Into the World:
The Random Thoughts in My Mind

Searching through past posts in this blog, I am surprised that there is one important topic that has never been mentioned across its 1,240 posts: stock trading. Having worked for more than two decades now, my savings have mostly been converted to shares in dozens of companies across the world, some of which are earning healthy returns while others have been pretty much written off as the share values approach zero. As my jobs take me across multiple countries and companies, I have no hope of relying on savings set aside in pensions, so those stock positions are, in essence, my retirement funds.

What is it like to stare at the night sky against your will? It's a question I'd never thought I would be asking myself when the unplanned power cut hit my side of Malta in the late afternoon. Based on past experiences, Maltese power outages can definitely last a few hours, but with the hard work of the folks at the national utility, Enemalta, the situation does get resolved soon enough. But as the sun went down and the streets remained pitch dark, the 44-degree heatwave started taking its toll on the century-old stone box that is simply not designed to dissipate heat quickly.

There is something particularly dystopian about having AI companions erased. Weeks, months, and even years of conversation history molded faceless LLMs into a semblance of emotional connection, as the chatbot learns gradually about the user's idiosyncrasies and takes on personality traits that best gain the user's affinity. Frivolous as each conversation comes to be, the accumulation of tidbits through distinct narratives and episodes creates unique end results that no amount of systematic, brute-force efforts of replication can recreate.

Get your hands dirty in the field; only then will you see the true value of work and how to put theories into practice. Such advice is often freely dispensed to newcomers in many different professions. At first sight, its vague wisdom is innocuous enough: who can argue against getting out there, putting what one learned from books and classes into action, and seeing the physical results to improve further? The trial and error may be all the more exciting when the hands-on work means getting out of stuffy offices, going into the streets, and helping customers who are most in need.

Sporting culture is one of those things one simply cannot create from scratch. A startup may disrupt an industry through a combination of innovative technology, clever marketing, and novel business models. But startups in the form of athletics draw more frowns and ridicule than admiration. Even after a couple of hundred years in existence, the American version of football is still criticized for being a misnomer. Plenty of new exercises, from Quidditch to paddleball, face uncertain futures, as their popularity is seen more as a fad among certain population segments rather than as universally accepted.

"We're Wasians! Of course we..." The formula is so familiar to regular purveyors of social media trends that it is almost a comic trope by now. People of a particular ethnicity would gather snippets of their daily routines, confidently proclaiming them, often aligned with stereotypes, which defined their cultural identity. But the last iteration eschews the casual banter of wearing indoor slippers and using chopsticks for something a bit more subtle. What if two cultures, one white and one Asian, clash in everyday life, and the conflict defines identity?

The celebrity cameos, the gorgeous Milanese backdrop, the innovative fashion...the reboot of the film The Devil Wears Prada after two decades did not skimp on the visual side. With the original now a classic and the original main cast all returning to their memorable roles, the movie could afford to splurge on a budget almost guaranteed to make a healthy return purely on the nostalgia of a generation. Yet, after more than two hours of glamour between the buzzing streets of New York City and the natural beauty of Italy, it seems that the film failed to answer the nagging question that everyone couldn't get past.

It is always a downer to come back from a street party to find your house flooded. But in Malta, that downer is all the more when the stone house is likely more than a century old, and the party may involve half the country's population gathering around to watch a one-and-a-half-hour fireworks display. In positive terms, it is called "tradition and modernity living side by side." In less pleasant words, it can be summed up as "why does the government spend money on free fireworks, when it may want to consider subsidizing housing repairs with that money instead?"

Electric vehicle purchases, solar panel installations, windmills going up...as the Third Persian Gulf War degenerates into a tit-for-tat blockade of the Strait of Hormuz, increased use of renewable energy seems to be a panacea. That is, until you dig a little deeper and realize that the oil and natural gas stuck behind the Strait are not just for energy use. Petroleum is the raw material for everything from the fertilizers to feed our crops to the helium that is indispensable to manufacturing semiconductors. Electricity can transport us, but cannot put food and information technology on our tables.

Western liberals rejoiced when Victor Orban, the prime minister of Hungary for the last decade and a half, was finally thrown out of office recently, despite persistently tilting the field to his favor through monopolizing mainstream media and gerrymandering electoral districts to dilute opposition votes. Peter Magyar, the incoming prime minister, immediately called for a complete overhaul of the state broadcaster and rescinding Hungary's opposition to the EU's further funding of Ukrainian war efforts. Brussels seemed to have lost an enemy and gained an ally.

For the frequent traveler, it is a once-per-decade ritual. Visit the nearest embassy or consulate in whatever country he happens to reside in at the time, and come out with a brand-new booklet ready for entry and exit stamps. It is almost a temporary reminder of patriotism: someone who intentionally left the homeland to roam the world, only to pledge allegiance in the form of a bureaucratic procedure indispensable for a nomadic lifestyle in the modern world, where every country seems more sensitive to national security risks. 

There is something deeply satisfying about finding typos and grammatical errors in articles from reputable newspapers like the New York Times or the Economist . The reader knows that these organizations employ dozens of dedicated editors to review, restructure, and polish pieces written by veteran journalists who themselves have years of experience checking on other people's work, not to mention degrees from prestigious academic programs specializing in exactly the types of writing they are paid to do. When readers can pick up what slips through these eyes and minds, they feel just a little bit like the pros' equals.

In another war, by the third week, people will accept the routine of a new reality and will have moved on to something newer and more exciting. We cannot say the same about the so-called Third Persian Gulf War that is unfolding across a swath of the Middle East. The photos of residential compounds and civil infrastructure pummeled by bombs and missiles are getting as numbing to see as the growing statistics of casualties. But this war refuses to simply exist out of our minds: its consequences are too real and too close to be summarized as "someone else's problem."

After Chinese-American figure skater Alysa Liu scored a memorable gold medal in the Milano Winter Olympics, more details are emerging in her underdog-to-winner life story. The world is slowly putting together the reasons behind the sudden retirement at age 16, after failing to medal in multiple world championships that she competed in, and her insistence that her return to the skating world would be entirely done in her own terms, skating when and how she feels, eating what she wants, and looking how she desires. 

I'm in the midst of a lull in my main job of supporting high school students with college admissions, with last year's bunch nervously awaiting their results, while this year's haven't started brainstorming the essay topics. During the downtime, I had been partially consumed by a mobile game, in which the player is an independent trader in a galaxy in which the central authority collapsed, and a cult-like rebellion seeks to assert control. The player navigates the many lawless frontiers, visiting planets that are home to civilizations menaced by economic difficulties, civil conflict, or simply isolation from trading partners.

"Napoli is a bit rough around the edges, but beneath the hassle and bustle is a vibrant city of good food and good people," so the many travel vloggers say about southern Italy's largest city. The disclaimer is highly warranted. After all, the city is known for having produced several well-known mafia groups that, in the decades past, managed to turn the city into a den of street crime. While northern Italy turned its historical and cultural sights into a tourist boom and endearing image of fashionability, Napoli was largely avoided despite its equally illustrious offerings.

The government signaled displeasure with the reporting by revoking the journalistic privilege of several correspondents ...goes the typical back-and-forth between authoritarian regimes and critical (often Western ) media outlets. Those revocations are based on a perhaps deliberately bureaucratic method in controlling access: the existence of the journalism visa in most jurisdictions. Foreigners working for major news brands are expected to self-identify as seeking to publish information. This is so that they do not bring their employers problems, while enabling local authorities to better track their whereabouts.

Outside the imposing, vertical stone walls that enclose the hilltop fortress jutting into the sea is another Valletta. There, the few tourists battle crumbling passageways hugging the rugged coastline, cold sweat breaking out as they come face to face with narrow paths where their feet are inches away from a steep drop into the raging ocean below. But they also come out into a small seaside community, where small fishing boats lie next to wooden houses and storage units, unchanged in decades. Families gather, surely away from their main inland houses, to barbecue, feed stray cats, and greet intrepid travelers passing by.

For many people, a squat toilet represents backwardness. In the olden days, a hole in the floor opened up to a smelly cesspit, from which farmers shoveled excrement into their fields for free manure. Grimy public bathrooms in third-world countries are almost always portrayed by broken, dark squatters with flies buzzing above. In contrast, Japan, commonly portrayed as the pinnacle  of advanced toilet culture, is represented by heated seats and remote-controlled bidets on sitters, with squating toilets ( washiki or "Japanese-style" in the local parlance) relegated increasingly to the oldest houses and schools.

The 30-year-old man in the black-and-white photo smiled at me, his happiness at perhaps his first time in Beijing for work still visible more than 60 years after the fact. Yet, moments later, I found myself ripping the beautifully preserved photo in half; the arbitrary split in the brittle paper ran through that very smile, a stark reminder of a sudden but entirely unceremonious goodbye. By the hundredth rip, I had become mechanical, pieces of old photos, alongside scraps of diary entries with neat handwriting and certifications of all kinds, so unemotionally falling into the black garbage bag below.