In a few days I will board a Singapore Airlines A380 aircraft in economy class.

Image by Rolf Wallner.

The plane will take-off from Sydney in the afternoon and will arrive in Singapore eight and a half hours later in the evening (SGT).

I'll have about four hours to chill in Singapore's Changi airport before the plane takes-off again, bound for Beijing, China.

Six and a half hours later, I will arrive in Beijing. It will be Springtime (instead of Autumn) and temperatures should be between one and eleven degrees Celsius (or between thirty-four and fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit).

For the next month, I will explore a few cities on the Chinese mainland, as well as Hong Kong and then Macau. All this will be done using land transportation (buses and trains).

Finally, I get to experience Beijing, Xi'an, Shanghai, Xitang, Guilin, Hong Kong (for the second time) and Macau. Instead of getting impressions from the internet and from what other people say, I will experience these cities first-hand.

My current impressions of each city:

Beijing - huge spaces and huge buildings and monuments, grand imperial architecture, dusty, dirty, lots of homeless and poor people, heavily polluted so that I can't see buildings 200 metres away, Chinese ethnic diversity (Han-Chinese from different areas and minority groups like Hui, Manchurian, Mongolian, Korean etc.), rudeness and public pushing-in and shoving.

Xi'an - same as Beijing, but with more Central Asian (Islamic) influence in architecture, restaurants and people.

Shanghai - same as Beijing, but with heavy Western influence in architecture, shops, restaurants, bars and people.

Xitang - pretty white and grey houses that sit on the river bed, with stone bridges crisscrossing the small towns, giving a feeling of being in a Chinese movie.

Guilin - beautiful karst mountains rising out of the Yangzi river, blue skies and green agricultural fields.

Hong Kong - strong pollution smell from vehicles (should now be a pleasant smell after trekking through China's construction frenzy), incredibly tall and thin buildings with bamboo scaffolding, incredibly clean (after comparing with China), great food, great shops, completely modern cityscape, orderly pedestrians and vehicles that obey laws similar to what I'm used to in Australia, dripping air-conditioners, business people and people from all over the world (cosmopolitan atmosphere).

Macau - glittering casinos littering the cityscape, many beggars, many ugly and gigantic buildings built quickly as grand gestures, nice Portuguese-influenced area built to impress (completely different to what most of the area looks like). Quite orderly, like Hong Kong.

These are just my impression based on what I've read and what I've heard from people that have been. I won't know how close or how far off the mark I'll be until I experience it myself.

I have been thinking about this trip to China, Hong Kong and Macau for a long time. I would by lying if I said I didn't put in a lot of hopes for this trip - I expect a lot out of it (culture shock will be great - anything that jolts me out of my comfort zone and makes me see things in a new light).

I'm not sure when I will (or even can) blog again, but this should explain my temporary absence that would start in a few days time.

再见, Xangans

I was rummaging through a bag tucked in my mum's closet, looking for my passport, when I saw a slender box that contained my Bachelor of Business plaque. I picked up the dusty white box, opened it, and time stood still for that moment as I mentally went back to my university years. I then caught sight of something that was so shameful to me: my university transcript.

The university transcript was kept in an old A4 envelope inside the box. I opened the envelope and pulled it out, still freshly inked - rarely seen, let alone touched, since its birth from a printer located in some warehouse. I looked over my marks and saw the shameful three Absent Fails for my very first semester and then the two additional Fails further on in my university life. I winced like I normally would when I thought about my marks. Then I caught sight of my other marks: one High Distinction, three Distinctions and five Credits, and, for that moment, I considered these better marks. My perception changed, from outright university failure to pockets of university success.

It was absolutely forbidden for me for all these years to think of my university marks, and how nice it was to have come to this point where I forgave myself for those failures. I mentally patted myself on the back.

I now have the plaque next to my computer, with its sparkling clear plastic frame and gold plaque, my name etched in black ink along with my degree title. I did try very hard, at times, during my university years, and I did eventually receive my degree - blood (from arguments with John), sweat (from all the rushing to finish work and to get to class) and tears (from persevering after failure). I didn't just fail, I did good, too.

A long time ago, about two-thirds of a lifetime ago, I was nine and on my backyard steps pretending a Sony Walkman cassette player was a posh car that I owned. Some other device, an electronic Chinese-English dictionary belonging to my mother, was another posh car (not as posh as mine, though) being driven by someone else. I'd dream of myself driving and parking smartly and efficiently. I'd imagine myself indicating, turning and driving safely, but impressively.

I remember sunny days and slightly unkempt grass in my backyard. There was always my dad's vegetable patch at the back of our house. My parents were always and forever toiling away at the sewing machines - my parents' only resource for making money to keep a family of five afloat since their arrival in Australia as a married couple in their late 20s. My parents only stopped to cook, eat, go to the bathroom and sleep - oh, they also stopped to feed the many pets that we, the children, apparently loved.

I remember swinging on a metallic rectangular prism frame (it might of once held a flat wooden block on top to make an ugly table) that was left on the grass of our backyard. I did flips on one side of the prism. I also stood on the bottom frame and raised my arms towards the sky and pretended I was an Olympic gymnast. I was also a gymnast that excelled at hopping on each step of our orange-coloured tiled backyard steps that led up to the back door. I would always turn towards an adoring crowd after each routine.

My dad would make fortnightly, sometimes weekly, trips to the city in our van, which was crammed full of hanging garments that both he and my mum had toiled over for endless nights. There was never any time to waste: the van's engine was usually left running as my parents fussed over the final details of each garment - steam cleaning each garment on the spot, cutting off loose strands of string, and making sure each crevice of the garment looked near identical to the instructions. My parents would quickly, but carefully, hang them all (sometimes they made several trips) inside the van (onto metal rungs my dad had installed) and then my dad shut the van door and he would smoke a cigarette before he left for the city. I would hear all these sounds and would wait til the commotion and fussing was over before I asked my parents if I could join in on my dad's trip. I'd get excited because it would mean I could hop into the van along with dad and I would be treated to the sights and delights of the world outside.

I remember watching familiar houses (from previous trips) go by and I'd imagine that one day our family would own such a respectable house. I'd always get happy when we would approach McDonald's on our drives. I loved Happy Meals. I didn't realise until now how selfish it was of me, but my dad would always turn into McDonald's and order me a Happy Meal on our way to the city, even if he was in a rush. I'd devour my meal whilst my dad sped and darted through traffic like a madman.

Once at the garment shop, my dad would bring out a few metal poles from the van and he would quickly assemble a stand for a sample of the garments to be hung and be inspected. One time, before my dad had left for the city, I overheard my parents talking about which garments were best, and they'd mark them so that they'd be ready to go on the stand. The boss of the store would inspect the garments on the stand, literally walking up and down the length of the hanging garments. The boss would check for details, minor imperfections and sometimes they'd say it was good enough (to the delight and relief of my parents - dad would tell mum the news over the phone) and sometimes they'd say it wasn't up to standard. My dad would always happily say 'okay' in these bad situations, and he'd drive home with the full load of clothes so that he and mum could redo them.

It was often repetitive, tiresome and labour-intensive work - actually, there was never a time that it wasn't. Often, my parents worked from before daylight in the early morning until late at night, without stopping. Sometimes they'd ask us kids to help, but our excuse of having homework always worked with my parents. Our parents would not even dream of letting anything affect our studies.

From my early childhood years until my early twenties, it was always a normal sight to see my mum and dad toiling away at the sewing machines - toiling away for the family, toiling away for us kids. All my parents had really asked of us was that we study hard, so that we didn't have to toil.