Over dinner last night, we mused over dubbing Han with a Christian name, and someone suggested Cole, so he could be ColeHaan like the shoes. We also pondered why Americans actually manage to say his name right (rhyming with barn as opposed to van) and decide that they probably would not have before Harrison Ford was Han Solo in Star Wars and everyone took to that pronounciation.

That was moderately uninteresting.

Anyway, we returned to his apartment at around 10 to get a party started - a farewell cum birthday party which Han threw in honor of himself, even buying his own cake. That's one way to make sure no one forgets your birthday. Other lesser contributions mostly came from Karen, and consisted of everything that had accumulated in her refrigerator over the course of the past two semesters, including: exceedingly moldy gruyere, garlic and feta cheese dip, 6 boxes of Table Water (half-eaten), a box of Familia Swiss Muesli (no added sugar) and several questionable oranges (a la Monica's on last week's Friends, which was the second last one and which no one in Singapore has seen yet neener neener). Han broke out the umpteen cans of Busch Light which have been sitting in his own refrigerator since before I left for Xmas break and practically begged us to drink them. (No one did). After that: gin and tonics, gin rummy, South Indian techno tracks, faux-Cosmopolitans, and finally falling into bed at 3:30 in the morning when the last of the crowd had drifted away to get a few hours shuteye before early flights to places distant.

And so begins the series of goodbyes. I don't think I'll cry, but if I do, I'm not going to admit it.