tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-216394072024-02-08T01:15:39.782-05:00Chasing SunshineA Blog of Happy ToesTranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-861889941459329822013-01-05T21:41:00.002-05:002013-01-05T21:41:49.755-05:002013Across the country, out in the West Coast, the scene somehow is familiar and comforting. Muggy was reading news on the bed, laughing out loud occasionally and sharing random amusing thoughts of the day. Did you know they are building a highway connecting Beijing and Tibet? Driving cross-country is now a thing for Chinese people. Did you know back in the 80s, 43% of female Wall Street analysts came from Ivy league schools? And that now, while that number is down to about 20%, 80% of so-called female "star" Wall Street analysts are still from the Ivies?<br />
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From my work station--a big white table in front of a massive window with view of the Bay and the Golden Gate bridge many miles afar, I nodded, surrounded by papers and an open red notebook, scribbled with pens in multicolor. This notebook has been my life for the last semester, and will continue to be for my last 3 months in law school. It contains the case note on my client, Mr. H, a half black half Vietnamese man who suffers from mental disability and whose deportation charges I have been fighting against as part of NYU's Immigration Rights Clinic. In early December, after filing a habeas petition--"the Great Writ"-- in federal district court, we negotiated with an US District Attorney and secured Mr. H's release just in time for the holiday seasons. After almost half a year in jail for doubly jeopardy, Mr. H was finally able to go home, resume working, resume the quiet life that was abruptly interrupted when federal immigration officers raided his home at 6am one morning and took him into custody. Our work is not yet done, as the clinic will continue fighting his deportation charges next semester. But it was quite a feeling for my clinic partner and I as we walked out of the Varick Street Immigration Court--a special adjudication forum for detained cases, heads held high, arms weighted with volumes of briefs, stomachs fluttered with the realization that we had successfully wielded that all-mighty sword that is the law and all of its halo, once stuck in stone, for the benefit of our client and the justice that we believe he deserves. So that, that is how young King Arthur and Le Loi must have felt.<br />
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Mr. H was born in Lai Thieu, a town I have never been too, nor could locate on the map. He never knew his dad--an African American soldier who had a brief affair with his mom and disappeared some time in 1968, at the height of the war. Mr. H grew up visibly half black with dark skin, kinky hair, and taller, broader frame than most Vietnamese children his age. He was constantly teased and bullied, and asked to leave school because he reacted to fights. He grew up a solemn boy, earning money by transporting canvas bags of rice and grains to old ladies selling commodities at the village's market. As a result, Mr. H never learned to read or write. Until the clinic got a doctor to diagnose him with mental retardation, his family had no idea that he suffered from a mental disability.<br />
<br />
One of the challenges of being a lawyer is that it is difficult to know where to stop. We have filed approximately 1,000 pages of briefs and evidence to get Mr. H out of jail, but our jobs cannot stop at the end step of the courthouse. Mundane questions of life remain: how can he get cheaper housing? Can we help him apply for citizenship? Can we help him file taxes? Get disability benefits? Insurance? Stay out of trouble?<br />
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Part of the skill sets that law school teaches you, a smart friend on Law Review once said, is the ability to break down the problem and tackle it once at a time. Life has too many big problems that can overwhelm you at a moment's notice. So that is what we have done. We have broken down the problem and focus on getting Mr. H out of jail first, because liberty is of the highest interest and its deprivation is the gravest violation of due process. SG, my unassuming yet amazing legal advisor from the Legal Aid Society, always tells us we have to believe in our arguments. If you can't convince yourself that you represent truth and justice, you cannot convince anyone else. Talk out loud, wave your hands, bang on the table! -- she will say between the lines -- be outrageous. This is an outrageous case and a great confluence of issues.<br />
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On brisk November morning, I rushed out of immigration court, still shaking, and jumped in a taxi to race down to the federal court house to file the habeas. You did amazing in court, you killed it! SG pumped her fist in the air. Sitting in the taxi, I frantically flipped through the hundred-page petitions to make sure the exhibits were in order, my minds in automode. Did I do that well? I only recalled stumbling and forcing out words in inarticulate manner. In this business, it is hard to be non-native speakers when everyone else did debate from high school. But ah, the thrill of the adversarial system, I could see why it is addictive. It is the rush of having someone else watch your every move and keep you on your toes. That someone else reviews all your evidence and is prepared to shoot down your best argument. And the satisfaction of winning, of seeing the happiness in your client's face, and believing that justice--whatever small part of it--has been done. Nothing beat that. Nothing beat that moment of 2012 for me.<br />
<br />
So here we are, 2013, for all of the mysteries to come. It will be a year of many big decisions, of graduating law school for me and MFE for Muggy, of moving to Maine and to California, of starting out new careers. And here we are, in our usual routines, ready to dive into the new year, head-first.Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-14339238271251312222012-04-16T20:15:00.002-04:002012-04-16T21:23:36.356-04:00Call of the WildToday, as the escalator slowly descended down to the ground floor of the Time Warner Center, the giant wall of glass opposite of me started emerging, revealing views of red bricks, Columbus Circle, and a tower of sky. I have stood on this escalator many times and seen this view many times, but today somehow it made me feel breathless. Perhaps it was a faint and young sun ray of early spring, or a wind that ruffled the leaves, or a feeling of disquietness from within that sped up my heart rates. I know that the moment I leave New York, this will be the scene that I remember and associate with all that this life stands for--youthfulness, ambition, a feeling of liberation.<div><br /></div><div>Second year of law school kicked off to a rough start: classes that failed to inspire, stressful journal edits, a life routine that did not get me out of bed in excitement, and Mug heading out west in the middle of it all. Like a ship out at open sea amidst multi-winds, I felt lost and purposeless. My fear soon materialized: that I would become another one of those lawyers who complain about ruthless billable hours and carry briefs to the courthouse without ever taking the stand and banging on the podium in hopeless advocacy. That I would do good but not outstanding work, be a pleasant colleague but not one that skips down the hallway in delight. I guess it is the ordinary fear of ordinary people: that we'd be lovely but unremarkable.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two weeks ago, for a random paper idea, I connected with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerome_A._Cohen">Jerome Cohen</a>, eighty-two years old, a professor at NYU, former clerks for two giant Supreme Court justices, Earl Warren and Felix Frankfurter, the first U.S. legal expert in Chinese law, in particular Chinese Criminal Procedures, and former teacher of the current Taiwanese president Ma Ying-jeou (who attended NYU as an LLM student in 1976). To my surprise, Cohen was beyond excitement in welcoming me to his office, decked out with photos of him shaking hands with historical men like Zhou Enlai, Ted Kennedy, and Henry Kissinger. In a husk voice, rough from age and experience, he said, Vietnam is a legal gem because despite its fascinating legal heritage from China, France, and the U.S., it remains untouched as the world has rushed to China. You, he pointed at me, can have a long, fulfilling legal career if you choose to. And there, that April afternoon, sitting in his office in Vanderbilt hall, I blinked and felt as if the world had zoomed out like on a Google Earth snapshot, out into the universe. Space was dark and studded with unknown galaxies. I felt special that one of those unknown galaxies could be mine, and yet ashamed that the benefit of the doubt had been voluntarily given solely based on my nationality. Hey, my old lawyering professor shrugged, your nationality could be used against you, might as well use it to your advantage. And yet the moral conflict kept me up at night. Because once you have worked so hard for something, the worst possible thing to happen, worst than rejection, is a judgment that your achievement is not on the merit. And yes, I know that part of what we've accomplished is how far we have traveled, not just where we end up. But regardless, I wonder if those who benefit from affirmative action have suffered from the same self-doubt, that ironically we have to go extra far and satisfy a higher burden.</div><div><br /></div><div>Later that week, I met Frank Upham, a professor on Asia's rule of law and resident expert on Japan at NYU. To my astonishment he revealed that he had traveled to Vietnam in 1969-1970 to report on the Vietnam War as a journalist for TIME magazine. His daughter now serves in the Peace Corps in Africa. I don't worry much about her, he mused, because I know youth and idealism can rise to the occasion. And I wonder, there and again, if I am young and idealistic enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>Alina Das, a clinical professor who runs the Immigration Rights Clinic at NYU, certainly is. The IRC, in which I hope to participate next year, represents immigrants at risk of deportation or detention due to past records. We could not possibly lose, she said, bright eyes, because that would be unbearable injustice. You know, it's okay to talk about where you come from and your background, because in this line of work much of the battle is to connect and gain trust from the clients. And just like that, my moral conflict was lifted, because the occasion legitimately called for a personal narrative.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was young, Jack London, together with Alexandre Dumas, was a favorite. His major work The Call of the Wild about a husky who found himself in the city and longed for free running in snow fields then captured my budding love for adventures, and unbeknownst to me, associated the wilderness with home. Because the hustle and bustle of New York demand full attention, I have not had a chance to feel homesick for a long time, until I remembered Buck the husky, and suddenly longed to listen to Hanoi Season Without Rain at midnight in New York. And there, as the melody struck, my unknown galaxy became wild and vivid. I felt young and crazy again, as if I were there up on the podium, banging my fist in front the judges, swimming hopelessly. And that, that was the call of the wild. I know then I must at least try to have this long, happy, fulfilling legal career that Cohen himself has lived. That I must never become an unhappy lawyer because Upham looked at me and said, kid, you have lived through some amazing things. That it would be heartbreaking to be ordinary, and I would sooner die from my own moral conflict than to live it.</div><div><br /></div><div>So much for random thoughts on an April night. And as always, it's time to prep for oral argument tomorrow...</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-68799098891888795812011-05-28T16:13:00.003-04:002011-05-29T09:20:11.569-04:00Fresh AirDuring my first weekend in Geneva, M and I went to pick strawberry at a small farm under the shadow of the Alps. My favorite color is of dominant display here: from dark shade of green grass and strawberry leaves, to the light green of vineyards at a distance, to the greenish gray of mountains far by the horizon. The Alps is what I'd envision Mount Olympus to look like: green and majestic, snow-tipped, perching atop bright halo of clouds. I see it every day, as I bike from M's cottage to the UN, up a giant hill that renders me breathless, down a smooth slope where the wind blows my hair messy, straight to the gate de Nations where a stern but good-humoured guard peers at my UN badge and ID through his sunglasses. From there, I ride under the twin rows of national flags, leading to les Palais des Nations, which houses many important UN alphabet soups such as UNDP, UNEF, OLA. The flagpoles tinker like bells under the wind, and every time I feel a rush of blood to my head, that of youth, dream, idealism, belief, as if nothing in the world has gotten to it, as if I was fresh off the plane to Manila in 1996, bright-eyed and awed, immediately enamored and committed to exploring the world at large.<div><br /></div><div>The International Law Commission, where I intern this summer, is an independent body consisting of 34 legal thinkers (law professors, diplomats, countries' legal advisors) from around the world. Established under the UN Charter Article 13(1), which charges the General Assembly with "encouraging the progressive development of international law and its codifications," ILC commissioners fly to Geneva for 10 weeks each summer to formulate cutting-edge legal issues. Past work includes the groundwork for the International Criminal Court (1997), the highly influential Article of State Responsibilities (2001), and the iconic Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (1969). Moreover, the ILC has a catalyst relationship with the International Court of Justice, where many ILC commissioners end their careers as judges.</div><div><br /></div><div>My first week at the ILC feels like summer 1996. Sitting at a long table equipped with multi-language translation headphones, together with 20-some interns from all over the world, I feel small, awed, crazed, and incredibly happy. The debate sometimes get quite technical, but the level of intellectual stimulation is off the roof. The tug of war in international law, as expected, often centers on balancing state rights and individual rights. In some countries, it is illegal for an individual to commit suicide; similarly, in international law, a state does not have the right to "die", for example, to voluntarily allow other states to invade its territory, because it has responsibilities as a sovereign to its people. As a result, states can get away with a lot of questionable conducts in the name of "security and public order," an oft-cited phrase found all over international law, especially Human Rights treaties which purport to protect fundamental rights of individuals against states.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the last day of 1L, my tort professor, Doug Kysar, a crazy left-wing environmentalist visiting professor from Yale, told us about a study where the subject is put into a room with some other people. As those people started taking off their clothes, the subjects became increasingly anxious and confused. Then, without fail, they ALL started to take off their clothes as well. And soon enough, everyone ended up naked, some without knowing why. "In your life, there will be many times when you have to operate with very little information. Hold on to your values. Don't do things just because your peers have done so, or because your mentor did it. They could very likely be wrong. And commit right now - write on your journal tonight! - to do some self-reflection ever so often. Otherwise, you might end up naked one day, without realizing it."</div><div><br /></div><div>So tonight, three weeks after that last tort class, quite tipsy from Geneva's lovely dessert wines and so full of strawberry, I finally get around to self-reflect. What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? What world do I want my children to grow up in? My Jacobson mentor, the CEO of a successful hedge fund and the person who pays for my legal education, advised that one only needs to know what one likes today, not tomorrow, because "the system is indefinitely tolerant to those who work hard, and there are indefinite opportunity to reinvent yourself." Perhaps so... perhaps if one is smart enough not to fall through the systematic cracks. Perhaps if one is driven enough to strive for reinvention. Is that what I want? What about a picket fence, full-stocked kitchen, completed with happy, well-fed children and dogs? Will that be enough? Is it ever not enough?</div><div><br /></div><div>The room I sublet from M is technically the whole attic of her cottage, with slanted ceiling and a lovely skylight that opens out to a blanket of stars. Outside, neighbors are clinking glasses and babbling French. The world is so vast, and amazing, and humbling, with pockets of sunshine everywhere, if one is wide-eyed enough to see them. So in honor of Professor Kysar, young, crazy and so wise, I want to make a commitment tonight. That I shall work on something meaningful and progressive to the world at large, that I shall seek out intellectual stimulation, and resist as much as I can the fragility of desire, as comforting as it may be. That however elusive is "good faith," it must be sought and practiced with persistence, because I really, truly believe that the world is better with it. And yet, however tempting an opportunity is, that I shall remember life is more than that, perhaps meaning can be found by the picket fence with a well-fed and well-raised family, perhaps the lives we can influence and which will influence us need not be continents away, but just right here. </div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight, Mugg is back to Ithaca to attend the graduation of a good friend, who dreams to be a neurosurgeon. He calculated that assuming he makes it through medical school, it'll take $300K in debt and his 40th birthday until he starts making real money. In the mean time, he's sleeping in his car to save up on rent, and is graduating with a near perfect GPA. What do we do with these dreams and the crazy motivation they generate?! </div><div><br /></div><div>I guess we keep them. Make them our motivation, disillusion, whatever. And I guess I should enjoy that rush to the head while it lasts, a signal that hopes and dreams are still there, a signal of the young at heart.</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-61316197191949793532010-09-20T20:26:00.005-04:002010-09-21T08:23:46.676-04:00Mile 0.003 - Law School<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Lf3zqpwyS38D_-Iw2closorxS7SF9mdWPTcWNK7RHTHfgoWidD3xxQKzTZtlopqXaH7MquUXrH7e-ZJFx1AdOzfzNbcrm8NB0FaNYpGpYAOh878ag_Gq72N_sRtfwVI33iso/s1600/18530378.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Lf3zqpwyS38D_-Iw2closorxS7SF9mdWPTcWNK7RHTHfgoWidD3xxQKzTZtlopqXaH7MquUXrH7e-ZJFx1AdOzfzNbcrm8NB0FaNYpGpYAOh878ag_Gq72N_sRtfwVI33iso/s400/18530378.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519163115421665954" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.panoramio.com/photo/18530378"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Source</span></a></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Wooohoooo, law school! You know the thrill of bouncing on your tip toes at the start of the racing line? The adrenalin of your heart pumping itself, expanding and breathing for the winding road? The throb in your throat gulping down aching mouthful of hydrolites? And the pulsing muscles, dragging on, screaming "f$%! f%@*" while your brain tuned out in radio-like static? Well, that's kinda like law school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Third week of law school in West Village, and word, I've never exercised my brain this intensely in life! I LOVE classes. There we witnessed a show of masterminded manipulation - cases, legal rules, common sense, life experience, pulled apart and thrown together, weaved and clashed, balancing and enlightening. Every single day, I walked out of class feeling dazed, wowed, bright-eyed, as if the wisdom of logics has flown down from the nine marble columns of the Supreme Court through a line of black robes, leather brief cases, hornbooks and treatises, through the professors' carefully crafted lectures, dropped into 90 confusing souls that is Section 4 of Class 2013, condensed into intriguing and fascinating legal idiosyncrasies inside my head. Here, emotion is meek, irrelevant, illogical. A good heart that goes out to the honest, hard-working men is hardly enough. Yet cold logic alone does not make a great lawyer.... or does it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Mile 0.003. I had to stop tonight, closed the casebook, and took a long, purpose-less break (i.e., a whole season of America's Next Top Model). I had to remind myself not to get lost in law school, no matter how exciting the ride is. Because the race is long ahead, past law school, past Mile 26, past lofty amazing beautiful facts and reasoning... </div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-92185342765727528702010-06-28T12:58:00.004-04:002010-06-28T13:28:35.240-04:00Alas, HanoiI woke up everyday this week awed and confused, wondering if I were still in New York or already back in Hanoi. It didn't help that the transition was a wash: the McKinsey confirmation didn't arrive till the end of May, giving me just enough time to file a 2-week notice to NERA, pack up as much as many as I could of the apartment, and dash to the airport. Even the goodbye kiss was a rush. Supershuttle, for once, arrived early to our front door and was honking. Mugg squeezed my wrist till it hurt, and pushed me and the lone suitcase onto the van. The laden kiss lasted just a second; the sun was barely rising on Fifth Ave. And before I knew it, New York shrunk itself into a dot, retreating away from the cloud, as if a dream.<br /><br />Today, on a twice-delayed flight from Hochiminh City out to Hanoi, I once again felt such haze. The camera attached to the front of the plane projected the view ahead onto a large screen inside the cabin. Ten minutes from landing, the city of Hanoi suddenly emerged from a veil of fog, scrawling over brown sands and green hills. It looked like a magic fortress from Lord of the Ring, or Alamuth from Prince of Persia... How is that even possible? It struck me for a minute that home has become such a mysterious place. Perhaps cities aged twice as fast as dog years. That five years away has left me backward at least a decade...<br /><br />Living in Hanoi in summer of 2010 was a surreal experience. The irony is stark: while the internship submerged me entirely into the business culture of client, it at the same time isolated me completely from the hustle and bustle of Hanoi. I will have to explain at a later post, but suffices to say that homemade meals and motorbike rides are still rare commodities. Good thing West Lake is just a step away, and a morning after the rain is perfect for an early run.<br /><br />Till tomorrow, Hanoi!Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-44562541993968818342010-05-29T23:08:00.002-04:002010-05-29T23:57:39.213-04:00Fork in the roadThe weather in New York this year was indeed like a moody woman. Spring was unusually hot, the beginning of summer unusually cold and rainy. Much to my woe, the weather swing and the overkill of VACC have negated any effort to train for an early summer marathon, like I did last year. A fall marathon also seems out of the question, as law school looms in the horizon. I've always wanted to run Miami in January, but the crisp memory of training in the New York winter immediately deterred my faint spark of motivation. On a good note, I found out that the Hash Harriers have chapters in both Ho Chi Minh City and Ha Noi! For those of you who are not familiar, the Hashs proudly call themselves "a drinking group with a running problem." Their runs, often organized as a treasure hunt with cryptic marks on trees and whatnots, always end in clashing beer bottles at a local bar. A coworker has many times lobbied me to join, but I never went in New York, simply because I was not that much into drinking, let along drinking right after a run. The Hashs' operations in Viet Nam however seem very interesting. Since the cities are unsurprisingly too crowded and polluted, they often take runners out to the countryside, about an hour away by bus, where Hashers are free to roam on paddy fields under the flawless blue sky. I know instantly that I will absolutely love to join. For those of you in Ha Noi this summer, check out their website: http://www.hanoih3.com/ They meet every Sat at 2PM at the American Club on Hai Ba Trung Street.<div><br /></div><div>And yes, you heard me right, I will be spending summer 2010 in Ha Noi, where I left 9 years ago and last visited 5 years ago. An amazing opportunity somewhat fell into my lap a few weeks ago: I will be one of the first interns with <a href="http://www.mckinsey.com/">McKinsey & Company</a> in Ha Noi. I'm not quite sure what the project and the team will be like yet, but nonetheless can barely contain my excitement. Next week will be my last time (knock on wood!) analyzing crazy auction rate securities at NERA, and that alone is a reason to celebrate. The great summer internship is only dampened by two inconveniences: first, my family is in Ho Chi Minh City, so I would have to fly back almost every weekend to visit. My grandparents for sure would not be amused by me living and roaming Ha Noi alone, though the fact that I will be staying with a trusted friend's family, working for a trusted firm, and working with a friend whose family they have met, should provide enough security. Second, I sadly will have to leave Muggy alone in New York for 10 weeks, spanning over our move to a new apartment in Columbus Circle. We were both quite bumped about the long distance. Mugg was supportive, and I am extremely grateful for that. Depending on his job, he might be able to make a trip to visit China this summer, when either I will join him and his family, or he will drop by Viet Nam for a tour. Yuko was also interested in coming, so we're trying to work out a Japan - Viet Nam trip, which turns out to be quite tough since tickets all ran out so I couldn't book a stop over, and the internship won't leave much time for travel afterwards. Regardless, it is gonna be a over-the-top full summer. On the way back, I will land in New York on August 24; and law school orientation starts on Aug 25. Now, the books I've read all recommended settling in at least a week before school starts to get a feel of the land. I know that the summer schedule will leave me tired and jetlag for the first days of law school, but orientation goes on for a whole week, so hopefully by the time classes start I will have regained my energy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Talking about law school, the final decision is NYU School of Law, where I will be entering as a Mitchell Jacobson Law & Business scholar on full-tuition scholarship. That means I turned down the equally generous Darrow from Michigan, and the prospect of an UN externship at Columbia. I never expected to be in love with NYU (I live uptown and run in the park - the unmarked Columbia's territory, after all), but the wonderful professors who administer the Jacobson totally melted my heart. Not to mention the sparkling-eyed students whom I met at the Jacobson reception, whose enthusiasm for the greater good and positive experience at the law school <i>and</i> genuine happiness left me quite speechless. Since I insist on staying near Central Park - the center of calmness, Mugg and I decided to move down 10 blocks to Columbus Circle, where we both can take advantage of the express train that should get us to Washington Square and the World Trade Center in less than 20 minutes and half an hour, respectively. It has not yet dawned on me, but I get visibly more and more excited for law school each day. The only problem is that there is no way I could finish the summer reading load as planned, given the new internship which supposedly runs from 8AM - 7PM each day, excluding weekends. Reading however is a great excuse for lingering forever at Ha Noi's numerous, hole-in-the-wall coffee shops, where black drops of caffein drop at the slowest possible speed down to a glass shiny with condensed milk. Hmm, I can already imagine many hours wasted there, under the shade of a towering tree, consuming unhealthy amount of coffee, dosing in legal doctrines. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first book on the list is "Getting to Maybe", written by two law professors, who liken reasoning in exams as "forks in the roads." Given its ambiguity, the road to law presents confused and nervous law students with many 'forks', to which a good student should point out yet choose the most likely one to elaborate upon. As such, the law is the opposite of a definite answer. Instead of trying to get to a definite conclusion like yes or no, students should strive to "getting to maybe" - where 'maybe' with its flexibility and gray shade might be the best solution. This summer, to me, was like a fork in the road. I pondered for a long time if I should stay put at NERA, collect my half-year bonus, be happy with Mugg, train for a fall marathon. Or I could attempt to work for the first time at home, in a city that has changed so much that I will most definitely become a stranger both in work culture as well as habit. Ha Noi in my hazy memory was a dusty one, where I paddled my bicycle daily in sweat on a six-laned highway parallel to the train track, packed with trucks and motorbikes. And dust from used bookstores, where I spent many afternoon and entire breakfast budget on classic novels of knights and secret corridors in the Louvre. Ha Noi was a great city for childhood. How that I am grown, I wonder if there is a place for me there. Just in 10 days, I will get an answer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I made Mugg's favorite sha jia mien, a Chinese noodle dish that I learned from his mom, while he pored over a pile of CFA books. We had dinner together, fed each other sweet black cherries, and watched our favorite sitcom According to Jim. The daily routine seemed such treasure moments, now that my departure date is approaching. We often found ourselves looking at each other, repeating an assuring statement, "It is only 10 weeks, and we will speak everyday." 10 weeks indeed can go be very fast...</div><div><br /></div><div>The gypsy song returns to my head:</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>It's time to wake up</i></div><div><i>It's time to go</i></div><div><i>Hey little darling, pack your suitcase</i></div><div><i>I'm gonna find you another world...</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Indeed, it's time to wakeup. And to start packing.</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-12619710246859588052010-02-18T19:07:00.002-05:002010-05-29T23:00:35.705-04:00From 2009 to 2010<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh78E3HNtbv-m5GBJgS81FI7TUQNmiTEmJ568j4im3o61eDFZuIykDcwSETtRK3OipK5xOpZAPOklmtp4FTDl3DWj-SQjwBIdpQniwCoq6FO8DibwELsXETFxb2DTAYch9xer0/s1600-h/IMG_1106.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh78E3HNtbv-m5GBJgS81FI7TUQNmiTEmJ568j4im3o61eDFZuIykDcwSETtRK3OipK5xOpZAPOklmtp4FTDl3DWj-SQjwBIdpQniwCoq6FO8DibwELsXETFxb2DTAYch9xer0/s400/IMG_1106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439772589407687234" /></a><br /><div>Happy 2010! Would you believe it, it's another year already. Given the fact that the Lunar New Year was just last weekend, I had an excuse for not turning the apartment upside down and taking care of all my bills by January 1. The Vietnamese believe that all old business needs to be settled in the old year; else bad luck ensued. Needless to say, on February 14, Mugg and I were furiously doing laundry, folding clothes, casting checks, wiping everything spotless. One thing I could not do was sweeping, since it's believed that I might as well carelessly sweep "luck" out. We then decided to... vacuum instead. I'm not sure what the consensus stands on this one, but technically since no "dirt" left the house, we should be okay lol</div><div><br /></div><div>2010 promises to be an exciting year - Mugg has just started his new job downtown, I will be stepping a first toe into law school. Nonetheless, I was sad to see 2009 go. It has been somewhat of a watershed year for us. In the summer, Mugg and I moved in together after 16 months dating. It was my first attempt to cohabit with the not-so-neat sex, so I was of course terrified. I'm happy to report that the arrangement has worked really well so far. Being home and cooking for two has in fact become my most loved and peaceful moments.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasKqFyDoxf__gn0G6mF14GbEqWUOOdv0qXz3TvBktdCwtFB2ju7_cAbRpuZeAPbZk4oLZnjc1XerTeBhdmM2B5U88qpGasNoOc_ry7q67cEI50bvKWaYz2iyPbUZujbySHhgO/s1600-h/IMG_1111.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjasKqFyDoxf__gn0G6mF14GbEqWUOOdv0qXz3TvBktdCwtFB2ju7_cAbRpuZeAPbZk4oLZnjc1XerTeBhdmM2B5U88qpGasNoOc_ry7q67cEI50bvKWaYz2iyPbUZujbySHhgO/s400/IMG_1111.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439807266751688162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></span></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Last May, Yuko and I ran out first marathon in Ottawa - the start of a running addiction. I haven't planned for a marathon this year yet, but am aiming for a 4-hour finish (9 minute/mile average pace for 26.2 miles). Two weeks ago, I finished my second half-marathon in 1:55'' - a 15-minute improvement from my first attempt. Speed training really does wonder. Only if it's less painful!<br /><br />On the law school front, the latest news is that I'm in at Columbia, and have been awarded a full-tuition plus stipend scholarship (the Darrow) worth $150,000 from Michigan. UMich is flying me out to Ann Arbor during the last weekend of March for their Admitted Students' Weekend. I really look forward to the midwest's fresh air - certainly something that runs low in NYC.<br /><br />On the first day of New Year, I took a long, relaxed run in the Park and entered the apartment with wet and muddy shoes. Just then, it dawned on me that I had just "opened" the apartment for us! This ritual is called "<a href="http://www.thanhnien.com.vn/tetkysuu/Pages/200901/20090104175411.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">xông nhà</span></a>" where the first visitor of the year is deemed to influence one's fortune that entire year. For this reason, the first visitor is often picked carefully. She has to be born in a good year, do well for herself, have good character and sometimes even needs a good-sounding name to make the cut. Given that the choice was between me and Mugg, and Mugg was still sleeping, I guess that qualified me :D<br /><br />To "open" the kitchen for a year of good food and happy meal, and to celebrate Valentine's Day, allow me to introduce to you this amazing recipe for chocolate soufflé. As <span style="font-style: italic;">souffl</span>é means "puff up" in French, you can imagine already that this dessert involves the ariest, prettiest, fluffiest cloud of dark chocolate, sprinkled with powdered sugar or dark cocoa. The rising of the cake is due to whipped egg whites, which incorporated air. When baked, those air bubbles expanded and rose, showcasing the amazing lift of the cake. Having heard many horror stories on deflated souffles, I had a nervous vision of introducing my kitchen to the New Year with a disaster. But no worry, as the trick to success lies with the whipped egg whites (which I have learned the ins and outs of during the macaroon class), I will be sharing with you some tips to make this a fool-proof recipe.<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8f-yUvpd0FCXd8IGMJAh_J4lpvo1IbLrpjh7z05_rtsdg1hSG7xicKRoAMKtds09LpDnR314ffYAnVg7BxrkbiWbw1QW_qweaV-hs2ca3aFMXNj0tCWTUaHZrGl3mL-D4488/s1600-h/IMG_1102.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8f-yUvpd0FCXd8IGMJAh_J4lpvo1IbLrpjh7z05_rtsdg1hSG7xicKRoAMKtds09LpDnR314ffYAnVg7BxrkbiWbw1QW_qweaV-hs2ca3aFMXNj0tCWTUaHZrGl3mL-D4488/s400/IMG_1102.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439806735155304370" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px; " /></a></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;">Chocolate Soufflé</span></span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Adapted from <a href="http://eatmycakenow.blogspot.com/2009/09/les-mardis-avec-dorie-chili-spice.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">Eat My Cake Now</span></a>, in turn adapted from <a href="http://doriegreenspan.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3333FF;">Dori Greenspan</span></a>'s "Baking from My Home to Yours"</span></div><div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;">80 g (3/4 cup) of a good, dark chocolate, up to 70% cocoa</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"> - I used Lindt<br />90 g (1/2 cup) sugar</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"><br />70 ml (1/3 cup) milk at room temperature</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"><br />3 egg whites at room temperature</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"><br />A pinch of salt</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"><br />A pinch of cream of tatar<br />Butter (1 tbsp) + a dash of sugar and cocoa to coat the ramekins<br />Extra powder sugar or cocoa powder to sprinkle the tops</span><div><span style="font-style: italic; font-family:georgia;"><br /></span> <span>1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.</span> </div><div><span>2. Clean and pat dry 4 individual ramekins. Give their insides a thick coating of butter, then sprinkle them with sugar and cocoa.</span> </div><div><span>3. Break the chocolate into small pieces. Put the chocolate and the sugar in a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of simmering water; heat until the chocolate is melted. I simply put a ceramic bowl in the middle of a wide, slightly deep pan.</span> </div><div><span>4. Transfer the bowl to the counter and add the milk.</span> </div><div><span>5. In a deep, dry bowl, whip the egg whites with a pinch of salt and cream of tatar until soft peaks form.* Make sure that everything is dry, from your bowl to your whisk. Egg whites are super sensitive to moisture, and won't form peaks if exposed to so much as half a drop of water</span></div><div><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span>6. Stir one quarter of the whites into the chocolate to lighten it. Then use a rubber spatula to gently fold in the remaining whites.</span> </div><div><span>7. Bake for 20 minutes. You will see during this time that the souffle rise like crazy in the oven. Do NOT open the oven door to peek! If you must watch them (I know I did), just turn on the oven light and watch from outside. The tops will become crisp and might crack - it's not a bad thing.</span> </div><div><span>8. Remove the soufflé from the oven, sprinkle the top with powdered sugar or cocoa and serve immediately. Warning: these things fall fast, so get your camera ready if you want to snap pictures.</span> At any rate, they still taste heavenly after cooling down and losing some volume, so don't hesitate to save one for breakfast. </div><div><br /></div><div><span>Bon Appétit!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;"><br /></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;">*Tips on working with egg whites:</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><span>Egg whites are easiest to be separated from the yolks when the eggs are cold. In macaron recipes, the whites are whipped with granulated sugar to make meringue, a fluffy, glossy mixture. All bakers' attention: whipped egg whites absolutely hates moisture and fat. It won't fluff up if there's even a drop of water on your whisks - so towel dry everything before starting! Similarly, it won't fluff if there is oil.</span></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>I always have a hard time telling whether my whites is soft, medium or stiff peaking, until an ICE student shared a tip: the meringue is soft-peaked if it draws out a long 'tail', and the tail is pretty bendy when the whisk is tilted right and left. A medium peak means a shorter tail and much less bent. A stiff peak, it follows, means a curt tail if any; when lifting the whisk, the egg whites peaks can stand up on their own without any bent (see picture below, courtesy of <a href="http://zoebakes.com/?p=1092"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;">Joe's Bake</span></a>)</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBII1c8t8L9TuvgOnfDzI3HQ0CpLwIe8g0QmKDCEWrmI_AZukwR9grqZbsg1AWyJToYtnKD_ci5lp3KhGnXWuAw9Bc4ysWoJAlc02tXpEeKJxiQHraRLdvk5Y0dIPkvYa1fQo/s1600-h/chocolate-mousse-torte06.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBII1c8t8L9TuvgOnfDzI3HQ0CpLwIe8g0QmKDCEWrmI_AZukwR9grqZbsg1AWyJToYtnKD_ci5lp3KhGnXWuAw9Bc4ysWoJAlc02tXpEeKJxiQHraRLdvk5Y0dIPkvYa1fQo/s400/chocolate-mousse-torte06.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418530558345794066" border="0" /></a><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtiInGDMA0QVBH1JO1Yv5D-QUsmZUjuJjG9zOL0-eq6BasTjI9oDjIzzV3luCJOi-M0YgT6Hayp3m8IgaPSYGmV4HUKj933V1g_3T1cHW8wJyyUR1MjNRefrQFa9siQDbnfFT/s400/chocolate-mousse-torte09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418531100702778642" border="0" /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; font-size:small;">Soft peak and medium peak</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><br /></i></span></div></div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-40725614010787368042009-12-23T00:18:00.015-05:002009-12-23T15:55:43.033-05:00As French as it gets - Les Macarons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1CIsTfMVkzkC3u7FxFPaWjCaq_c5ZF5jK9eeqQ2nw9fG8XlRiOSD6h1RSoz6mhr3gTeWGRwINOQnd7LGHHvq0TZUr97vfB1V1sdUtgSEk1S7Yhm1jKP06fRud3KxHn16UeOC/s1600-h/6a00d8341c6a0853ef00e5506de5cc8834-800wi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 313px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1CIsTfMVkzkC3u7FxFPaWjCaq_c5ZF5jK9eeqQ2nw9fG8XlRiOSD6h1RSoz6mhr3gTeWGRwINOQnd7LGHHvq0TZUr97vfB1V1sdUtgSEk1S7Yhm1jKP06fRud3KxHn16UeOC/s400/6a00d8341c6a0853ef00e5506de5cc8834-800wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418298298092919122" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://ohjoy.blogs.com/my_weblog/2008/02/french-macarons.html">Oh Joy, Macarons!</a></span></span></div><br /><div>Ah, the French macarons - a baker's Everest. Those tiny little cookies, made from barely four ingredients, are deceptively cute. Their smooth top, and surrounding mysterious 'feet' in fact summon utmost care in technique and countless crossed fingers. The shells, as you might be able to guess just from looking at the picture, are extremely fragile, and absolutely hate moisture and uneven heat, unfortunately two things that bakers have minimal control over (the weather and the oven's temper). We try nonetheless, shoving off alarming heeds, sticky fingers and rising fear - for what a slap to the ego it is to be defeated by tiny little cookies! But we simply can't resist, we must whip those egg whites fluffy and grind our almond flour, because what a heavenly moment it is to bite into a perfect, colorful little macaron, through the soft, crunchy shell, into a chewy texture of meringue, into a bittersweet mocha ganache with a hint of orange zest. It's the one supreme moment of satisfaction and accomplishment that justifies the toil, frustration, and sweat (really, a lot of sweat!)</div><div><br /></div><div>My first attempt with the macarons came one bored weekend browsing <a href="http://www.tastespotting.com/">Tastespotting</a>, a haven for wanna-be cooks. I stumbled on the macarons queen, <a href="http://www.mytartelette.com/2009/02/i-heart-macarons.html">Tartelette</a>, a French pastry chef who made picture-perfect desserts. Not knowing any better, I decided to give it a try, pulsed my almond silvers in a blender (gasp!), hand-whipped my freshly cracked egg whites (double gasp!), and of course failed miserably. The products, which I didn't bother taking pictures of, didn't taste bad. In fact, they tasted a dream for the sweet-tooths. But alas, the macaron experience is at best half in taste; a heavenly moment is consumed by devouring by eyes first those beautiful creatures, only after that by taste their layers of textures and flavors. Without the oohs and aahs of admiration at their round dome and spreading feet, well, it's just not the same.</div><div><br /></div><div>My chance to conquer the macarons finally arrived. Upon learning about ICE's upcoming macaron class, I promptly signed up. It was AMAZING! If you are a serious amateur cook, or a beginner looking for more refined technique, I highly recommend their <a href="http://rec.iceculinary.com/">recreational courses</a>. My chef, the formidable <a href="http://www.iceculinary.com/alumni/people/people_58.shtml">Kathryn Gordon</a>, who left a Wall Street and consulting career to pursue her passion in pastry, is a the utmost enthusiastic and patient instructor, not to mention years of producing perfect macarons with the Rainbow Room and Le Cirque. With her help, my chef-partner Jaqulin (an art history professor at St. John) and I produced these little mocha-flavor caps, soon to be swooned over by classmates and pronounced "best and picture-perfect!" by Chef Gordon:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUuNDoNECeY2anUkEBTw9D3Nsj0wNJGhmIW9VOnlV-61Q8Xe8GqaAf39zVzmbiXivcjZhl6SXRhttXAUNbKT8WpTFEBGX4KUVa0ajw5NG5QJYgo6QuNE7OgDimqChAkVpPj-q/s1600-h/DSC00113.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmUuNDoNECeY2anUkEBTw9D3Nsj0wNJGhmIW9VOnlV-61Q8Xe8GqaAf39zVzmbiXivcjZhl6SXRhttXAUNbKT8WpTFEBGX4KUVa0ajw5NG5QJYgo6QuNE7OgDimqChAkVpPj-q/s400/DSC00113.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418309227317226578" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A closer look at the pretty domes and feet:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QOy-8Sfb6OPaBa3wyH1-LLAj_hHtcTz8_JFft0MFdcH7P8IPa-mJXMS1s23lxayYIbgXdJ-G6u3GLubtWfhLwU4frSb0lTiP8hvovarZ-wEVs8ZMFjajMG3ZT_TS5wmuovcy/s1600-h/DSC00114.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3QOy-8Sfb6OPaBa3wyH1-LLAj_hHtcTz8_JFft0MFdcH7P8IPa-mJXMS1s23lxayYIbgXdJ-G6u3GLubtWfhLwU4frSb0lTiP8hvovarZ-wEVs8ZMFjajMG3ZT_TS5wmuovcy/s400/DSC00114.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418309649304182114" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" /></a></div><div>Yummy! The best part of class is always the sharing at the end. Among the 12 participants, we made hundreds of those little sandwiches. My partner and I made two batches using two different recipes - one mocha-flavored shells hugging chocolate ganache fillings (above), and one ginger-flavored shells with caramel fleur de sel fillings. I freezed a dozen of those goodies awaiting Mugg's return, and will be bringing the rest to the office for a sugar-high Wednesday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Can I let you in a secret? I am actually not that crazy about eating macarons (!!!) I know, I know... I'm just more of a creme-caramel kinda girl. I am, however, crazy about making these handsome and tasty French desserts. So if you are ever in New York when I'm rapping those macaron pans, count on having a lot of them to bring home!</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-91467845453424520272009-12-21T23:50:00.009-05:002010-05-30T23:30:44.292-04:00I can feel it in my fingers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmx4sNX6r5dvCK-8ndMVl7cRD2eQYsfrNJopzYCuHOVYT6xR7sA0CX6HeP5zwez8fll5NlRsHpsVyD9DmQq8a0APyvN1yrguyCganxF806KwyPOd7VLGt8Bp3VG7MuweDFtS9/s1600-h/New-York_Christmas-PHOTOSHOT-510x286.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQmx4sNX6r5dvCK-8ndMVl7cRD2eQYsfrNJopzYCuHOVYT6xR7sA0CX6HeP5zwez8fll5NlRsHpsVyD9DmQq8a0APyvN1yrguyCganxF806KwyPOd7VLGt8Bp3VG7MuweDFtS9/s400/New-York_Christmas-PHOTOSHOT-510x286.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417930503510398770" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://travel.sky.com/inspiration/parties24hr/Worlds-Best-Christmas-Destinations?page=2">Sky Travel</a></i></div><div><br /></div>Wow, can you believe it, two days till Christmas! Unfortunately this year I didn't make it out of the city. The lack of vacation days, my cousins visiting and law school stress resulted in zero planning for the holiday. Given my blank 250-word essay for Yale, and the many scholarship essays in need of being written, I tried to convince myself that it would actually be a smart choice to stay in the city and get some work done. Wishful thinking, of course. It isn't easy with so many visitors dropping in and out of my apartment. I had a hard time saying no to traveling college students, who reminded me of my homeless self not so long ago. As a result, three teenagers now occupied my couch, gobbling up all the food in the fridge and talking "xi` tin" 9-X dialogues I'm too old to understand. Ah, youth.<div><br /></div><div>Last weekend, New York was stranded in a snow blizzard. Mugg was so extremely lucky to jump on a plane to Miami at dawn on Sat morning, as a heavy veil of snow crashed down on the trees in front of my windows that night. The said teenagers, who had never seen so much snow in their lives, got considerably excited, and we went out for a quick snow fight. The trees lining Columbus Avenue, leading all the way up west from Columbus Circle, have all been lit up. A few houses have adorned Christmas decorations; laurel wreaths with big red bows are everywhere. As the kids raced one another into snow piles, I wiggled my frozen gloved fingers, and sang to myself the favorite tune of Love Actually: "I can feel it in my fingers, I can feel it in my toes..."</div><div><br /></div><div>By the next morning, New York has been turned in a white, slushy spinster. Now I really regretted declining the open invitation from Mugg's parents to join them in Miami. Argh! This year, we decided to get Mugg's parents Christmas gifts together - an endeavor more rigorous than I was prepared for. After endless hours of brainstorming and debates, we finally settled for two awesome gifts - Shiseido's cream for mom (my go-to product for female giftees which has earned raved reviews from my mom, grandma and aunt), and an elegant <a href="http://www.baume-and-mercier.com/watch-collection/classima-executives/8734">two-time-zone watch</a> for dad. Mugg said they opened the gift today and were smiling a lot - which, seriously, is a huge expression practice for Cultural-Revolution-era Chinese lol</div><div><br /></div><div>And surprise surprise, I finally realize today that I am so consummated by law school admission! I guess the moment came when I looked at my Wish List for Christmas, and behold, they are ALL law school books. Books that I'm actually so looking forward to reading! It was a rather funny moment when Mugg - the more academia-cultivated of the two of us - refused to buy me any book and instead get me a gift certificate to <a href="http://newyork.citysearch.com/profile/41696899/new_york_ny/uptown_pilates.html">the best Pilates studio ever</a>. Yes, I am a proud <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pilates">Pilates</a> addict, ever since a few classes fix my back pain and prep my legs for distance runs. I guess Muggy knows me best :-)</div><div><br /></div><div>Back to law school obsession: make no mistake, everybody is obsessed. It's like being admitted into a cult-like, egocentric club where people half worship, half yearn to devour one another. Somehow the mindset reminded me of schooling in Vietnam - there are simply too few shining stars for an overcrowding class. Only this time, the language is one that I don't understand, the readings are a hundred times thicker, and the debt - no comment necessary on the debt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good news nonetheless: I received a super nice phone call for UPenn welcoming me to the class of 2013. The paper letter came today, accompanied by a thick, colorful viewbook tooting UPenn's great-looking professors and faculty. I like how nice it is, but wish they go green like UMich with an USB. Being unsentimental, I don't keep things for keeping things' sake. Even pretty viewbooks.</div><div><br /></div><div>More good news: I was invited today via email to apply for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clarence_Darrow">the Darrow</a>, UMich's most prestigious merit scholarship which provides up to full tuition AND a stipend. Wohooo! As excited as I am, I'm seriously overwhelmed with the essay ass-kicking to do in the next two weeks:</div><div>- 500-word Darrow scholarship essay for UMich</div><div>- 500-word Dean's scholarship essay for Cornell</div><div>- 500-word International Law essay for NYU</div><div>- 250-work (evil) free style rant for Yale apps </div><div><br /></div><div>Notwithstanding, I can't wait to go to my <a href="http://www.laduree.fr/public_en/historique/histoire_macaron.htm.plus.htm">macaron</a> class tomorrow at the <a href="http://www.iceculinary.com/">Institute of Culinary Educaton</a>! You see, those cute little sugar-heaven sandwiches have driven me crazy in the last month, after a miserable failed attempt that resulted in my bitter and eager for revenge zeal. We'll see how it turns out tomorrow. I have promised my mailman and <a href="http://tranggy.blogspot.com/2008/11/fatima.html">Fatima</a> some macarons goodness, so those cuties better turn out perfect!</div><div><br /></div><div>Time to sleep. Merry Christmas everyone :-) </div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-26202900139982256542009-12-10T13:35:00.008-05:002009-12-10T14:11:30.227-05:00NYU - CornellI love the first week of December! December 7 features me dragging home at 10pm drained and stressed - what can you do, when your boss is freaked out, it's your duty to also sweat - to find a big, very purple envelop hovering under Mugg's giant grin. "It says NYU", he did a little dance. I hungrily tore the envelop apart, then did a long ridiculous dance myself.<br /><br />In at NYU!<br /><br />What a great relief, since this means that I have an option to stay in the Big Apple, keep my perfect apartment, breathe Central Park air, and well, enroll at a <a href="http://www.top-law-schools.com/rankings.html">top-5</a> (US News ranking) law school in the nation! NYU is also <a href="http://grad-schools.usnews.rankingsandreviews.com/best-graduate-schools/top-law-schools/international-law">ranked 2nd</a> nationwide in International Law, which is a field I am interested in pursuing. Woohoo!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGaxZiJflvEZSlMz6bkJ2nzaIcWYCC3JqO7_Pobn2DhqESQngmb02hlhy9rnh0zLaCoR2i5ogIwWKQcFs3G-Q3XCzK4CvLFEHxAhrAJB80Y71QVLOqmFzUrXFlOZhojuj_Uuq/s1600-h/NYU.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGaxZiJflvEZSlMz6bkJ2nzaIcWYCC3JqO7_Pobn2DhqESQngmb02hlhy9rnh0zLaCoR2i5ogIwWKQcFs3G-Q3XCzK4CvLFEHxAhrAJB80Y71QVLOqmFzUrXFlOZhojuj_Uuq/s400/NYU.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413681846606666034" border="0" /></a><br />And today, my status checker changed to "Decision Rendered" at Cornell. The admission office was nice enough to tell me the decision on the phone - I'm in, and invited for the Dean's Scholarship! I have been scared multiple times by Mugg's endless snow storms tales from his undergrad years in Ithaca, but still am extremely happy. Cornell is a beautiful place, and has much to offer with its small class size and a liberal-arts-ish environment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQQSBD7kc3SyxBZyYUYwxZWsU9GflvPlIvrlYoYEsAzBES7hI2vaWyNEvBURw45UxdtdliZgndTiP66Z3-jS3rwZKcUxYPfAgeJYtIp5Rv-epUrxjMxFXcrvqm8GYTUqNGfTf/s1600-h/cornell_law_night.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQQSBD7kc3SyxBZyYUYwxZWsU9GflvPlIvrlYoYEsAzBES7hI2vaWyNEvBURw45UxdtdliZgndTiP66Z3-jS3rwZKcUxYPfAgeJYtIp5Rv-epUrxjMxFXcrvqm8GYTUqNGfTf/s400/cornell_law_night.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413684118644637554" border="0" /></a><br />Five down - still 10 more to go, including one visible elephant i.e. the Yale apps. I definitely plan to finish it before the holidays, before the flurry of visitors will keep me breathless. Where I end up next year will largely depend on where Mugg will be, so crossing fingers for us both!<br /><br />And on a non-law yet amazing note: a good friend of mine told me yesterday that she is pregnant! I can't even describe how happy I am, for I know that this baby will be in the best hands for all his/her life. My friend used an expression that I've never heard before, that she cannot wait to <span style="font-style: italic;">fall in love </span><span>with her child</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><span> Wow. I feel like we take for granted that we must love our family, yet know fully well that it sometimes is the hardest thing. But to be truly fall in love with your child, your mom, your dad, how amazing that must feel like.</span><span> I'm planning to stop by a baby store to get the expectant mom a present, and also a gift for the new-born son of my middle-school friend. She was the first to get married, and the first to have a kid, pioneering the 86-ers rite to adulthood. The new lives of my friends make me feel a bit more grown up, and definitely put my trivial stress on work and law school in perspective. Yes, it is a soft and gentle reminder - there are more important things in life.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />:-)<br /></span>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-2039059841606036452009-11-24T23:00:00.010-05:002009-12-09T23:31:46.788-05:00Reasons to give thanks<div>I felt bad dashing out of the office early on a busy Friday night, but gosh I was so glad that the hellish November weeks are over! Muggy and I are heading to Miami, where we will be spending Thanksgiving with his mom - an awesome cook and lovely lady whose cozy house and big, open kitchen I've come to love.</div><br /><div> </div>Miami still awes me with its sense of space. Every night, Mugg and I take a walk along the surburban neighborhood of Pembroke, whose concentric circles of houses interlaced into a sort of maze. We'd walk for hours, talk about our future, stop to observe a cute wandering cat, chase each other through the high neatly trimmed trees lining down the road. It feels funny to be in surburbia.<br /><br />On Thanksgiving night, we joined a party with another Chinese family at their house. The husband is an amazing cook. My eyes grew in bewilderment as he glided his big, iron chef knife across the cutboard, twirled home-grown vegetables into neat stacks and molded pearl-white buns. I sat with the parents, listening amorously to their tales of the early days in the US, while Mugg engaged in a Wii battle with the family's kids, a 6-year-old and a teenager. The Chinese lady nudged me with her elbow, "Your boyfriend is so playful!" Mugg's mom nodded, "He grew up a good kid." I suddenly felt warm from the inside out. It has been too long since I last rocked in a comfortable chair, listened to small talk, and stuffed my tummy with a delicious family dinner.<br /><br />The next day, we went to South Beach, where the warm sunlight and light breeze immediately knocked us into a long nap on the sand. I woke up dazed, staring straight into the immensely open sky above, and blanked out for a full minute before remembering that I was still on Earth. It's the oddest feeling to realize that - oh right, I'm human.<br /><br />At midnight, we went with Mugg's friend to catch the first show of Ninja Assassin - a bloody, anime-esque action saga that features very real six packs from, guess who, the girly Korean singer <a href="http://kpoprants.wordpress.com/2009/11/08/%E2%96%BA%E2%96%BAbi-rains-body-before-and-after-his-acting-gig-in-ninja-assassin/">Bi/Rain</a>. Albeit the (always) unnecessary Hollywood violence, I was pretty amused, especially when an Europol agent snidely commented that "This guy [Bi] looks more like he belongs to a boyband than in a ninja club" - right before being slashed in two, of course.<br /><br />At 3am, as the battles wore off the screen, we walked through the empty arches of the Miami mall and drove home. I rolled down the window, so the wind blew my hair into a mess and scattered Gun N' Roses "Take me down to paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty..." along the highway. The smell of the night was intoxicated.<br /><br />"Why is the sky blue?" I turned to Mugg, "Just imagine if it were some odd colors - like bad-cheese yellow."<br /><br />"It's the way molecules in the air reflecting light. It just happens to be in a spectrum that our eyes can see. And it just happens to be in the blue range of the spectrum."<br /><br />Seriously, it is but a stroke of random luck that the molecules float around in the right way, so that I get the mood-lifting joy each time I look at the sky?<br /><br />I took a deep breath and held tight to Mugg's hand, floored with gratitude. Oasis came on the radio. And I suddenly felt like I could live forever.Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-85402495078240655192009-11-18T14:15:00.004-05:002010-05-29T23:01:29.236-04:00All I want for Christmas...Seriously, all I want for this Christmas, and next year, and the next ten years to come, is a JR1.<br /><br />For 0L-wanna-be-1L, "JR1" has suddenly become the holy grail of our life-long quests. The famous "JR" is Josh Rubenstein, the <a href="http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/admissions/2009/09/08/hello-from-cambridge/">brand new</a> Dean of Admission at Harvard Law and a graduate of class of 2006. Being paid to research, I quickly found out that he had worked briefly on the Hill prior to HLS, and <a href="http://www.linkedin.com/pub/josh-rubenstein/8/643/550">joined Bain</a> for 3 years upon obtaining the JD. So this guy, in my guess, is probably in his early 30's. Is it not scary, that someone so young holds entirely in his hands the power to guide my career, life, and happiness?<br /><br />JR1 is the phone interview made by the Dean, a prequisite for a follow-up acceptance call (coined the "JR2"). While a JR1 doesn't guarantee a JR2, the absence of one decidedly leads to a rejection/waitlist. Words on the streets are about 1,000 applicants out of 7,000-8,000 files were offered a JR1. And of these 1,000, about 750-850 were admitted. Since late October, the <a href="http://www.top-law-schools.com/forums/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=85858">online 0L</a> have shrunken to a bunch of neurotic, nervous wrecks as the first JR1 trickled out. Based on last year's statistics, JR2 will start coming out the few days before Thanksgiving for those who have had their JR1.<br /><br />My endless wait, and the agony of each minute during such wait, has knotted my mind in a frenzy. Thanksgiving is coming in a few days. I'm hoping that the Miami sunshine and the delicious home-cooked meals of Muggy's mom will ease my sore disappointment. But oh I know it is gonna hurt, long and throbbing even after decisions have all rolled out next spring.<br /><br />To quickly summarize the season's yield so far:<br />- Acceptances: Duke (giant envelop), Georgetown (tiny envelop), UMichigan (a big package with an USB and hand-written note from the Dean complimenting my work at NERA)<br />- Schools who have rolled out acceptances but haven't made decisions on my file: UCLA, UVirginia, Berkeley<br />- Schools I still not complete: Northwestern (pending interview), Stanford (oh Dean Reese, will you ever fax my form?), Yale (if I ever muster enough wit to write the infamous <a href="http://blogs.law.yale.edu/blogs/admissions/archive/2008/01/23/the-250-word-albatross.aspx">250-words essay</a>)<br />- Endless wait: NYU, Columbia, BU, UPenn, Cornell, HarvardTranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-39433941749476413732009-11-03T22:07:00.004-05:002010-05-29T23:05:51.815-04:00Reading<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6syTQeqsD_egAVz3IABz0SY5SFId7tuSTa0CSScHl7moDyyB2dvW5Mrf0Whfhbnk45xGK28KlVklxA9UyEFEUZ9skw1qC055T_153c3OX5Dnd_Ce5y4vpxK1TqHQ2WXxeBsZ2/s1600-h/New+Year+2008+060.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6syTQeqsD_egAVz3IABz0SY5SFId7tuSTa0CSScHl7moDyyB2dvW5Mrf0Whfhbnk45xGK28KlVklxA9UyEFEUZ9skw1qC055T_153c3OX5Dnd_Ce5y4vpxK1TqHQ2WXxeBsZ2/s400/New+Year+2008+060.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401377037434258002" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>When I was a kid, I thrived at reading. I was that kid who picked the thickest book on the shelf, who pored through the classic novels (The Three Musketeers, Ivanhoe, Robinson Crusoe, White Fang etc) before hitting puberty. I pretty much spent all my allowances renting books at the many used bookstores around Hanoi. Do you remember those, with musty smell and stacks of uneven volumes protruding from their fading shelves? The novels I read were published in the early 20th century, on yellowish paper so thin that there were always holes on them, and bind together with thread. I would buy book covers and neatly wrapped them up to preserve their fragile spines. Books were my great friends; they were magical, joyous, and never failed to transport me to their magical worlds.<div><br /></div><div>In high school, I moved on to more serious subject matters: race (Mark Twain's books on Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn are a must for a New Orleans education), death (Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury - so far still the hardest book I've ever read), love (A Streetcar Named Desire, another Southern favorite). The literature influence of Ben Franklin High made me more somber, sadder, I guess a necessary rite of passage to teenage-hood and growing up. I did enjoy tremendously English classes, and absolutely loved creative writing classes where I got to relive the long lost dream of being a writer through silly poems and rambling prose. Sadly, it was probably the last time I read for the pure joy of reading.</div><div><br /></div><div>College was different - I was enamored with political science theories and disillusioned by economics promises, so subsequently I was devoted to Hobbes, Malanczuk, Waltz and half-hearted towards Hull, Scholes, Fama. Reading slowly drifted away from being whimsical and creative; it was the bread and butter of my liberal arts education - to dissect the hypothesis, spot the argument, question the data, propose alternatives. By senior year, I was necked deep in theses and reading for fun had sounded as ancient as the ice age.</div><div><br /></div><div>Post-college, I dwelled immediately into court documents, litigation trends and analyst reports breeze at NERA. My attempt to read fiction stumbled on a wall, as evident by the one year it took to finish Dostoyevsky's The Idiot (granted, The Idiot is next to The Sound and The Fury in the difficulty scale). I was horrified that I had forgotten how to read. But before I could do anything, there was the LSAT to study for. As I started subscribing to the Economists and the NewYorker in preparation for the test, surprisingly I found it - the lost joy of reading I had left behind years ago in Hanoi's old bookstores. Not from the monetary policy section of the Economists - please - but from the weekly beautiful Fiction of the New Yorker. It was both nostalgic and comforting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now that the threat/dream of law school is closing in, I know that this is my last chance to catch up on the forever growing pillars of literature. Once 1L falls on my head with its monstrous reading load, I will probably have to take another three years of refuge. So on top of the law reading list, the candidates for this summer are:</div><div>- Kurt Vonnegut. I always wanted to read him but somehow never got to. Shame!</div><div>- The brothers Karamazov. I bought it with the Idiot at a small cozy shop in East Village, but shy away from the time commitment.</div><div>- Milan Kundera. My favorite after Dumas. When I was in Prague, I read several of his books, including the infamous Unbearable Lightness of Being, but there are still many good ones to explore.</div><div>- A confederacy of Dunces. A gift from a high school friend, Kat. A Putlizer-winning satire on the beloved New Orleans life.</div><div><br /></div><div>I probably will get some of these books on audio, now that I decide to sign up for a second marathon in March. It will be nice to have a running company again :-)</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-70968222332216723312009-10-28T12:41:00.004-04:002009-10-28T13:14:04.754-04:00Non-sequiturLast weekend, I met up with Yuko for a 5 miles race to kick off the famous New York marathon in Central Park. The air was crisp and cold; the leaves have started turning colors. I haven't seen Yuko in a while - she was busy with the new job and I with applications. It was good to catch up - we talked about a friend's upcoming wedding, Stuyvesant Town and the East Village life I have not frequented since moving out. We of course talked about Yuko's love life and a recent disappointment. I tried to encourage her but knew that when one was waiting, any wait no matter no short was excruciating. We talked about the loneliness of the city - one easily got lost in such a big place. But it will be okay, we consoled each other, because we are young, and the night is young.<div><br /></div><div>The next day, on my way to lunch, I saw an old man collapsing on 5th Ave. He was old, wearing a beige jacket and a casket that reminded me of my grandfather. I immediately ran over and tried to help him up. But his legs were weak, so another passerby and I lay him down on the pavement. Another passerby called 911. We took off our coats and layered them on his panting chest to shield away the October wind. "I'm okay, I'm okay", he kept repeating in weak voice. He was waiting for the bus to go back to Brooklyn, he said, after getting a root canal done at the dentist. His wife had insisted that he brought the cellphone but he forgot, he shook his head regretfully. His wife was always right. He was eighty-five and was wearing a pace maker to support his heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>The lady who had called 911 kneeled down to keep him conversing, her hands holding his fragile fingers. I waited with her till the police and ambulance came, yet didn't know what else to do other than watching his gentle smiles and flock of white hair ruffling in the wind. A few minutes later, a firetruck arrived with medical workers and a load of equipment. Seeing that the old man was now in good hands, we gathered back our coats and slowly departed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ten minutes later, when I circled back to 5th Ave after getting lunch, the crew was gone. I hoped they had taken him to a hospital and that he was okay. They probably had called his wife, an old lady somewhere in Brooklyn, waiting at the lunch table for her husband. My chest gripped at the thought of her hurrying down the subway to come to him, her unsteady steps and white hair in the wind.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time I told Mugg the story, I was half in tears for no reason. Old people often have that effect on me and my easily teary eyes. They remind me of endurance and wisdom, at the same time fragility. And how strangely, as I thought of the old man, I was instantly thinking of speeding down the Lower Loop of Central Park towards the finish line, with golden leaves and spots of sunlight shining over my head. I often wonder, aside from the endorphin, why New Yorkers are so obsessed with the run. Now it is clear to me - the run is to commemorate the fleeting joy of youth, to hold it in your feet just a panting breath further, and to feel it expanding in your chest at the finish line.</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-38559582629691940732009-10-09T10:57:00.005-04:002010-05-29T23:01:51.472-04:00One toeOctober 2, 2009 - I am officially in law school! The first acceptance came today, while I was in California to visit Stanford. Duke did wonder to my mind with its 2 weeks turnaround decision. The JD/LLM looks quite good, including a 1L summer head start and a 2L seminar in HongKong or Geneva. The degree focuses on comparative and international law, with a language component. I'm still waiting on other schools (1 more application to go!) but it certainly feels great to have a fallback option. And even better to have a fallback option that is a top 10 law school in the US.<br /><br />I met Dean Hoye, Duke's Dean of Admission at the LSAC Forum in New York. The man is super nice, and said he remembered my name from the application pile. He was also quick to assure that after the 1L summer seminar, Duke will help place the JD/LLM students in organizations in Hong Kong and Switzerland. Sounds too good to be true, doesn't it? I've started to like Duke more and more after each encounter.<br /><br />The big question for the next 11 months of 0L is: to read or not to read? The 'gunner's route', as recommended on TLS, has comprised of a series of books - which I immediately obsessed over:<br /><br />1. Law School Confidential - done reading. a good overview of the time line for law school. The lag time is amazing. According to the book, to secure a judicial clerkship after graduation, I will need all materials ready at the end of 2L year. And to be competitive for the crucial 1L internship, I should be arriving on campus armed with a polished resume and 6 volumes of study aids. Good to know.<br /><br />2. Getting to Maybe - bought, but haven't touched yet. A must-read by everyone.<br /><br />3. Delaney's Legal Reasoning - bought, but haven't touched yet. Recommended as a good peek into 'thinking like a lawyer'.<br /><br />4. Planet Law School - hmm maybe?<br /><br />5. Commercial outlines - 6 volumes for all the common legal topics. I need to research more the edition and the price before getting them used off Craiglist's. Each book is huge (300 pages) and dense, but it would be a good idea to skim over the big picture of the law, given my limited knowledge of the system here.<br /><br />6. 'For-me' books: several that I want to read just because the topics are interesting<br />- Letters to a Young Lawyer by Alan Dershowitz (crim law prof at HLS, and defense attorney in the OJ Simpson trial)<br />- Law and Society in Vietnam by Mark Sidel (leading legal scholar on Vietnamese law, according to the coolest law prof I've met - Bill Alford at HLS)<br />- Raising the Bar: Legal Profession in East Asia by Bill Alford (Chinese legal prof at HLS)<br /><br />It will be a full summer!Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-26080559952337481402009-09-25T22:55:00.004-04:002009-10-25T13:51:33.581-04:00SmellI followed Mugg to Boston to visit schools today. The trip was long and tiring, especially after a long day of work. But Harvard Law School totally makes up for it. I started out visiting a Contract class - which ironically was cancelled. Luckily, another class took place in the same room, so I was fortunate to be able to sit in Torts, taught by Prof. <a href="http://www.law.harvard.edu/faculty/directory/index.html?id=29">Morton Horwitz</a>. I surprisingly enjoyed Torts and the personal stories that served as the backdrop for the cases. Today's lecture focused on negligence, and how the charge centered around the concept of foreseeability - basically how probably it is that an accident based on these particular circumstances could happen. The burden/ liability aspect of the lecture appealed to my economic background. And just in case this ever comes back in m future, the formula is B = PL where B = the financial burden that the defendant should take on, P = the probability of the accident happening, L = the liability incurred by the accident. So if B>PL, i.e. the burden to insure that prevention of the accident is greater than the $$ damages caused by the accident, and the defendant didn't take the preventive measures, he is NOT liable. Otherwise, he is liable if the burden is less than the liability.<div><br /></div><div>After the class, I met Shaud (ex-NERA coworker) and his friend, Charlotte, for lunch. We chatted for about 2 hours and took a tour around the law school. I never got to know Shaud very well at NERA, but we had a really good time. I love how chilled and down-to-earth both of them were, and love to listen to their experience in class and during their first summer. HLS law library is THE bomb. High ceiling, flooding light, wood panel, spotlessly clean, the smell of prestige and antique law books. I love it. I totally love it. I totally want to be here, more than I've ever wanted most things.<div><br /></div><div>Yi was equally impressed by HBS and kept talking about how Harvard is what the rave was about, and even more. Beyond the Asian dream, it promises an education more amazing and opportunities more that I ever fathom. As Bill Alford put it, my LSAT is "healthy" but my GPA is potentially trouble. Now Mugg and I just to put together polished, coherent applications to set off who we are, and hope for the best!</div></div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-42113687281306736372009-07-05T15:20:00.005-04:002010-05-29T23:05:34.210-04:00Summer updateThe past few months have been, no doubt, the busiest months I have had in the past two years in the city. After the marathon at the end of May, things were unraveling so quickly that I barely had time to catch a breath, let alone blogging. As a result, nothing has been written in a long while. But now that the sun has found its way back over the green foliage outside 70th street, and summer has made it bright albeit late appearance over the city, life has finally mellowed down. This morning, after a round of egg benedicts topped with salmon for breakfast, while waiting for a loaf of banana bread to brown in the oven, I suddenly found myself out of inspiration for the law school essays. What better to do, then, than blogging.<div><br /></div><div>After a near frantic experience in February, I took Mug's advice - the best yet - to sit in the Feb LSAT anyway and cancel the score, for the sake of a practice run. I reluctantly complied, though the thought of wasting $130 did not sit well with my third-world upbringing, especially on such a luxury, unnecessary concept as "a practice run." But in hindsight, that was probably the best decision I have made. When June rolled around, I was ten-fold more prepared, logic-wise and pressure-wise. </div><div><br /></div><div>The three weeks period of waiting for the score went by extremely quickly, mostly because it was packing time. Right before heading to Canada for the marathon, Mugg and I found the perfect apartment for our first attempt of cohabitation. Located on the second floor landing of a townhouse, the one-bedroom was two studios combined into one, featuring two bathrooms, two lofts, two doors and big bright windows looking out to the three-lined 70th street. Best yet, it is half a block to Central Park, half a block to the B and C train which drops us right at the door of NERA, and two blocks to the 1, 2, 3. The rent was well within our budget, so we were willing to sacrifice the fact that the kitchen was teeny, no dog allowed and no laundry in the building. I guess when it comes to housing in New York, you really can't have it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>The packing process was, at best, a pain. At worst, it cost us some heated arguments over what constituted as "functional" furniture (he: a table that works) and what is just plain ugly (me: a table that wobbles, has uneven legs and stained surface). We eventually made peace and compromised - the god-awful table had to go, but Mugg can keep three out of his four red, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">identical </span>t-shirts. I mean it, identical!</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to kind friends who came to help (Yuko, Luan, Binit, Denis), the moving was much less of a nightmare than I had dreaded. We picked up my stuffs first from Stuyvesant Oval, which only took up a third of the 10x10 UHaul, filled it up with half of Mugg's suitcases, went to pick up a coffee table, then unloaded the truck in front of the new nest. When Luan, Yuko and I moved the first load inside, Mugg drove Binit and Denis back to his apartment to pick up the more bulky items, i.e. bed, mattress, couch, two glass-top desks. We started out at 9am and were done moving furniture by 3pm, at which point Yuko and I carried our broomsticks around the city to clean up the apartments we had left behind. It was a bit emotional. I was excited for the next step of my relationship, but sad to leave my housemate of two years. We of course made a promise to run together every week, and hang out as much as we can.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a whole week of unpacking, organizing and cleaning, I have finally figured a way to make my tiny kitchen functional. The secret is rather simple - clean as you go. The magic organizing tool - sticky hooks which line neatly under my cabinet and along the wall, holding everything from the utensil rack to my slotted spoon. I even bought a kitchen cart with extra counter top, which has been unnecessary yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>On a peaceful Saturday - fourth of July - I finally made my way to the park, promptly took off my shoes and stretched out in Sheep's Meadow. The sun was bright, birds were chirping and the moving machines of Manhattan were spotted napping under shades, playing frisbees, making out on the green grass. The extra oxygen of the west side seems to make us human less antsy and more dreamy. I will never cease to miss the holes-in-the-wall of East Village, but now that I experience this, I wouldn't trade this neighborhood for anywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>As for the LSAT, I got the score that I want, the fruit of 6-month labor and two boxes of practice tests which were promptly given away. Life is falling neatly into places. And of course the road ahead is winding, but I know that it is the best road I yet to walk on - because Muggy is here, looking down at me when I wake up, turning off the light when I go to sleep. And calling out to me from the living room, where he has firmly planted a refuge on the couch, "Honey, is the banana bread ready yet??" </div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-36812445296713392392009-06-05T17:48:00.002-04:002009-06-11T00:03:36.460-04:00Hey I remember, when we used to sit...The fair young man with blond dreadlocks leaned over his guitar, striking a soft, sweet melody that I only knew too well:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey I remember... when we used to sit</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div><span style="font-style: italic;">In the government yard in Trenchtown</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><div><span style="font-style: italic;">Oba - obaserving the ypocrites</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span style="font-style: italic;">As they would mingle with the good people we meet</span><br /><br />On the front steps, two young girls were swaying in the delicious and smooth spring air of the Canadian capital. Next to them, Martin, a short and gleeful Canadian with perching Gucci glasses on a tanned slender nose, lazily scratched his purring cat. Inside, someone was barbequing sausages in the kitchen, from which the distinct fragrant of burnt grease tickled our senses.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Ottawa Backpackers' Inn, with its brightly paint walls, named beds and no-shoes-inside policy, was the exact peaceful refuge that I didn't expect to find in the Western hemisphere. Martin, the owner, set a hippy and relaxing model for his staffs, which in turn translated into an easy, charming mood for the hundreds of low-budget travelers passing by Ottawa every week. I met two men who had made the inn their semi-permanent stay; both were in "transition periods" to find a place in Ottawa. One man, a guy in his forties, had became so naturally integrated in the routine of the inn that he often offered his car to take everybody shopping, or his service to walk around with visitors who were clumsy with maps. The other, a younger man with deep-set eyes, seemed less happy here. I saw him hanging out in the lounge most of the days, browsing the internet with headphones on. He must have been quite lonely, as he scrutinized each new visitor as if looking for someone to converse. He told me that the dorm-like atmosphere of the inn was irritating, and that he had spent three months here and could not wait to move out. I was amazed that anyone could last that long at a place intended only as a rest stop for the restless.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ottawa is easily the prettiest Canadian city I have visited, much more serene and elegant than how Montreal or Quebec was in my memory. As always, the consulate trip was painless and fast, and had become standardized - from the long wait outside the fortress-like gate to the tiny waiting room to the 2-minute interview. While waiting for the visa, I made arrangement to work from a Mercer office in the financial part of town, and found myself surprisingly joyous to walk half an hour to work everyday along the famous Rideau Canal that curved through the city. Celine, the bubbly lady across the hall, raved about the skating break that everyone took most afternoon in the winter to skate down the canal and grab a hot chocolate from a booth on ice. The work life balance here is, wow.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the weekend rolled near, I grew increasingly anxious about the first marathon, knowing that I had only trained half as dedicated as recommended by the guidebook. On the other hand, my soleus muscle (the big muscle in the back of the lower leg) had healed from its last overtraining, and the inflammation surrounding my big left toe had also subdued. I consoled myself with a claim I had read somewhere, that an under-trained runner is (apparently) in better shape than an over-trained one. As it turned out, that statement is absolutely true.</div><div><br /></div><div>More about the actual race in the next post. But to make a long story short, I finished, in good time and injury free. My legs completely shut off for the next three days, but after a week I was happily racing Muggy up and down the East River with zero soreness. Yes, what they said was true, the last 10k (6 miles) were long, dusty and painful. No, they lied about the toenails - all 10 of mine came intact, none lost and no blister found. Pace bunnies were my savers. The cheering crowd was my wind. And Muggy waiting with hugs and kisses at the end of it all was touching and adorable.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the race, we celebrated by gulping down glasses of water and ordering giant portions of steak to replenish the torn muscles with protein. Sitting down was hard; it seemed our legs had done their work for the day and refused to bulge any further. But how relaxed the mind was, and how strangely warm and calm beating the heart... </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; line-height: 23px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My feet is my only carriage,<br />So Ive got to push on through.<br />But while Im gone, I mean:</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23px;">Everything is gonna be alright...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18px; font-style: italic; line-height: 23px;">Everything is gonna be alright...<br /></span><div><br /></div></div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-86889185306480154022009-05-04T12:17:00.006-04:002009-05-04T23:51:30.844-04:00Rain!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9RXxdpLqryIb3xpz9RgSqzWEnhfqcyqprhwVRJiItzpDpiIoMFno8YEIUg6u6bVMN85ULrNeppMuPeqJaNem0J2RXqzn33wF9FzO37MFTFxQo1yvO7HWj8MI0jiMvqpH7rfV/s1600-h/anonymous-gene-kelly-singing-in-the-rain-2400101.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9RXxdpLqryIb3xpz9RgSqzWEnhfqcyqprhwVRJiItzpDpiIoMFno8YEIUg6u6bVMN85ULrNeppMuPeqJaNem0J2RXqzn33wF9FzO37MFTFxQo1yvO7HWj8MI0jiMvqpH7rfV/s400/anonymous-gene-kelly-singing-in-the-rain-2400101.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332182411706370306" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I'm singing in the rain - Gene Kelly</span></div><div><br /></div>Last week, New York suddenly sparked light. Some wise organizers at the NYRR had decided to cancel the Moore Marathon due to the temperature approaching a dangerous 90 plus degree. Too excited for the sun and not as wise, I dash out in haste for the 7-mile stretch along the Hudson River, which very soon resulted in two scorching red shoulders that still ache under my shirt no matter how much aloe vera was applied. Apparently I've taken the majority of advices from the Suncreen song to heart, but ignore the foremost and most famous of them all:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Stretch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Travel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But trust me on the sunscreen."</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">As the burnt skin slowly peeled off, spring rain pushed the sun back into the clouds and spent hours drizzling puddles down on the sloppy pavements of Stuy-Town. Waking up on a gloomy Sunday, I was instantly grumpy-fied by the gray and indifferent sky outside of Muggy's blue curtains. I waited, but the rain refused to stop. Quite angrily I put on my sneakers and stormed out, unable to fight the running bug and the rather annoying beeping of MLB the evil video game. </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">As usual, the first three miles were hard. My fists and face were wet and cold, yet my back and thighs sweaty. Central Park felt like a deserted track, on which each footstep of runners was amplified off the cement and sent echoing along the big loop. The rain eased the heat off my back, and felt surprisingly refreshed on my steaming cheeks. Soon, my toes were soaked and wiggled uncomfortably in the muddy shoes. I ignored them and kept running. Half way down the second round on the big loop, I accidentally engaged in a race with another runner, a big guy in blue t-shirt. He didn't seem to move on very fast, so I thought I should just overtake him. Big mistake! Perhaps his long stride and relaxed shoulders gave off the wrong impression. I felt my legs quicken to fix the distance between us, yet unable to gain ground. It took me almost 2 miles, from 100th Street down to Columbus Circle to pass him. He, too, was indignant and sped up. I could hear his whizzing breathing along my side for at least half a mile before dropping off behind. At Columbus Circle, I gave up the temporary victory, stopped by the sidewalk and stretched out my shaky knees. Blue t-shirt guy happily zoomed by into the distance. Thank you for making the last two miles so fast!</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Leaving Central Park, I ran as fast as I could back to the cozy little apartment on 52nd Street, where I knew Mugg was waiting so we could go to dinner together. My heart was literarily flying as I hopped up the stairs, snapped open the door and jumped onto his arms, triggering long howls of protest as my wet and cold face snuggled tightly into his chest. He lifted my messy chin up and smiled down kindly, "You look pretty." </span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">And standing there with my puffing and huffing heart, throbbing calf muscles, growling stomach, I felt all of it at once - love, blessing, magic.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Sunday - 14 miles, 2 hours 20 mins.</span></div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-78830579720393275482009-04-25T14:39:00.004-04:002009-04-25T15:20:27.872-04:00April sun<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLWNICHsBXAvkqr4X-ymrQ0T87eJ9d3QhmDIfrF8eaC0jjplRquAwIr85Rvo2Xt_QQX_l40FT8lD-Grhk2z7UacrhL2QxkK7i0UuisWLKSEBllDIsMMawVDCg8YFe__-oYyBG/s1600-h/Hellshire+beach+036.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgLWNICHsBXAvkqr4X-ymrQ0T87eJ9d3QhmDIfrF8eaC0jjplRquAwIr85Rvo2Xt_QQX_l40FT8lD-Grhk2z7UacrhL2QxkK7i0UuisWLKSEBllDIsMMawVDCg8YFe__-oYyBG/s400/Hellshire+beach+036.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328711034964685714" /></a><br /><div><br /></div>The sun gotta be my most favorite thing in the word. Well, the most non-Muggy related favorite thing to be correct, because he has the same effect on me as the sun does: they both manage to make my cheeks pinker, my shoulders loose, the tightness in my calves relaxed, and my mood high all day long.<div><br /></div><div>After many months of long cold winter, the sun has finally returned to New York, perching ambiguously behind the shiny top of the G.E. building at first, but slowly sneaking out and beaming through the shaded windows behind my cube. Taking advantage of a slow Friday, I waited impatiently for the clock to strike 6, slipped on my running shoes and bolted out of the door before any watchful boss could catch up. The pavements of 6th avenue were flooded with people, particularly girls in colorful dresses showing off bare long thighs and freshly-painted toes peaking from open sandals. In Central Park, runners crowded the paved roads, snaking around lazy horses and tuk-tuk drivers. The cement glistened under the sun, and I felt my feet lighter, my calves excited, my thighs ready for a good work out.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the first two miles, the shin splints kicked in and it became quite unbearable to keep going. The gatorade fortunately helped, and by mile four the pain faded away. As the training goes on, I have started to feel more and more of my body. With every strike on the ground, I can feel now the vibration it sends upward through my legs which swing like a pendulum in the socket of my pelvis, and the twitching quad muscles striving to keep up. I can feel the pores on my face opening, releasing sweat, breathing, panting. It is as if the whole body aligns in its motivation to move forward and swallow the miles. There are, of course, times when I feel my body succumbing under fatigue, and falling out of alignment. My pelvis sit back, creating a kink between my lower body and the rest of the spine. I have attempted to fix my posture unsuccessfully, until taking a Healthy Running workshop with Julia Pak of Balanced Runner (www.balancedrunner.com). The exercises though simple worked like a charm. As she puts it, sometimes we unknowingly disalign our bodies, creating cross-motivation which impedes the overriding movement of running. Think of our arms and legs as pendulums, swinging from our hip and shoulder sockets. We want the pendulums to swing most efficiently. That means eliminate any unnecessary weights and movements by curling the arms up rather than down, tilting forward rather than backward, landing on the middle of your feet rather than the heels. I cannot wait to try out the new running form tomorrow!</div><div><br /></div><div>April sun is here. The city is warm and glowing, like a girl in love. </div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-41558101464199061542009-04-02T22:37:00.005-04:002009-05-04T22:11:43.342-04:00Cheer stories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIL2j8MPCbL4Bo02L9-pXGkmxZcF0rrcw2kJ_E3VgWA_CEOF7lWdxhKtJ20Pg36Doh-0IzdIEYTkpnnCfsvy9l15xF1DT5IKW9SoQk3Bwjln3oo2f43q5jXCTg-gCJesPoGFf/s1600-h/lb4vy3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIL2j8MPCbL4Bo02L9-pXGkmxZcF0rrcw2kJ_E3VgWA_CEOF7lWdxhKtJ20Pg36Doh-0IzdIEYTkpnnCfsvy9l15xF1DT5IKW9SoQk3Bwjln3oo2f43q5jXCTg-gCJesPoGFf/s400/lb4vy3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332156530880009234" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Simply Loving, </span><a href="http://www.simplybloomphotography.com/">SimplyBloom Photography</a></div><div><br /></div>I have recently found my fix for red-eyed days at work, and a very cheesy one at that - the Wedding and Celebration section of the New York Times. It started innocently. I was browsing the 'Bates Alumni in the News' bulletin one day, and tumbled on an article of a Batesie girl who proclaimed herself a free spirit, left her college love to explore the world, came back years later and eventually got married to the high school sweetheart. Finding myself surprisingly happy at her tale, I frequented the section a few days later to read about an oldies couple who got married for the second time after they had divorced over growing apart. From then on, I make a point to visit the Happy Page once a week. Marriages of all types, between all sorts of people, were reported. Many have met online. Many have broken up multiple times. Many have been threatened with break-ups and succumbed. Those stories never fail to delight me with their sweet endings. It is a comfort, after all, to know that romance is alive, out there, achievable to normal people of all sizes and shapes.<div><br /></div><div>I turned twenty-three year-old a few weeks ago, on a crisp and sunny Wednesday. Throughout my childhood birthdays were never big deals, but since moving to New York they have become better and better each year. I suspect it has to do with the increasing appreciation of little things that matures with age, particularly the freedom of being adult, exemplified by everything that New York has to offer. Of course, having Muggy and Yuko with me here are like having birthday presents everyday, 365 days a year.</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-42309180989338955062009-03-19T14:03:00.004-04:002010-05-29T23:06:35.462-04:00Short Route - 4 MilesAlbeit short, the 4-mile loop from Stuy-Town to midtown east is my favorite route. Past the UN, there is a small steep hill to climb, followed by a rewarding downhill stretch. I love that the route is easily adjusted, using the rule of thumb that about 18 New York streets make up 1 mile, and an avenue length-wise is about 3 streets. The real kick of the run, however, is the midway stop I always make at Mugg's to grab a gulf of water, drop off a sweaty layer, or most of the time solely and happily just to steal a kiss.<br /><br /><iframe marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=5+Stuyvesant+Oval,+New+York,+NY+10009&daddr=E+52nd+St+to:40.731779,-73.978972&hl=en&geocode=%3BFQTjbQIdj1mX-w%3B&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=2&sz=15&via=1&dirflg=w&sll=40.735551,-73.975196&sspn=0.023153,0.038624&ie=UTF8&s=AARTsJpGESoG6HRiXZjjHSfJkiOSVcz6Gg&ll=40.743876,-73.971205&spn=0.029263,0.030041&z=14&output=embed" frameborder="0" height="450" scrolling="no" width="350"></iframe><br /><small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=embed&saddr=5+Stuyvesant+Oval,+New+York,+NY+10009&daddr=E+52nd+St+to:40.731779,-73.978972&hl=en&geocode=%3BFQTjbQIdj1mX-w%3B&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=2&sz=15&via=1&dirflg=w&sll=40.735551,-73.975196&sspn=0.023153,0.038624&ie=UTF8&ll=40.743876,-73.971205&spn=0.029263,0.030041&z=14" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 255); text-align: left;">View Larger Map</a></small>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-29682671210396212252009-03-18T00:46:00.002-04:002009-03-18T00:51:22.153-04:00Morning Run - Medium Route<div>According to the training calendar, I'm due to run 6 miles tomorrow morning. Luckily the route to Brooklyn Bridge roundtrip provides just the mileage plus the great view of East River. In the earlier weeks, when the medium route reaches only 5 miles, I usually run one-way to the bridge, cross it to Brooklyn and return, then catch the subway back home.</div><div><br /></div><iframe width="640" height="480" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=5+Stuyvesant+Oval,+New+York,+NY+10009&daddr=1st+Ave+to:Avenue+C%2FLoisada+Ave+to:Samuel+Dickstein+Plaza+to:Montgomery+St+to:South+St+to:South+St+to:FDR+Dr%2FFDR+Dr+W+Ln%2FE+River+Dr+to:E+Houston+St+to:40.731844,-73.978972&hl=en&geocode=%3BFf6CbQId1h6X-w%3BFfx1bQIdaDeX-w%3BFQRBbQId1hSX-w%3BFSIybQId6hSX-w%3BFRMubQIdivSW-w%3BFVQrbQIdYeGW-w%3BFRpQbQIdaDqX-w%3BFRFebQIdixGX-w%3B&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=9&sz=15&via=1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8&rtol=0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8&dirflg=w&sll=40.730739,-73.978157&sspn=0.018342,0.038452&ie=UTF8&s=AARTsJqnLsMDiDF1z-IPaBD2kW2dsLQGiA&ll=40.720331,-73.983822&spn=0.031225,0.054932&z=14&output=embed"></iframe><div><br /><small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=embed&saddr=5+Stuyvesant+Oval,+New+York,+NY+10009&daddr=1st+Ave+to:Avenue+C%2FLoisada+Ave+to:Samuel+Dickstein+Plaza+to:Montgomery+St+to:South+St+to:South+St+to:FDR+Dr%2FFDR+Dr+W+Ln%2FE+River+Dr+to:E+Houston+St+to:40.731844,-73.978972&hl=en&geocode=%3BFf6CbQId1h6X-w%3BFfx1bQIdaDeX-w%3BFQRBbQId1hSX-w%3BFSIybQId6hSX-w%3BFRMubQIdivSW-w%3BFVQrbQIdYeGW-w%3BFRpQbQIdaDqX-w%3BFRFebQIdixGX-w%3B&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=9&sz=15&via=1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8&rtol=0,1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8&dirflg=w&sll=40.730739,-73.978157&sspn=0.018342,0.038452&ie=UTF8&ll=40.720331,-73.983822&spn=0.031225,0.054932&z=14" style="color:#0000FF;text-align:left">View Larger Map</a></small></div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-77939460593520686902009-03-10T15:25:00.006-04:002010-05-29T23:02:44.550-04:00Morning Rush<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRdY74dTNGB86KLynI3PubzFO17wHxcSRwAhqAXMOYXv6va02mqCYsB7bY7fPBWmNqTULs_99qqsMkN0beoIzlT8Zxwv1ZEiVHK6Mg0WNOtSJ3_6rhaQBz9uAUUDjJ236C-Of/s1600-h/window.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRdY74dTNGB86KLynI3PubzFO17wHxcSRwAhqAXMOYXv6va02mqCYsB7bY7fPBWmNqTULs_99qqsMkN0beoIzlT8Zxwv1ZEiVHK6Mg0WNOtSJ3_6rhaQBz9uAUUDjJ236C-Of/s400/window.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311644396023763090" border="0" /></a><br />As we dreaded, the morning rush before the client meeting at 2pm was chaos. Luckily, Asian Charm and I had spent considerable time in the office last weekend to reorganize our files and line up our macro, so this morning we cranked out numbers as smoothly as a pasta machine. As true proteges of industrialism, we exemplified the conveyor belt concept in damages calculation: each inflation series was born from Alex's SAS program, then looped into the fancy equity cushion model handled by Steve B (justly labeled the most efficient man in the office), before it was plugged twice into the monster that is our damages models, which Asian Charm and I ran parallel to check each other. Each number was then touched up prettily with footnotes, heading, colorful graphs and placed in a clean-and-clear (conceptually) exhibit, before being sent off to the VPs.<br /><br />From there, the chaos began. D.H., despite her pleasantness to work with personally, was a tough VP to please. Nothing escaped her mind. Amid the hundreds of analysis and files we produced, she could always be counted on to remember a remote, barely related point from a light year ago that contradicted some assumptions we had made. Each exhibit that went through her hand came back beaten, naked, shivering, weak, begging to be strengthened. We would furiously snatch up the weakling, remodeling and reproducing while our Seamless orders turned cold, until all little loopholes were sealed, each comma pored over. Only then off the exhibits went to counsel.<br /><br />Today, at 1:30pm, burried in piles of print-outs, I could not help laughing when I saw Alex sprinting down the hallway, a stack of binders spilling over his arms. We hurriedly shuffled the exhibits in order, snapped them into each binder, attached a good few inches of backups and stuffed them into Asian Charm's brief case. As he and Esther rushed out to client's office (luckily quite close by in Times Square), Alex and I sunk back into our chair and heave a relaxing breath. It was finally my favorite time of the day. The morning rush was over and calmness had returned to my cube.<br /><br />I wonder if I will miss this when I leave the world of consulting - the endless excel sheets, tell-tale price series, damages calculation that makes and breaks corporations, and the people like us behind the scene, our eyes and our backs getting worse from staring and hunching in front of the computer. Not that going to law school and becoming an attorney would improve my eyes and back, but I stubbornly hang on to the faith that the law will have an answer to the mystery of this system. Mugg has insisted that the green bills will make the world go round, evil or good. I guess the competition is on.<br /><br />Before the calmness could settle, D.H's emails peppered up my inbox - more emergency damages calculation needed! More hours billed, paychecks deposited, people going to work. Indeed, the world goes round.Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21639407.post-58225342171744229972009-02-21T20:30:00.008-05:002010-05-29T23:06:35.464-04:00Peaceful day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuFKeuwR4brhOCdUhOmJ0kn8Rq4ms6q4Txlt9xKAhAtpNWBk0bDxRiZt2PIOESRSTfGiR3y_q1sSKgxCTY9jRwKqytVF7R4gBR1OelIl6K70mGvQW46PPndkCfKNjcAVgmVXH/s1600-h/ce8f74_11.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuFKeuwR4brhOCdUhOmJ0kn8Rq4ms6q4Txlt9xKAhAtpNWBk0bDxRiZt2PIOESRSTfGiR3y_q1sSKgxCTY9jRwKqytVF7R4gBR1OelIl6K70mGvQW46PPndkCfKNjcAVgmVXH/s400/ce8f74_11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305849523135776354" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>The crisp New York morning was bitingly cold. 28 degree - said the temperature billboard at one brownstone corner in Midtown East. Random patches of sunshine scattered on Fifth Avenue, polished shinny store banners perching on top of the impeccable glass windows of Abercrombie, Gucci, Apple, Tiffany. Few passerbys wandered happily along the cobblestones surrounding Central Park, alongside tourists in decorative carriages, whose eyes opened wide with excitement like those of children. Unlike the passengers whom they carried, the horses decked up with bright red pompom meekly clucked their steel shoes at the driver's nudge, their heads hanging low, their jaws sluggishly grinding some leftover straws. It was a normal lazy New York sunday.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The cold refreshing air stung my bare lower calf as I jogged hurriedly towards the park. "Hitch" playing on TNT, and Mug's warm embrace, had - like always - kept me at the cozy apartment longer than expected. The timing however worked out perfectly. Just like me, Yuko was often running late. As an implied code, we had learnt to show up 15 minutes later than the agreed time.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I reached the park entrance, Yuko emerged from the nearby subway station, shivering slightly. We had layered up with long-sleeved thermal shirts and fleece jackets, but none were wind-proof. Since our muscles were already stiff, we decided to skip the traditional stretching warm-up at a park bench to prevent muscle tearing. Instead, we jogged slowly for the first mile and exchanged small talks. As I now spent three to four days a week at Muggy's, I didn't get to see Yuko as often, and was glad to catch up on our weekly long run. Her boss had warned all employees of the company's unstable financial situation; a mutual friend had just been laid off; another mutual friend was eight-month pregnant. We agreed to call the first friend to express consolation, and wondered if the second was planning to get married to her long-term boyfriend. Soon, the talk trailed off as we needed to concentrate on our own breathing. While the cool air swept off sweat quickly and prevented us from steaming, its dryness made breathing quite difficult. Not many runners or bikers ventured out today, allowing us ample room to pace ourselves. I counted the usual marks - a sign East 90th street, an entrance to the Jackie Kennedy trail that circumnavigated the Reservoir, the steep curve leading to the west side. After two miles, I started to feel the tightening of my inner thighs, the mild ache in my left rib, the soothing numbness of my toes. I could feel my calf muscles quenching at each landing, and the balls of my feet striking the hard cement in monotone beats - one... two... one... two - like the counting of a ballet exercise. The endorphin instantly kicked in. My mind suddenly went blank, focusing on nothing but the faint smoke of my breath and the winding miles ahead.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the fifth mile, I reached for the ipod shuffle and turned on "Atlas Shrugged". Beating my expectation, audio books had turned out to be a great blessing. Much better than music, they distracted me with the narrator's warm voice and the novel's intriguing plot. I had picked "Atlas Shrugged", partly thanks to Mugg's enthusiastic recommendation, partly due to its 60-hour length, which I figured would last me till marathon day. As I was engrossed in the Taggart's railroad empire, Columbus Circle soon appeared, marking the final curve toward Sixth Avenue where we closed the six-mile circumference of Central Park for just under an hour. Though the time was short of spectacular, I felt a sense of relief that we could still run six miles with relative ease even after a two-month hiatus. I made a mental note of my 12-mile inventory this week, and projected a 15-mile goal next week.</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked slowly to our favorite Egg Benedict restaurant (whose real name Mugg and I never bothered to learn) on Second Ave for a much-deserved hearty brunch. Amid good food and lively conversation, Mugg reached for my hand under the table and gave it a slight squeeze. Today was the first day of our second year together. My heart felt warm. It was a peaceful New York sunday. </div><div><br /></div><div>(picture courtesy of www.beckermanphoto.com)</div>Tranggyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15450120434295617851noreply@blogger.com0