Becoming Fifi - 1 - 5

February 7th

Dear Journal,

I never thought I’d be the kind of person to keep a diary, but here we are. Apparently, writing things down is supposed to help me feel less lost - at least, that’s what my life coach says. So, I guess you and I are in this together now. Weird, isn’t it? Writing to no one in particular? Like talking to a wall and expecting it to nod along.

Anyway, I’m David Lubis. I’m 21, I live in London, I flip burgers for a living, I draw when I can, and now, I guess, I write. The burger-flipping part wasn’t exactly the dream when I studied art at uni. I always pictured my work hanging in some sleek contemporary gallery. But I guess the universe had other plans.

Lately, I’ve been feeling... stuck. Like I’m on one of those old carousel rides, going round and round but never actually getting anywhere. My job puts a little money in my account - save for your future, Mum always says - but standing over a fryer all day, smelling like grease isn’t exactly inspiring.

My parents, bless them, worked hard to give me and my sister, Ani the opportunities they never had. They moved from Indonesia to build a better life for us. They’ve always supported me, always encouraged me, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let them down. They had dreams for me, and here I am working a minimum wage job I hate. The guilt gnaws at me. It’s like a dull ache in my stomach, always there, always whispering that I should be doing more.

But hey, you’re not just here for my existential crisis, Journal. You’re also a sketchbook. I’ve decided I’ll add a drawing with each entry, a little visual diary alongside the words. Today’s sketch? A self-portrait - well, sort of. It’s me, walking through the park, deep in thought after a long chat with my sister, Ani.

In the drawing, I’m wearing my work uniform - black trousers and a white polo shirt, the same dull combo I wear every shift. My stupid hat, the one they make me wear at work, is stuffed into the pocket of my grey hoodie, which I’ve thrown on over the top. It’s not much, but at least it takes the edge off looking like a walking corporate drone.

The only thing that feels like mine is the watch Ani gave me for Christmas. It’s simple, nothing flashy, but every time I look at it, I remember that there’s more to life than this. Or at least, there should be.

(See Image 01)

That’s something I want to change - my clothes that is. I’ve always been the type to blend into the background, to wear whatever helps me fit in, to play it safe. But after talking to Ani today, I realised that, like art, clothing should be an expression of the soul. It tells a story. I love watching people, picking apart the details - why that jacket, why those shoes, what the items say about the person wearing them. Maybe I think about this stuff too much. But then again, who gets to decide what’s too much?

Ani also made another point that stuck with me - if I want my life to change, I can’t just sit in the passenger seat. I need to take the wheel, to actually do something. She keeps telling me to travel, to shake things up, to stop waiting for life to happen to me. And maybe… she’s right.

"The world’s a giant canvas, David," she said. "You just need to start painting."

Can I do that? Just pack up and leave? Could I find inspiration in the rolling hills of Tuscany, the neon glow of Tokyo, or the pristine beaches of Bali? The idea feels frightening. And also… weirdly exciting.

So, there you go, Journal. My first entry - full of doubt, uncertainty, and the terrifying possibility of change.

Let’s see where this goes.

Until next time,

David

February 21st

Dear Journal,

Here we are again. You, my silent companion, and me, the one who won’t shut up. Ani’s advice has been rattling around in my head for the past two weeks, like a song stuck on repeat. Travel. The prospect of it feels huge - exciting, intimidating - like the night sky stretching endlessly above me. So full of promise, but completely unknown.

Work has been suffocating. A black hole of disappearing time, the sizzle of oil, the ever-present smell of deep-fried disappointment - it’s all started to feel oppressive. The four greasy walls of the kitchen are closing in, and every shift makes it clearer: I can’t keep doing this.

Today's sketch is me in the park, lost in thought again. But this time, I look a little different. The dark jeans are new - still stiff, still finding their shape, much like my brown leather boots, which creak slightly with each step. My white t-shirt, soft and worn, is a familiar comfort amid all this change, something constant when everything else feels uncertain. And then there’s the jacket. A brownish-red leather find from a charity shop, its worn texture and faded seams carrying traces of a past life. On me, though, it feels like something new. A quiet rebellion. A small but deliberate step toward change.

(See Image 02)

Lately, my thoughts have been a mess - scattered, restless, all over the place. I’ve spent hours researching ways to leave, falling down internet rabbit holes about working holiday visas, volunteering, au pairing, internships. I’ve read expat blogs, watched vlogs about digital nomads, looked into working at hostels, resorts, cruise ships - even farming in foreign countries. The more I read, the more overwhelming it all felt.

But then, something caught my attention. Something stuck.

Teaching English abroad.

It wasn’t what I expected to be drawn to. It’s not the artistic career I always imagined, but something about it feels... right. The idea of teaching - of helping people, of connecting through language - there’s something in that that pulls me in.

I found a recruiter who places teachers around the world. Apparently, my degree is enough to get started, and with an online TESOL certificate, I could be in a classroom within months. The idea of living somewhere completely different - learning a new culture, navigating a new language - feels less like a far-fetched idea and more like something I could actually do. Something that might shake me out of this rut and give me a sense of purpose.

So, I’ve decided. I’m doing it, Journal. Tomorrow, I’m quitting my job, enrolling in the TESOL course, and finally taking a step toward something better.

You're the first to know, Journal. And you're coming along for the ride - my nonjudgmental witness to the highs, the lows, and whatever unforgettable moments come my way.

Here’s to whatever comes next.

Until next time,

David

March 1st

Dear Journal,

I’m writing this from 30,000 feet in the air, squeezed into a seat that was definitely not designed for human comfort. The guy next to me is snoring softly, the cabin lights are dim, and a baby somewhere behind me is wailing. Meanwhile, I’m here, wide awake, staring out at a sky so dark it looks endless, my stomach twisted in knots.

I quit my job. I packed my bags. I boarded a plane.

Jakarta, here I come.

I still can’t believe how quickly everything fell into place. The TESOL course was almost too easy - twenty-something hours of modules, some multiple-choice questions with unlimited attempts, and a final test that you could retake as many times as needed until you passed. And just like that, I was “qualified” to teach English as a second language. It feels more like a cash grab than a learned skill, but here I am, with a certificate in my bag and the uneasy feeling that I'm being thrown in at the deep end.

And yet, it’s set things in motion. I’m on a plane, heading toward a job I barely feel prepared for in a country that’s tied to me by blood but still feels distant. My parents are from Indonesia, but not Jakarta. They grew up on another island, far removed from the chaos of the capital. But Jakarta is where I’m going - not because of family, but because it felt like a place to start. A connection to something I don’t fully understand yet.

Whether I’m ready or not, I’m about to find out.

Telling my family about my decision was... an experience.

Mum’s reaction was a journey in itself - shock, worry, a brief attempt to convince me to reconsider, followed by reluctant approval, and then, finally, full-on mum mode: reminding me to pack extra socks, double-checking my documents, and shoving snacks into my carry-on.

Dad, on the other hand, kept it simple. A nod. A pat on the back. A gruff “Just be careful.” Typical Dad.

And Ani? Ani practically tackled me with excitement.

"David, this is amazing!" she squealed, nearly cutting off my circulation with her bear hug. "I knew you'd do it! Just promise me you'll actually enjoy it and not overthink everything like you always do.”

Today's sketch isn’t of me, Journal. It’s of Mum and Ani at the airport, standing together as they saw me off, their faces caught somewhere between joy and sadness. Dad didn’t come - he said he had to work, but I suspect he just wasn’t one for emotional goodbyes.

Mum looked casually put-together, as always - black top, jeans, plain flats. She tried to smile, but her misty eyes gave away her true feelings. Ani stood beside her, effortlessly stylish as ever. Her fitted jeans hugged her curves, the stone-coloured turtleneck gave her that polished, put-together look, and the chunky-heeled ankle boots added a few extra inches to her height.

Standing next to them, I looked exactly as I always do - bland, boring, and completely unremarkable.

(See Image 03)

Saying goodbye was harder than I expected.

Mum pulled me in for a long hug, and I could feel her holding back tears. She didn’t give me another lecture or try to convince me to stay - she just squeezed my arms, looked me in the eye, and said, "Behave yourself, and call me when you land."

Ani, meanwhile, was all grins. "Relax. Have fun. Try new things," she said, hugging me tightly. "Travelling will change you in ways you can’t even imagine. Just go with it, okay? I bet by the time you come back, you’ll be a completely different person."

A different person, huh? That’s a weird thought. Unsettling, even. But maybe change is exactly what I need. That version of me who spends his days flipping burgers wasn’t going anywhere.

So here I am, Journal - hurtling through the sky, hands a little shaky, heart pounding with that jittery mix of excitement and nerves.

There’s that old saying: The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Well, Journal, I’ve taken mine. No turning back now.

Wish me luck,

David

March 2nd

Dear Journal,

The second I stepped off the plane at Soekarno-Hatta Airport, I was instantly out of my comfort zone. The heat hit me like a slap in the face - thick, humid, wrapping around me like a damp blanket. Then came the noise. People moving in every direction, voices overlapping in what seemed like a hundred different languages, the distant hum of an announcement I couldn’t understand. London was busy, sure, but this? This was something else. It felt like stepping into a painting where every brushstroke was in motion, buzzing with life.

I was drained from the flight - body aching, head foggy from skipping between time zones - but somehow, underneath the exhaustion, I felt alive. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that, for the first time in forever, I was actually somewhere new.

After a taxi ride through Jakarta’s sprawling streets, I arrived at my temporary home - a slightly rundown but affordable hotel. The kind where the lobby plants are fake and the air conditioning works just well enough to keep you from complaining.

And that’s where I met Amirah - the beautiful receptionist with a smile that could brighten even the dullest of days. Her cerulean batik shirt, patterned with gold swirls, stood out against her fitted black pencil skirt and simple heels. Her red hair was pinned into a bun, a few loose strands framing her face. But it was her eyes - bright, curious - that lingered on mine a second longer than necessary. A spark of something playful? Or was that just my imagination? Hard to say.

For half a second, I thought about being bold. New place, new me, right? Maybe I’d flash a charming smile, and ask her on a date. Instead, I mumbled a polite thank you and fumbled my passport into her manicured hands. Classic me.

By the time I got to my room, I was running on fumes. I could have collapsed into bed. But instead, I threw my bag in the corner, splashed some water on my face, and headed straight back out. I was here. No way I was wasting my first day in Jakarta sleeping in my hotel room.

The second I stepped outside, the city seemed to swallow me whole. The heat, the movement, the chaos - it was intoxicating. The streets were alive. Scooters weaved through traffic with impossible precision. Street vendors lined the sidewalks, their voices rising over the sound of honking horns. The air was thick with petrol fumes, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place.

I wandered, letting Jakarta pull me in, every turn revealing something new. A man selling skewers of meat, flames licking at the grill. A group of women in hijabs laughing over cups of iced tea. A becak driver pedalling lazily, waiting for his next passenger. The skyline was a clash of old and new - glass towers standing beside tiny, sun-faded homes with red-tiled roofs, bright murals splashed across the sides of buildings like the city itself was trying to express something.

Eventually, I found a park - a quiet pocket in the middle of the madness. Kids ran barefoot through the grass, their laughter echoing through the warm air. A group of old men sat under a shady tree playing a board game I didn’t recognise - barely moving as they stared each other down.

At the centre of the park, surrounded by whispering bamboo and rustling leaves, I found the perfect spot to capture the day in a sketch. I climbed onto a rock, letting the tropical sun soak into my skin, warming me in a way London never could.

As for my outfit? Wrong place, wrong time doesn’t even begin to cover it. Straight off the plane from chilly London, I was still layered up like I was bracing for a cold front - thick grey T-shirt, dark jacket, heavy jeans, and my ever-faithful Converse. Within minutes, I was a sweaty disaster, completely overdressed for Jakarta’s relentless heat.

But you know what? I didn’t care.

Uncomfortable as I was, I was actually doing something people talked about but rarely acted on. For once in my life, I was doing something interesting.

(See Image 04)

I drew in a deep breath, letting the thick, humid air fill my lungs as I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. Next time, I’d be smarter - shorts and a breathable shirt, for sure. But even as the heat pressed down on me, standing there on that rock, I felt like I was on top of the world. A world that suddenly seemed bigger, filled with possibilities - new places to explore, new friends to meet, perhaps even a love story. Stranger things have happened, right?

Until next time,

David

March 3rd

Oh, Journal, where do I even begin? Everything has gone horribly, catastrophically wrong.

Yesterday’s energy, that rush from exploring my new home, has been completely wiped out. Instead, I’ve been left with a deep, sinking feeling in my stomach - the kind that comes when you realize you've made a massive blunder.

Let me explain.

Last night, after dragging my sweaty, jet-lagged body back from a full day of wandering the city, I took the best cold shower of my life. I barely managed to dry off before collapsing onto the bed, wrapped in nothing but the hotel’s questionably clean towel. I figured I’d rest a moment before I’d get up, throw on some clothes, and grab something to eat.

But I didn't get up. I passed out instantly.

Slept like the dead.

And then it was morning.

I woke up shivering. The air conditioning had been blasting all night, turning my room into a freezer. Still groggy, I dragged myself over to my suitcase, ready to throw on some warm, familiar clothes.

Except…

It wasn’t my suitcase.

The second I unzipped it, I knew something was very wrong. Instead of a neatly folded pile of T-shirts and my favourite pair of jeans, I was staring at an explosion of lace, silk, and pastel fabrics. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. Even the underwear was delicate and lacy. My brain short-circuited.

For a few agonizing seconds, I just stared, my brain refusing to compute what I was seeing. Then, as the reality of the suitcase mix-up sank in, a far worse realization hit me - the only clothes I had left were the ones I’d travelled in!

In a daze, I rushed out of my room and into the bathroom across the hall - where a bad situation got ten times worse.

I entered expecting to find my discarded clothes in a sweaty heap where I’d left them the night before. Whether I could bear putting them back on or figure out a way to wash them was what I was contemplating. But that problem vanished the moment I stepped inside to find nothing but gleaming tiles and the sharp, chemical stench of bleach. And my clothes nowhere to be seen!

Heart hammering, I stumbled back to my room, grabbed the hotel phone, and dialled reception.

And, of course, Amirah was the one who answered. Sweet, flirty Amirah - the last person I wanted to explain this to. I tried to sound calm, like I wasn’t actually losing my mind, and told her that someone had taken my clothes from the bathroom floor.

Her response was both polite and absolutely humiliating. Because as it turns out. My bathroom wasn’t my bathroom! It was shared. As in, used by every guest on my floor.

My stomach sank.

"They might have been removed by the cleaning lady," Amirah said, voice smooth and professional. "I can check, but… I can't promise anything."

I nearly dropped the phone.

How had I been so stupid? How had I not realized? How had I just left my only clothes sitting there like some clueless idiot who’d never stayed in a cheap hotel before?

"Is there anything else I can do to help?" Amirah asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

I wanted to say, yes, please help me, I have nothing to wear. But instead, I muttered, "No, everything’s fine, thanks," and hung up.

I trudged over and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in my tiny towel, shivering and staring at the ceiling.

With nothing to wear. My options were bleak.

Borrow/steal from another guest - and most likely get arrested.

Buy something new – while walking into the centre of Jakarta in just my towel and see how that goes.

Or call Amirah back and ask for help – A sickening thought when I was already felt humiliated enough.

I was left with only one option. The suitcase!

I hated that it had come to this. But unless I planned to spend the next few days wrapped in that scratchy, threadbare hotel towel, I had no choice.

With a deep breath, I lifted the lid.

And immediately started tossing things aside.

Lacy red dress? No.

Hot pink tube top? Absolutely not.

Sequined shorts? Hard pass.

Then it dawned on me - there wasn’t a single pair of pants or even a pair of shorts!

Which is why, in my sketch today, I’m sitting on my balcony looking out over the sprawling city, dressed in a silky blue blouse and a flowing black skirt. Hopefully, someday soon, I’ll look back on this and laugh - but right now, that feels a very long way off.

(See Image 05)

The blouse is weird - soft, slick, nothing like what I’m used to. The skirt is… surprisingly comfortable, but it slips around me in a deeply unsettling way. Every now and then, a breeze catches it, and I flinch like it’s attacking me.

And yet, despite everything, sketching has helped take the edge off. Even with the anxiety still simmering, even as I sit here having what honestly feels like an out-of-body experience, I feel a tiny bit more grounded with a pencil in my hand.

The city hums around me. The streets are alive - voices echoing, engines growling through the warm air. And here I am, draped in some random woman’s clothes, trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now.

"New place, new me," huh?

This wasn’t exactly what had in mind.

I need a plan.

David.