, I'm taking more for the time being, as I'm a virgo, a perfectionist that is.

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Lucas' story pains me, all the more so, as his is not the first one I've encountered here in Argentina that unravels depression, mental illnesses, and suicides. Reluctantly, I find myself starting to salute another face of the country, a darker, cynical and perhaps truer one. There is as much sadness in the sun. It feels heavy.

Loco! (mad!)

The word seems to be the punctuation of the lingua in Argentina! Hola, Loco! (hello, madman!) Sos loco!(I'm mad!), Es una locura!(It's madness!) Loco loco loco (mad mad mad)...I hear these lines when I turn around every street corner in the city. It seems as if every other person had 'loco' written on his forehead, let alone the 1969 hit 'Balada para un Loco' (Ballad for a mad man) which swept Buenos Aires like a forest on fire. 'Viva viva loco! Loco, loco, loco ella, loco yo!' Nowhere else in the world have I encountered such a fascination, identity, and pride with madness. I am mad! I don't care. I'm not one of you. I'm floating up there and free!

When I told Locas and his girlfriend Mica my observation, their eyes widened and mouths opened. After a second or two, they too agreed that this is the case in their country.

'But isn't it the same in China too? Aren't there as many people who are crazy out there?' Lucas wondered.

'I don't think so...well, I don't know...'

He's got me there.

Come to think of it, I realised that I too grew up surrounded by mad people. After 10-years of Cultural Revolution in China, in other words, after a decade of physical, mental and emotional brutality, betrayal and suffering, many people have committed suicide or gone crazy. However, such a reality has yet been acknowledged officially in China. And mental-illness is still often an undiagnosed illness, a taboo, as dark as the night, swept under the carpet, silently and relentlessly tormenting the ill and the ones who are close to them.

Maybe things are better here in Argentina after all, where at least people can talk.

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When Jorge proposed a visit to the infamous Recoleta cemetery with him, I accepted it immediately. A professor of history, Jorge was putting a book together with photos on a collection of ghost stories whispered among the tombs in the Recoleta Cemetery. Sadly, the project collapsed as its funding evaporated. Things as such happen so often in this country that Jorge didn't raise his eye-brows when he told me the story. Besides, he was more than happy to share the tales of the phantoms with me!

It was a rainy afternoon. I was late when I got there as I took a wrong bus to the opposite direction. Jorge was late too. So no one felt guilty after all. The cemetery was quite, as normally it isn't for its popularity among the tourists. It's a huge place and I never managed to find my way around when I came previously even assisted with a map. So no saludos to Eva Peron nor Carlos Gardel. But this time, I have Jorge with me, a professor of history! I felt hopeful.

We wondered around a bit before Jorge suggested to go straight to see the tombs whose ghost stories he is fond of. However, he warned that it might take us some time to find where they are, as it has been a while since his last visit. Take your time, I assured him. We are in no hurry.

And time we did take. We went into almost every single alley way at the back-end of the cemetery where Jorge's stories took place but had no luck in finding anything relevant. The rain was pit-pattering harder. Day-light was going. The church bell rang to announce the closure of the peaceful yard. The guard turned up making sure that nobody stayed behind. Reluctantly, Jorge and I inched out of the cemetery without finding any traces of the ghosts in town.

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I find such boldness hilarious and frankly I like it. You see I've spent too many years mingling with the English who are ever so polite, who would never flash out such phrasings like a hidden dagger. So it's a breath of fresh air when one is able to spit out one's gut feelings once in a while.

Mind you, things can get less amusing sometimes. For example, when one is called a liar, or, a chanta (hypocrite) by an Argie lover! In England where I spent almost half of my life, such charges are hardly addressed directly to someone even if he is a liar or a hypocrite.

Cultural differences are fascinating!

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'Hello! hello! You haven't called for a long time!'

But it's only over a week.

'Yeah, but the norm is for you to call once a week...'

Have I ever established such a norm?

Any way, they are fine, mum and dad. Mum is going away over the weekend with friends to do a joint birthday celebration. I'm glad.

Then, on my sister and poor young niece. My sister sounds like a monster these days. Fierce, obsessive, rolling in debts. Pushing her young daughter into this piano business like a mad woman. The child is miserable. It's always depressing talking about her.

Then, back to me. I couldn't believe that he said it again. For one thousandth time.

'Maybe you should come back to Shanghai early when it starts to get warmer!'

Dad, but I am happy here and never so in Shanghai!

'But it's a problem within yourself, not the ones of the place.'

Surely it matters, the environment which we live in. Some places nourish, others deprive. Why leave somewhere where I feel happy? why go somewhere where I feel depressed?

Dad is a stubborn wall and I can never get through to him.

'You are not happy in Shanghai because you don't have much to do.'

'If you get busy, you wouldn't have time to feel unhappy.'

'Man should adapt to the environment not environment man'

'Well, maybe you should go to live in the moon!'

Here in Buenos Aires, I'm not busy either but I am happy.

And I get even more depressed if I get busy for no good reasons.

If one has found a place to live happily, why go somewhere else where one feels depressed?

The moon? Yes, please! Send me there, dad, if you could!

The conversation ended nonchalantly, inevitably.

'Well, you take care, as we can't take care of you while you are so far away!'

What do you mean???

I've been taking care of myself for the last 20 years! You haven't.

Or you'd rather say that you regret that I can't take care of you!!!

After a conversation like this, I always feel more determined to stay away from Shanghai.

Just to make a point.

A reactionary one, I know. But there seems no other way to reach him.

The question of whether one should live for one's own happiness or that of one's parents. I know the answer is a cultural one. Whatever it might be, it makes me so ill at ease.

The Chinese believe in having children as investment for one's old age. I really can't relate to this. It's too pragmatic for me. Not very romantic. What's worse, it seems selfish. Maybe that's why I still don't have any off-springs.

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The average entrance to a milonga here in Buenos Aires is 15 pesos, US$5 that is.

The average entrance to a milonga in London is £8 pounds, more or less US$12.

The entrance to a milonga in Shanghai is 70 yuan, also around US$12, but one gets two drinks for that price.

So if we add two drinks, the price for a Buenos Aires milonga would be between 25 to 30 peso, just under US$10. But one normally gets 1 drink only.

The price for a London milonga would be £14, roughly US$20.

Now, on average, the cost of living in Buenos Aires is twice as much as that of China. In London,it is around 5 times.

So, if going dancing in a milonga in Buenos Aires is quite common for someone from the neighbourhood, often an old-age pensioner, and in London, an average wage-earner; it would be, however, for a well-to-do person, often a white-collar or an expatriate in Shanghai. My old neighbour downstairs in Shanghai, Uncle Qiu, goes ballroom dancing almost everyday. He pays 5 yuan, that is less than one US dollar.

It's interesting to observe the change of social stratum, when something such is tango is exported abroad. The further it goes, the pricier it gets. For its exoticism, I guess.

One extra note. Last night I was sitting next to Claudia, a charming milonguera from Buenos Aires, in the popular milonga Cachirulo. We chatted between the dances and she mentioned that she needed to buy another pair of tango shoes. She has only one pair and has been dancing in them for the last 3 years. This puts me in shame. Well, I've been dancing tango on and off for 3 years in total and I have already bought around 10 pairs of shoes. Ahhh, the other day, I was made to feel less guilty when a girl-friend from Singapore confessed that she has more than 15 pairs.

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You dance well!
Speak good Spanish!
And are beautiful!
What more do you want?

I do get a lot of these in the milongas in BsAs. I know they are all over-rehearsed chat-lines to encourage further dance partnership. And the Argies are an extremely charming lot. Still it makes me feel that perhaps it's worth paying tens of thousands of dollares coming all the way here from the other end of the earth time and again. Haha!

Not only men are so flattering, the ladies too! Last night I sat next to Claudia, a charming woman who spent the whole evening saying nice things to me.

You dance very well.
All the men here want to dance with you.
I know. I just know.
You see, you are like an exotic fruit!
Ahhh, how come you speak such good Spanish too!!

It doesn't matter whether they are telling the truth or not. When a night went by like this in a milonga, I can't end up feeling that I am the luckiest woman under the moon!!

Lie to me, because I like it!

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A Chinese dinner!

Though I no longer miss Chinese food while outside China these days and can happily devour local delights wherever I go, the invitation for a Chinese feast cooked at home is still very enticing, especially when I've spent the past two weeks chewing cold tomatoes and lettuces for we still have no gas at home. More so is the idea of meeting new friends in Buenos Aires, as I have yet to know many people here and live quite a solitary existence.

And what a night it's turned out to be!

Isaac is from Singapore but he has been living in Buenos Aires for a while, dancing tango and studying philosophy. We first met in Taipei last year in the tango festival but I've got to learn him better through his vigorous blogging! I can relate to his insatiable desire for learning and adventurous spirits. So we've become friends.

A couple from Korea were already there when I turned up at Isaac's place. Like me and many others, they have come to Buenos Aires to spend a few months dancing tango. Shortly afterwards, came Carlitos. He too comes from Korea but has been living here for nearly 5 years. With Mariana, the only porteña in the crowd, we devoured with passion Isaac's divine beef stew soup Singapore style, tender Hainan chicken, BBQ spare ribs and rice cooked in chicken stock. This is the best Chinese meal I've ever had in Buenos Aires. It's made me very happy!

More so, spending a night chatting away with a group of friends in Buenos Aires who have all come from such far away countries touches me deeply. Without fail, we've all come here for tango. And for tango, we've given up so much. Families, friends, jobs, home comforts and many more. We've left almost everything behind to be here, overwhelming ourselves with tango. No one else has come from a further world than we have. Geographically, culturally, emotionally. Carlitos is prime example. Originally from North Korea, he's made it clear to everyone that Buenos Aires is now home for the rest of his life. How does this make his mother feel back home in Korea?

I wish I had Carlitos' courage but I would find it incredibly hard to bear the weight of the sinking hearts of my aging folks in Shanghai if I dared to make such an announcement to them. Hence the coming and going between the north and south, east and west hemispheres. Three trips from Shanghai to Buenos Aires within the last 2 years. Costly business. Financially, emotionally. But things have to be this way. I know not many people can understand it. But that night, I was among a group of friends who do.

As I'm writing this, I'm listening to a piece of unbelievably beautiful flute music from China. For the first time, and very rarely, I'm feeling nostalgic for the East, for something so distant, so refined and delicate, like a butterfly, like the beautiful blue and white Ming porcelain. I am nostalgic for an ancient dream from the Orient that no longer exists in the real world of China. Captured by this longing, I find my stomach churning, my eyes moistening.

Thank you, Isaac, for such a lovely night of eastern inspirations!

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It is a fascinating sight. With her conducting stick flying in the air and her music notes in front of her on a desk, with no symphony orchestra in sight but an empty open space, Giuli is conducting with such vigor and fluency all the instruments whose sounds enter her ears from a CD player. However, my eyes just can't move away from her bouncing bosom. The plump girl is wearing a very nice black dress with an extremely revealing neck-line and obviously with no bra underneath.

'Bravooo!' We clap with enthusiasm when Giuli has done with the piece.

'And bravo to your flying tits too!' cheers Mica.

The issue of gender in the world of music conducting!

Apparently, Giuli is one of the only two female aspiring conductors in her year studying with 18 other male students. That night she comes home with a widest grin. She gets 8 out of 10 for conducting Wagner.

Bravo, Giuli!!!

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So no cooking.
No hot water for showers.
Thank God it's summer.

But why is it that we have no gas for so long?
Why is nobody fixing it?
Why do the residents of the house
(30 households more or less) tolerate such a situation?

I told my flatmate Giuliana that if this happened in Shanghai where I am from, it would have been fixed overnight.

'Ahhh, maybe you should ring the Ministry of Interior to make a complaint!'
'Maybe you should tell them that in China this would be fixed overnight!!'

'Mi culo, pero estas en Buenos Aires!'
(My arse, but you are in Buenos Aires!)

Ah, that was my imaginary answer from the ministry.

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Resurrection
The High Priest
Vehemence
The Lovers
Love and Desire
Hostility
The Magician

The Star
Advice
Transformation
Expressiveness
Patrimony
Perplexity
The Fool

Avarice
Conjecture
Generosity
Duplicity
Temperance
Cooperation
Magnificence

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Jim obviously had a good dream,
but I prefer my reality of day-dreaming.
The big games ended a few days ago,
And all of us working on it have already dispersed
Back to our own corners of the world.
Indeed, it was like a dream, long or short, happy or sad.

To speak the truth,
I always find it difficult to relate to certain superlative things,
The biggest, the tallest, the best, for example.
Hence my untouched heart while watching possibly
The most spectacular opening of the Beijing Olympics 2008.
I'm sorry, Director Zhang Yimou!
Your show just wasn't for me.
It was a much bloated masculine 3-D man-power piling-up.
My hat off for the labouring and disciplines.
But where was the romance?
The sensuality?
The simple touches of humanity that moist our eyes,
Soften our hearts?

Meanwhile,
I find my prayers going for a different group of
Superlative beings,
Namely, the smallest, the humblest, the most vulnerable,
The underdogs...

While the world was celebrating this century long feasting of sports,
I lit my candles for those children,
The most unfortunate ones who lost their parents;
And for the parents,
Heart-broken, grieving for the loss of their angels,
In the devastating Wenchuan earthquake,
On that saddest day of May 12, 2008.

Hold on wherever you are, my bravest!
Just hold on as long as you can!
Have you heard the story of the phoenix?
Burnt to ashes with all her pains and sufferings.
Do you know that the moment her ashes have burnt out,
The moment the noble phoenix rises up to her resurrection?!

Now, if you can hold on to that moment,
You will be the true champions of all the Olympics!

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