Singapore Adventure

The Good Stuff

2007-02-09T07:21:00.000+08:00

It's hard. As I sob uncontrollably over the unexpected discovery of Maggie's ashes... as I fill out endless tax forms and realize that our January 31st move means the accountants get to embezzle from us for a third straight year... as I face the overwhelming mountain of effort that will be required to restore our chaotic house to a comfortable home...

It's hard not to view the last two years as a horrible, colossal, nighmarish mistake.

"But surely there were good things, too," prompted Ellen when I'd said, "Uh, no!" when she'd asked if we'd liked Singapore.

Head bobbing at the loan desk of our credit union, I'd swiveled in my chair, and in a happy and awaking surprise come face to face with Ellen, a kind and old friend, the kind of old friend that when you're less than 24 hours recovered from a 27-hour trip around the world, when you're as big as a house, when you're borrowing money, and when you're hoping to see no one you know but really expecting no less than a self-assured, tanned and fit ex-boyfriend, or the gorgeous young blonde thing who stole him away, or a satanic old boss, or all three at once, convinces you that in spite of war and poverty and the indescribable evil of health insurance providers, God is truly benevolent.

"Yes, there were good things, too," I echoed, blinking dumbly into her patient smile, and I rifled frantically through my jetlag-addled brain to think of some.

everywhere

fabulous

Yes, there were good things, too, and that's what I want to remember and will try hard to talk about when I reminisce about our Singapore Adventure. Perhaps I should write this list in permanent marker, down one forearm and up the other. But no, when my memory starts to fade, I'll read this blog, with both its rants and its raves (surely there were some raves), to remind me of it all.

Thanks to all of you for reading, and thanks especially to the complete strangers who sent kind words of encouragement during the darkest days of the last two years. This blog has been a lifeline, a catharsis, and an escape, and it definitely belongs on this list of the good stuff.

venitha

Not Gonna Miss That

2007-01-31T06:30:00.000+08:00

"Will you miss it?" Jenn asked as we started down the stairs.

"No," I told her without a thought, and it was only later that I realized how true that is. It didn't even occur to me to cast one last glance over my shoulder at the majestic Singapore skyline and our gorgeous rooftop view.

Not gonna miss that.

It's become a mantra these last weeks, when a car pulls forward with no purpose other than to obstruct my path, when the guy sitting next to me at the bus stop lights up a cigarette, when the woman at the hair salon cuts my bangs crooked one last time.

Not gonna miss that.

When people rush to board the MRT without allowing anyone first to get off.

Not gonna miss that.

When my cellphone crackles in and out of reception.

Not gonna miss that.

When I buy grapes and a yogurt at the grocery store and have to intervene to leave with only one plastic bag.

Not gonna miss that.

Stuffed with The Last Supper from First Thai, we nonetheless lingered over four shared sinful desserts, reluctant in the face of one last inevitable good-bye. Finally, Bailey's soufflé demolished, profiterole plate cleaned, overpriced Evian drunk, we tearfully hugged dear friends outside Raffles City, then headed on our separate way for one last ride on the MRT.

Jim's arm 'round my waist, I leaned my head on his shoulder. "Saying good-bye to people I love... Definitely not gonna miss that."

venitha
Posted from Narita (Tokyo, Japan)

Harper's On Packing Out

2007-01-29T17:01:00.000+08:00

Number of boxes shipped: 100 (14 by air, 86 by sea)
Language spoken by packers: Malay
Number of man-hours put in by packers: 32
Number of weeks before we'll see any of it again: 3-4 weeks air, 6-8 weeks sea
Boxes and packing paper saved from our shipment to Singapore that were reused: none
Estimated value of shipment: US$65000
Estimated value of baby gifts in shipment: Astounding. What do we say, Zoe? Thank you.
Most useless item shipped here, unused, and now shipped back: a coatrack
Contents of the under-the-sink cabinet that - whoops! - didn't get packed: 8 tubes of Crest toothpaste and 5 bars of Dial soap.
Number of episodes of The West Wing, Season 7, Jim and I watched while performing our taxing supervisory role during our two pack-out days: 3
Rank of Alan Alda, Jimmy Smits, and GW Bush in our preference for US president: We disagree. I'm glad to be returning to a country where women are allowed to vote. That's called sarcasm, and what I'm really glad for is to be returning to a country where I don't have to label it as such. Returning to a country where GW Bush is president, hmmm...
Number of times I claimed to be "Mr. James" on the phone in order to close accounts: 2
Number of bags we moved to the Marriott: 12
Number of bags we plan to fly home with: 9. Hmmm....
Number of these bags I can't lift even when I'm not pregnant: 2
Number of laptop computers and ipods included in these bags: 3 and 1
Number of Singaporeans who expressed disappointment that none of these items were included in our virtual garage sale: 2
Highrise city view demotion in moving from the Pasadena to the Marriott: 19 - 6 = 13 floors
Distance-to-the-MRT promotion: 10 - 2 = 8 minutes
Most popular Marriott mini-bar item: Ritter (German) chocolate, S$4.80
Most unexpected Marriott mini-bar item: men's dress socks, two pairs S$7.50

venitha

Dead Or Alive

2007-01-28T11:25:00.000+08:00

In talking with friends last weekend about skiing in Colorado, I recognized an old friend who's never visited me in Singapore: passion. Enthusiasm, from a joie de vivre to a simple smile, is absent from this country. Or at least, it is for me. And if the expressions on the faces around me are any indication, I'm not alone.

While my pre-Singapore life certainly had its share of going-through-the-motions ~~hours~~ ~~days~~ ~~months~~ years, it also had regular jolts of sun-kissed glee. Blazing bombs down mogul runs, Sound-of-Music twirls atop mountain peaks, waltzing spins that left me dizzy in Jim's arms: moments when there was no denying that I was alive. And while I knew that I was giving up certain specific loves in moving to Singapore, I naively hoped that I might discover something new and exciting to replace them. Alas, however, the pursuits that fill the hearts of many Singaporeans with rapture leave me cold: shopping has never been my thing, and while I do adore conveyor-belt sushi, it's hard to get too excited about food when you're just plain not hungry anymore.
I suspect that shopping and food provide insufficient elation for most locals, too, as I'm not the only one plodding through my life here without a smile on my face and without emotion in my heart. All too often, I'm surrounded by, and in tragically excellent company with, the walking dead. So I was stunned to hear my friend Sara's experience at church in Singapore.

"It's like the difference between being alive and... well... dead," she said, comparing her church here with her church back home in the US. "It's amazing."

"And the 'alive' church is in Singapore? Attended by Singaporeans?" This is simply... unfathomable.

Not that I have any argument for the dead description, as I've attended a significant number of church services for which it is only too apt. But alive can be in no one's top ten list of adjectives for anything Singapore. (My guess is that clean and green would top the list, and if the adjective-challenged Singaporeans were included in the survey, nice would be on it several times.)

My own Singapore church experience is limited to a mere three services, and I unfortunately can't honestly describe a single one of them as alive. Although my sister quite correctly pointed out after one that if I wanted people to smile at me in Singapore, I ought to attend church more often, the other two services can inarguably be described as near lethal: one because TPTB armed a crowd of bored congregants with lit candles for nearly an hour; the other because of excessive - and I mean really excessive - length.

Part of me is disappointed that our few remaining Sundays in Singapore didn't leave time to accompany Sara to her church and to witness this phenomenon, but ultimately, it doesn't matter. I didn't find my passion in Singapore, and it's not because I didn't look for it; it's because it isn't here.

venitha

Four More Days

2007-01-26T20:56:00.000+08:00

I realize that killing myself at this point because I hate my hair would be a bit extreme, but I don't know if I can stand four more days of this.

venitha

The Breakfast of Champions

2007-01-25T14:53:00.000+08:00

Reheated leftovers in hand, I track Jim down as he fills out an inventory sheet and cranks some tunes in our second spare bedroom, also known as Mexico, thanks to its bedspread's country of origin (spare bedroom number one is India), now jam-packed with our ocean shipment (India is our air shipment).

"This would go really well with a glass of red wine." Pasta with vegetables and an obscene amount of garlic. I've concocted some pretty crazy meals as I've cleared out our food this past week, but things improved dramatically once I started using up the garlic.

"Sorry lah," Jim says, glancing guiltily at the claret-filled Spiegelau goblet perched precariously on a cardboard box. He's having more fun clearing out the cupboards than I. He's even nervily planned a going-away gathering with co-workers at Cafe Iguana, of margaritas-as-big-as-your-head fame.

I accused him of cruelty, but in his defense, he says, he didn't think I'd want to go, and he's right. "You'd be bored," he assures me.

"You think? Surrounded by engineers I don't know and unable to drink?" Tragically, Cafe Iguana's nachos are nothing to blog about.

While it does seem harsh not to be allowed one last sip of a macho margarita - frozen, with salt, thank you very much - alcohol has been surprisingly easy, and unsurprisingly lucrative here in Singapore, to give up. I should have started Zoe's college fund with the pile of greenbacks (bluebacks? orangebacks?) I've saved. Jim, on the other hand, is salivating in expectation of toppling the over-priced and over-watery and over-sized Tiger Beer from its unmerited position as king of the mountain (sultan of Bukit Timah?) with a hard shove from a less expensive and vastly superior six-pack of Fat Tire, the undoubted accompaniment of our much-anticipated inaugural supper at home, Pulcinella's double-crust spinach pizza.

In the meantime, there's supersweet Taiwanese wine for Jim and a whole lotta garlic for me. The breakfast, the lunch, and the dinner of ~~champions~~ two expats who pack out tomorrow.

venitha

Short-Timer's Syndrome

2007-01-23T20:19:00.000+08:00

Jim and I are clearly suffering from Short-Timer's Syndrome. The symptoms: irritability, the sense that time is passing e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, and a venomous hatred for all things Singapore. I know you read this and wonder how I detect a difference from my normal state of mind here, but trust me, this is far worse.

Every day for a week now one of us - or the other of us - or both of us - suggests it. "Let's just go to the airport right now. Get on a plane. Leave all this behind." Who wants it? Who needs it? Who cares? We just want out.

Away from the heat. Away from the piles of things to be packed. Away from the customs forms. Away from the elaborate dance required to close accounts.

"And just exactly what information will my husband provide that I cannot?" I ask in exasperation when the drone on the phone refuses to cancel our credit card. Nothing, of course, but this is Singapore, and rules are rules. His Majesty Jim, aka The Man, must call himself. I toy with the idea of calling back with a deeper voice, maybe even with a slow southern drawl. Mornin', little lady. But I decide that the zillion buttons that would be pushed, both the phone's and mine, before I'm again allowed the pleasure of speaking to an actual person would too likely result in the phone's abrupt transformation into killer litter.

I add cancel credit card to Jim's list, and I IM him at work:

Meet you at the airport in 20 minutes?

venitha

Toto, Too?

2007-01-20T16:49:00.000+08:00

I crank the bedroom's air-con to 18, yet I toss and turn for hours, much too hot to sleep. It's hard not to view the baby within me as the fiery Heat Miser, flaming red hair inherited from grandma, charming personality inherited from me.

I throw the flimsy blanket off, then on, and contort my body in search of a non-existent cool spot. It's hard not to view this bed as the devil's maw, an evil embodiment of the last two years, for our purchase of it, roughly two years ago and shortly after I broke my knee, is a demarkation point, beyond which there was no denying that all hell had broken loose. I woke early this morning to a mere week of nights left to sleep in this bed and in this room. And how much longer, I wondered, shall "all hell" last?

I rolled onto my back and tried to calm my mind, to cool my body, with thoughts of the wintry weather we'll return to on January 31st and the blissful comfort of the waterbed I haven't slept in in what seems like forever. Ah, the glory of sliding smoothly under layer upon layer of heavy blanket, the pleasure of warming ice-cold feet against Jim's calves.

And, oh, that first morning to wake up in my own bed and in my own room, light softly filtered through filmy swaths of slate blue. I'll snuggle deep beneath the weight of the down comforter, only my nose peeking out for arctic fresh air. I'll spoon close behind Jim - or, given my current condition, he'll spoon close behind me - and I'll tell him, "I had the strangest dream. You were there... but, oh! There's no place like home!"

venitha

chicken coup leg tragedy

2007-01-19T21:09:00.000+08:00

A year-and-a-half later, Extreme Tracking is still cooler than sliced bread.

Wondering just who, if anyone, was out there reading, Venitha installed Extreme Tracking on this blog fairly early on, thereby creating an addiction, a turnabout-is-fair-play satisfaction (you are, after all, reading our, or at least Venitha's, most intimate thoughts), and a great source of amusement. It shows specific visitors (Hi, Mom!), it lists numbers of hits based on country of origin (major spike after our trip to India last year), and best of all, it displays the web searches that have led people to this blog.

I've been saving the good searches, and, with less than two weeks left to this adventure, it's finally time to share. The following are the top ten searches that led people to this blog:

10) Massage. These searches are more common than propositions in Chinatown. They range from the normal:

javanese massage, singapore

to the off-color

"spa singapore buttock massage"

to the downright pornographic, which I did not save. Sorry lah.

9) Context. The searches that make me think I need to pay more attention to what Venitha's writing.

Davenport of despair

cowboys in skintight wranglers

miss singapore transvestite contest

Acrobat lounge waitresses uniforms

8) Names. With a name like Venitha, it's not unfathomable that people might look for her and find this blog. Oddly, I recently saw that someone had arrived here after searching for my generic name. Yes, in spite of all the Indians dismissing Venitha as a dime a dozen and enthusing, "Jim! What an interesting name!", my first name, my last name, and, lamentably, the combination are all quite common in the US. We'll be naming the baby Beelzebub to make her life easier.

7) Bizarro. Searches that really really make me wonder about the general searching public.

Eat eyeballs
Eww.

Eat stingray cook
Lots of unidentifiable stuff at hawker centres, but this takes the cake.

what color bulb should i use in a chicken coup
Nope. Not making this up. Not even the spelling error.

Caning of mandarin orange
Singapore is harsh. What crime exactly does an orange commit to warrant caning?

And now the searches that deserve individual praise, both for the searcher and for the blog that's found:

6) T
Searching for the letter T on google produces about 3 billion results. And they found us! Such an honor!

5) dealing with a macho husband
Clearly, Venitha was searching.

4) Squat on toilet leg severed
Whoa! I'm not a big fan of squat toilets, but I had no idea they could be this dangerous!

3) "the jeff tobin"
Pre-pending the the takes googling yourself to a whole new level. Impressive.

2) hottest singapore blogs
Undoubtedly, the most appropriate search to end at this blog.

And, finally, the best search ever:

1) turd milkshake
Actually, maybe this one's more appropriate? Makes me laugh every time I read it.

Thanks for playing. If you can find an outrageous search that lands here, let me know!

jima

Personal Space

2007-01-17T10:48:00.000+08:00

"Personal space," Jim amends the growing list of what we're looking forward to at home, then laughs when I take an exaggerated step away.

"Not from you two, silly!" He pulls me back beside him, leans to kiss my ever-expanding belly.

With his daily commute to and from work, pressed against commuters on a crowded bus or MRT, Jim suffers from this over-closeness more than I do. But I can relate. The book in my bag to give me patience in endless queues, the river of slow-moving shoppers flooding Orchard Road, a view arrested by highrise next to highrise: all have become the norm.

The following morning, a rare Monday when I've got an early appointment, I remember our conversation as I'm packed tightly among my fellow passengers on the MRT.

The crowd thins at Dhoby Ghaut, and I gratefully snag a single empty seat, tucking my bulk and my too-many packages between a svelte young woman dressed all in lime green, furiously SMS-ing with one thumb, and an old man, dozing peacefully.

As the train speeds on, its momentum presses me firmly against the softly snoring Rip Van Winkle. The warmth, the human contact, is pleasant, is reassuring, a welcome connection in this busy, distracted, impersonal city. I yawn widely and stifle an exhausted impulse to rest my head against a fatherly shoulder.

The train arrives at City Hall, spurring a mass exodus. The commotion jolts Rip into consciousness, and he looks frantically out the window to identify the station, then stares sidelong at me in wide-eyed alarm before propelling himself smoothly across three just-vacated seats, down the blue plastic bench to fall back asleep immediately, snuggled against a cold metal bar and a hard plexiglass barrier, far, far from me.

As the train accelerates toward Raffles City, I move my bags from my lap to the empty seat beside me and take comfort in the caress of the tunnel's cool wind.

venitha

Chocolate Buffet

2007-01-15T21:16:00.000+08:00

"What a beautiful umbrella!" Brian greeted me at his door.

"Isn't it? Makes me feel like Mary Poppins." In truth, Mary Poppins had dissolved slowly but surely on the too-long too-wet journey from my apartment to his, her spirits dampened first by the little girl cowering behind her parents on the lift (She's afraid of what? My freckles?), doused further by the astonishingly-long rush-hour wait in sideways rain at the bus stop, and then extinguished entirely by the drenching wade up the Wilkie waterfall.

By the time I arrived at Brian and Andrea's, dripping with both raindrops and sweat, I was the Wicked Witch, or at least a flying monkey, a minion devotedly on Elphaba's side.

"Poor wicked witches," I told Brian as I removed my waterlogged shoes in a vain attempt to leave the wet outside. "They don't stand a chance in Singapore."

***

Several hours later, umbrellas safely ensconced in plastic condoms, four slightly damp ladies descended upon the Fullerton Hotel's much-anticipated chocolate buffet, leaving soggy footprints...

from the entree table (cakes, tarts, candies, cookies, mousses, and, of course, grape soup)...

to the chocolate fountain (fruits, croissants, and swirled marshmallow concoctions provided for your dipping pleasure)...

to the meltery (choose your poison - mmmm...hazelnut - then have it enchanted before your eyes into an adorable and steaming cup of vastly-superior-to-Milo hot chocolate).

Of chocolate-y note:

La crème de la crème: The one indulgence that was universally ooohed over was the Acacia Honey Chocolate Shooter, an incredibly creamy Bailey's topped with slivered almonds. Do you drink it or do you use a spoon? Impossible to decide; best get another one to study the matter further. We all also made our share of yummy noises over the Fullerton Chocolate Cake and its unidentifiable layers. "Nuts?" "Graham crackers?" "Wheat germ? But not in a bad way..."
Chocolate bombs: I have pretty firm beliefs about what should be allowed to contaminate my chocolate. (I may never forgive Singapore Airlines for the mean joke of serving a gorgeous chocolate cake flavored with "Oh, geez, orange? That's downright cruel." Jim: "Yeah, you can have mine, too.") Unsurprisingly, I found lemon, in the form of a frothy meringue-like topping to an otherwise delectable chocolate torte, even less appealing. And in case you were wondering about green tea and chocolate pudding? Ew. Chilled black cherry chocolate yogurt, on the other hand...
The chocolate fountain: While delicious, especially coating large succulent strawberries and thin crunchy breadsticks, the fountain, resembling a many-tiered chocolate wedding cake, was a visual disappointment, more of a chocolate fall or chocolate falls in my opinion. Of course, I now realize that my fantasy of an upward-shooting, splashy celebration of a fountain, while more in line with my own feelings about chocolate, would be quite impractical and a bit, well, splattery, and is probably why I'm not employed designing chocolate fountains. Drat.
One glaring omission: chocolate cheesecake. There was, however, a scrumptious mango-topped New York cheesecake, about which I have no complaints. It deliciously played its role of palate-cleansing sorbet, and was vastly superior to that abomination they barbarously label cheesecake in Japanese restaurants.
I-did-not-know-that fact: One can only eat so much chocolate before she really just does not want any more. Who knew?

***

By the end of the night, as Andrea and I rushed through the endless downpour to catch the last MRT toward home, I happily noted a new transformation, one induced by exquisite chocolate and treasured female friends, friends who make me think and make me laugh and make me, astonishingly, sad to be leaving Singapore. Miraculously, the Wicked Witch had been replaced, I noted with a radiant smile, by a beautiful ballgown-clad Cinderella.

Or perhaps, I mused, as I slumped, wicked tired and already more than a little chocolate-hungover, on past Andrea's MRT stop, she'd become the rag-clad Cinderella.

Or perhaps, I realized, as I plodded soggily past our dozing condo guard and gawped in the lift's mirror at a damp wreck, chubby cheeked and roundly stuffed with both chocolate and baby, she was merely the pumpkin.

venitha

SOS Garage Sale

2007-01-08T21:26:00.000+08:00

At the SOS (Sumatran Orangutan Society) garage sale in Ubud, we admire a long-sleeved t-shirt sporting a familiar god emblem, sanskrit scribbling down its sleeves.

"It's your colour!" blonde #1 says, an audible wink in her Scottish brogue. Jim and I laugh. The shirt is a blinding blaze orange, a color that looks marvelous on the chocolaty Balinese, but on the Scottish, including our pale hostess and, distantly, swarthy Jim, not so much.

While Miss Scotland chats Jim up, I shop, demolishing first a perfectly folded pile of batik bath robes, then a neat stack of hibiscus-patterned beach shorts.

"Singapore is so clean," she gushes. This the one positive sentiment that everyone makes about Singapore. I roll my eyes at a pretty blue wraparound skirt that can grow with my expanding belly. It does a snotty little so clean dance; I like it. "And how do you find Singapore?"

"It's a good place to travel from," Jim offers, tossing back the audible wink.

Miss Scotland catches it and laughs wryly on cue. "I know what you mean. It's a strange place, isn't it? I'm not sure I could live there."

"Well, it definitely doesn't compare to Bali. We'll be glad to go home."

"Oh, Bali has its moments. But they do have the most fabulous coffee here." I've given up a lot for these ungrateful orangutans, but not, thank God, my cappuccino. She yawns dramatically, garage sale volunteer clearly being an exhausting job, then excuses herself for her mid-afternoon caffeine run.

I move from the clothes to the jewelry, enormous gaudy necklaces and thick silver bracelets. My audible entertainment moves from Scotland to, I later learn, Belgium, where blonde #2 is holding forth an overly-bright one-sided outrageous-French-accented conversation with Miss Indonesia, a local volunteer. Her condescending tone hurts my teeth. I grimace, the local lovely smiles patiently, clearly in the running for Miss Congeniality, and the uselessly-shaped pottery in front of me gapes stupidly.

Jim takes my selections from my arms, then cocks an eyebrow at the lopsided pots. I intercept him before he states the obvious: I only like them because they're blue.

"Passing on the shirt, izzit?"

"Yeah, there's just not that much deer hunting in my future. Hey, look at all those lamps!" He's right: we don't need any more blue dishes. To his chagrin, I add two small ones to his load.

"Orang utans are a good cause," I tell him, pronouncing the word appropriately in its language of origin, Malay. Jim nods with mock sagacity and wisely says nothing, transporting my purchases to Miss Belgium for her talent competition, excessive wrapping. She's good.

Momentarily, Miss Scotland returns, triumphantly bearing two steaming cups of cappuccino. "It's really hot out there today. Look at me, all sweaty! And I just went to get coffee."

I look at her. She is sweaty. If this is her talent, Miss Belgium's definitely got her beat.

She turns to Jim. "You must be used to the heat now, after all this time in Singapore."

From the picture frames, I join in Jim's laughter. "I don't think you ever get used to it. Hot is hot."

Miss Indonesia takes an innocent sip of her cool blended fruit juice, then moves to restore order to the havoc Typhoon Venitha wreaked on the clothing tables.

Before the frothy cappuccino grows cold, I resist the lamps and finish browsing. Miss Belgium totals our purchases, and Jim, recently thrilled by his millionaire status, pays her tens of thousands of rupiah.

I turn to Miss Scotland and flash my best Miss America smile. "Now where's this fabulous coffee shop?"

venitha
Jim and I spent six glorious days in Ubud, Bali, in December.

Pizza Cantik

2007-01-03T16:46:00.000+08:00

Jim looks down with satisfaction at our pizza cantik (pronounced chahn-tee, meaning beautiful), spinach and egg atop wholemeal crust, and takes a lip smacking sip of his Storm Ale.

"We've come a long way, baby, from a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and an Uncle Jim's pepperoni." This the standard college fare in Madison, something that neither Jim nor I would ever turn down. Truth be told, however, what I could really go for is that other Wisconsin mainstay, batter-fried cheese curds.

"Cheers!" I clink my Fanta soda water against Jim's beer bottle. "To a very long way. Though I expected no less of you. I remember thinking, the first time I saw you... Here is a man who will one day voluntarily order spinach pizza in Bali for me and his unborn child. I'd better snap him up fast. Big hair, be damned."

Jim laughs. His hair is no longer big, in spite of the best efforts of southeast Asia's humidity, and we knew each other for a very long time before we became more than friends.

"And wholemeal crust. Don't forget the wholemeal crust." Jim serves me a slice of pizza. "Which does look like whole wheat." We'd debated this, does wholemeal mean whole wheat, and concluded it was likely that or grubs, but definitely something we could view as healthy.

As we make yummy noises over our shared lunch and discuss our plans for the afternoon (V: Another massage? I'm shocked! J: Another nap? I'm shocked!), my attention wanders to our fellow diners, two bronzed Caucausian women discussing the menu animatedly with their hands. Avoiding my gaze are pale blue eyes, alive with laugh lines, set in a face rugged with outdoor fun; staring openly is a bare back, below a head wild with dirty blonde dreadlocks, bound messily in a batik-patterned scrunchy.

These two could easily be in Madison, window shopping at the head shops on State Street or sipping a beer on the union terrace. And they'd be right at home at a ski resort in the mountains of Colorado. Not Vail, of course, or even Steamboat really, but they would flirt with snowboarders on the lifts at A Basin, and they would savor the springtime sunshine at a tailgate party in Mary Jane's Utah Junction parking lot.

Every last bite of our pizza savored and several fingers noisily licked, Jim and I make our way hand-in-hand past the table of muses. I listen for their conversation, hoping to catch their language, but they are suddenly silent, blinking up at me. "Dude!" I want to say, but I have nothing more, and before I know it Jim and I are standing among scattered temple offerings on Jalan Hanoman, roosters crowing, scooters beeping, men hopefully offering "Transport?". Next to me, a statue wears a black-and-white checked skirt, hibiscus blossoms behind each ear; across the dusty road, shoots of rice stand at perky attention, attended to by farmers ankle deep in mud.
Blinking up at Bali's hot afternoon sun, I squeeze Jim's hand. We've come a long way, baby.

venitha
Jim and I spent six glorious days in Ubud, Bali, in December.

Dear Diary

2006-12-31T18:07:00.000+08:00

I've enjoyed a vacation from blogging this past week, but I've been a faithful e-mail correspondent. I thought I'd post some excerpts so we remember our final Singaporean holiday season.

Dear Diary,

It's been raining non-stop for days, and I keep thinking "If only it were snow..." I like Singapore so much better when I think of it buried beneath a pristine blanket of white snow, myself tromping in enormous boots across deserted Thomson Rd to Cold Storage, where they finally have an excuse for everything being "out of stock".

Colorado's been getting dumped on like crazy, and Jim and I both so wish we were there, snowed in up at Winter Park, skiing by day, watching bowl games by night. Lots of friends and family have sent pictures of the recent snowstorms, and our Singaporean friends are completely agog. Many have never seen snow and have actually been complaining about how cold it's been here lately. The only real difference from usual, in my I-am-always-hot opinion, is that it's been overcast, so the sun isn't beating relentlessly down on you twelve hours a day. A welcome break, to be sure, but it's still wicked hot, even, astoundingly, when you're wet with the rain.

Our Christmas here was wonderful, though it got off to a slow start on Christmas Eve, when we made the mistake of going with a million other people to Orchard Road. Who could have predicted that Singaporeans in extremely large doses are much less fun than Singaporeans in small doses? The experience did not foster much goodwill toward men, though we did see snow (the canned variety), and we did manage to stick it out through the entire candlelight church service we attended. This in spite of many of the sing-along Christmas carols being unfamiliar (not only to us but also to most of the rest of the congregation) and in spite of much of the Christmas message (which, from what I gathered, was basically that despite all the incredible discounts and amazing sales everywhere, all over the island and in scads of nearby countries as well - I mean, have you been to Tang's? - Christmas is not only about shopping) being delivered in foreign languages (Mandarin, German, and Indonesian).

We recovered in style in time for an idyllic Christmas morning just the two of us, listening to Christmas music, doing a Santa Claus jigsaw puzzle, and exchanging goofy presents (a sushi rice mold for Jim and a nuk for me, er, hey!). We followed this with a fabulous Christmas lunch with our neighbors (he's a Brit, but there was no figgy pudding - not sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing), and we then spent the evening with our German friends Timo and Sonja, enjoying that oh-so-traditional Christmas supper (sushi), gorging ourselves on fine German chocolates, and basking in the lights of a Christmas tree lit with real candles: really beautiful.

Thursday we had Kiran's (Timo and Sonja's six-month-old son is our godson) baptism/christening here at our apartment. They were intending to do this next summer in Germany, but as that's no longer going to work for me and Jim, they thoughtfully opted to have it in Singapore while they had family in town over the holidays. Local churches were less than cooperative, so we just did our own thing here on our rooftop. It started to rain just as we finished; so in spite of deciding not to bother with water, God provided. The celebration also gave me and Jim the opportunity to make the feast that we normally have for Christmas eve: ham, Martha Stewart's macaraoni and cheese, and my favorite, ambrosia (pistachio pudding mix, cool whip, crushed pineapple, marshmallows, and walnuts). Mmmm.... Our German guests were really funny as they thought the ambrosia was truly horrible (I don't think they'd ever even seen pistachio pudding before), and tact is not exactly a German tradition.

Jim drove a car in Singapore for the first time ever on Friday, and he didn't crash! I was so proud! We test drove a Subaru Outback, mainly to ensure that Jim fits, even with the moonroof. (Headroom always seems to be an issue.) No, of course, we're not buying anything here, especially not at these prices: more than twice as much as in the US, and yes, that's after the currency conversion. We're merely trying to line up a car purchase in the US in advance of our return. We're committed to giving life with only one vehicle - a shocking concept in the US - a try. If there's one thing we're truly going to miss about Singapore, it's its fabulous public transportation.

We're currently busy prepping for tonight, our final party on the roof. The fireworks should be really great, so hopefully I can manage to stay awake until midnight. My morning sickness is over, thank God, but the exhaustion is hanging on like I can't believe; I'm really worthless these days without a long afternoon nap. At least I'll have plenty of sustenance: I'm making lots of my favorite appetitizers - rumaki! yum! - in spite of the grocery store's wicked attempts at sabotage. I can't believe how hard it was to find canned water chestnuts, especially since when growing up, this was the one food I could have identified as Asian. It was much easier to find water chestnuts in the shell, and it's a hard shell. Think walnut, not pistachio. I can't imagine cracking and peeling even a dozen of them. Mei, my wonderful neighbor, offered to have her live-in maid shell them for me, but, um, how weird is that?

Oh, and did I tell you it's a girl? I had a genetic scan (in-depth hour-long ultrasound) just over a week ago. Everything looks healthy, the feet are adorable, and the endlessly-chatty guy at the helm was 85% sure it's a girl. Jim's been calling her Zoe for about a month now, and I have a feeling it's going to stick, so hopefully the ultrasound guy was right. After the healthy baby news, my best Christmas present was courtesy of HP: a ticket back to Colorado on 31 January. Only one month to go! I can do it. I hope.

Happy New Year! I have a feeling 2007 is going to be a very good year.
venitha

Christmas Present

2006-12-29T15:15:00.000+08:00

As Venitha and I settled into a week of holiday hibernation, it occurred to me that with the recent craziness of life (our trip to Bali, many doctors' appointments, the any-day-now - really - completion of my latest project at work), we'd made no plans for Christmas itself. And while we've always been low-key about holiday decorations (no outdoor lights for this lazy person!), we've taken it to new extremes this year. Our Christmas decorations still remain packed in boxes in the closet, and while I snatch kisses whenever I get a chance, nary a twig of mistletoe adorns our doorways. December 23rd was the first day we played any Christmas music at all, Venitha digging a festive recording of her favorite, Sleigh Ride, from the depths of her computer.

I have numerous excuses for my "Bah, Humbug" attitude, the first being the really wretched Christmas music that our local supermarkets started playing in mid-October. Nothing strangles my goodwill toward my fellow man quite as quickly as a soft-rock cover of "Hark the Herald Angels" mocking me while one beloved Christmas dish after another is sabotaged by not-to-be-found or not-in-stock or not-quite-right ingredients.

Hostility toward the holidays, if not the desire to deliver a swift kick to the shin of one particular skinny Santa-suit-clad busker mangling "Jingle Bells" with a Western twang when it's 30°C, is typical among expats, the theory being that when all the wonderful and feel-good parts of the holidays, from my mom's chocolate cookies to singing Silent Night by candlelight on Christmas Eve, from my mother-in-law's box of goofy gifts to my nephew's blonde curls peeking out of his Santa hat, are stripped away, all that remains is the rampant materialism, and it's enough to leave even Santa less than jolly.

I doubt Santa would like this weather, either. It's certainly performed more than its share of sabotage to my spirits. Venitha and I both grew up and lived most of our lives in temperate climates, which means Christmas is at the very least cold, and at the very most, snowy. I miss bundling up for a walk around the block to admire the holiday lights. (Few of our neighbors are as lazy as I am.) I miss the the hard crunch of snow under my feet. I miss seeing my breath as I walk down to the mailbox to liberate scads of holiday cards and photos. And no matter how scantily many local women dress, steamy and rainy just doesn't equate to "ho ho ho" for me.

Mostly, though, we miss our family. Last year at this time we enjoyed a wonderful visit from my mother, my oldest brother, and his family of four, hands down the best Christmas present that either Venitha or I have ever received. This year it was just the two of us, one last Christmas before "just the two of us" turns into "just the three of us", and it was hard to ignore the bells clanging the good tidings of white Christmases future and to truly savor Christmas present.

jima

Brush With Greatness

2006-12-23T16:42:00.000+08:00

One of the items not yet checked off my mental list of remaining accomplishments in Singapore: Spot Someone Famous. I'm not ashamed to admit that I honestly thought that in Singapore I might see a celebrity. Maybe even two. Not Britney Spears clad in no underwear, of course, but perhaps the Asian equivalent. Or Borat. Sooner or later everyone in Asia passes through Singapore, it's a small island, and it's not like I'm hanging out in the sticks. Well, not any more, anyway, since I'm no longer working in Yishun.

Sabotaging my brush-with-greatness plan is the fact that I am woefully unplugged to pop culture, especially its Asian channel. I might recognize Zoe Tay, but in the "All you people look alike" vein, probably not. I've never even seen an episode of Singapore Idol, lah. I comfort myself with the belief that I would definitely know Lee Kuan Yew; the undoubted mob of security would be a sure tip-off.

So yesterday as I rode the escalator up from the City Hall MRT into Raffles City's blindingly pink Barbie Wonderland - does it bother no one else that not a single one of these dolls looks remotely Asian? - I was pleased but puzzled to have to do a double-take at someone riding down. Who was he? Was he famous? And why did I want to smack him? A Caucasian male, he seemed professional and condescending, the kind of guy who would wear pastel-colored business shirts and give you crushingly-firm handshakes, who would make you feel like an idiot by speaking slowly with exaggerated enunciation, saying things like, "And by condescend, I do mean talk down to."

Thankfully, I didn't have to fight my way down the up escalator after him, blazing a path of gift-wrapped destruction through the mobs of holiday shoppers, for it came to me in a flash that he was John, the stereotypical ang moh expat hire in Singapore, fawned over by management, detested by the local staff, over-paid, under-talented, and completely lacking in knowledge of Asian culture, from the local movie I Not Stupid. In short, my hero. A search on IMDB reveals him to be Harlow Russell, and the lamentably bad I Not Stupid is his only acting credit to date.

Not exactly what I had in mind, but a celebrity sighting nonetheless, and I'm glad to know that watching I Not Stupid was not the complete waste of time that I'd thought it to be. Trust me: see Singapore Dreaming instead; and if you know where any of its cast hangs out in their spare time, shoot me an e-mail.

venitha

Best Books of 2006

2006-12-21T21:10:00.000+08:00

This is a bit off the Singaporean theme, but I've read one too many Best Books of 2006 lists that included The Lay of the Land, and, hey, maybe you've still got some Christmas shopping to do. I suppose I could rant about the sad state of the literature written in and about Singapore, the lamentably poor selection and mind-boggling "organization" of the local libraries, and the cruelty of the Borders store on Orchard Road feeling so downhome American, yet never having the particular book I want in stock. It's enough to make you need a good book to escape it all. I suggest one of these, the best that I've read this year:

Marley and Me. Thanks, Karen, for the great recommendation! Funny, heart-warming, a must-read for every dog lover, this is one of those rare gems that I finish and hand directly to Jim. I must warn you, however, that the last 30 pages are not to be read on the MRT no matter how pretty your handkerchiefs are. Singapore is so densely populated that you see everything here; facial deformities alone run a stunning gamut. But Asians are stoic, and open displays of raw emotion are exceedingly rare: I am the only person I have ever seen cry in public.
The Things They Carried. This was actually on my Best Books of 2005 list (unpublished - sorry, lah), but I happily re-read it when it was chosen by my bookclub. Non-fiction (strike one) short stories (strike two) about the Vietnam War (strike three). It sounds awful, doesn't it? Yet this compelling book is a home run, and you watch it soar out of the ballpark with astonishment.
Thirteen Moons. Cold Mountain was no fluke: Charles Frazier tells a mesmerizing tale. Woven into one man's life story, Thirteen Moons is the tale of American Indians dispossessed of their homeland; it made me so very thankful that I get to return to my beloved mountains myself. I'm still trying to talk Jim into naming the baby Waverly after the main character's trusty horse.
A Suitable Boy. Indians from India this time. Over the past two years, I've read a great deal of fiction set in Asia. I covered no country more thoroughly than India, and this was the best of the lot. Vikram Seth displays amazing versatility - Can this possibly be the same man who wrote An Equal Music? - and reveals himself a playful poet in this epic tome. I loved every minute of it, found it very difficult to put down, and was disappointed, after over 1000 pages, to have it end.
Suite Francaise. Spend enough time in Asia, and you start to think WWII was all about Japan; even the loosening deathgrip of European colonial masters is a mere footnote. Then read this book and get an abrupt and captivating change of perspective as you're drawn back to France during the German occupation. The author's murder in Auschwitz is all the more devastating as it left this masterpiece unfinished.

venitha
It's not through lack of effort that there are no Singaporean titles on this list. I suspect I just read all the best stuff last year. Here's my Singapore reading list.

Harper's On Bali

2006-12-20T21:19:00.000+08:00

Number of nights we spent in Ubud, Bali: 5
Number of hour-long massages Jim got: 8
Least expensive massage: 40000 Indonesian Rupiah (USD ~4.25)
Most expensive massage: IDR 90000 (USD ~9.75)
Number of books I read: 6
Number of petal-strewn baths I took: 1
Number of times we said "I love this place" regarding our hotel, Alam Jiwa: countless
Number of fresh-squeezed(?) pineapple juices we consumed: countless
Number of Oh-My-God-delicious butterfish sushi we consumed: 12
Number of black rice puddings we consumed: 3
Ratings of jaffle [pictured; stuffed with banana, coconut, and palm sugar], pancake [pictured; topped with pineapple, coconut, and palm sugar; I'd have called it a crepe], and omelet in our Alam Jiwa breakfast preferences: Weird but in a good way, Jim's favorite, my favorite
Rank of roasted corn flavor Cheetos among the most disgusting snacks ever: very very high
Best meal: It's a toss-up between the divine sushi (above) or the incredibly tender bebek betutu (smoked duck, please order 24 hours in advance, hideously un-photogenic)
Number of squat toilets I had to pass on, pregnancy having caused significant regression in my squatting abilities: 2
Number of romantic star-lit swims we took: 3
Rank of Kecak among the best cultural performances Jim's ever attended (and I've dragged him to these all over SE Asia): 1 (though he did recently reminisce fondly about Simon's Cabaret, a transvestite extravaganza we enjoyed in Chiang Mai, Thailand)
Number of times Jim got to wear a sarong, required attire for many temples: 1

Favorite Indonesian word: Isnin, meaning Monday. In Malay, it's two syllables: ees-neen; in Indonesian, it's shortened to sneeen, a day straight out of Dr. Seuss. Forget that "rose by any other name" BS; a cool name and two massages make Monday a much more likeable day.
Rank of Bali among the most relaxing vacations we've ever taken: 1

venitha

Rainbows And Kittens... Come To Me

2006-12-13T19:46:00.000+08:00

Having been reprimanded for my negative attitude - Can we talk about rainbows and kittens now? - I've been searching this week for a positive outlook. But nausea and exhaustion and ill-fitting knickers are significant hurdles on the path to Mary Sunshine, a role in which I am ill-cast under even the best of circumstances.

The most relentlessly-positive person I know recently informed me that the correct answer to the question of how my day was, particularly when it's asked by the wonderful husband on whose largesse I continue to live the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed, and particularly when that tall, dark, and handsome man is dressed in work clothes and is toting a computer so he can continue his workday late into the night from the comfort of home, is not a rant about the evils of United Healthcare, abhorrent as they may be. The proper response is instead

Faaaabulous! I didn't go to work! All day! In the morning? No work! In the afternoon? No work! It was absolutely fabulous!

Good coaching, Brian.

In spite of the fact that Jim would seriously suspect drug abuse or body snatchers or Eddie Bauer's having opened a store in Singapore if I suddenly exhibited such delirious enthusiasm, Brian has a point. I should appreciate this time of lazy unemployment. I think back to a December a lifetime ago, when, having arranged the miracle of three whole weeks off work over the holidays, I gushed to friends at a festive lab Christmas party that they surely wouldn't recognize me come the new year. I'd be transformed by the unquenchable happiness and sublime bliss that would descend, softly-falling snow coolly blanketing my newly-unhunched shoulders, during divine freedom from my domineering boss and my stressful job and my annoying co-workers - Oh! Of course I don't mean you!

So how is it that as my leave of absence from work creeps wearily toward its resolution, as I pack for six glorious days with my beloved in the paradise of Bali, as Jim quivers with the anticipation of eleven - eleven! - days free from work over the holidays, my attention is fixed on the calendar, anxiously awaiting bedtime when I can use a fat purple marker to cross off another far-too-slowly-passing day?

Perhaps I've merely succumbed to that dreaded disease, Singapore-itis: having been in this little country for far, far too long. It's been over 5 weeks since my last escape, a long weekend in Taipei in early November, and in my vast 18 months of experience, that's at least one week too many without the breath of fresh air and the renewed appreciative perspective provided by any other country.

So Bali calls seductively, beckons with frothy shakes of papaya and pineapple, with hypnotic melodies of rintik and gamelan, with dreamless sleep beneath mosquito netting and the Southern Cross... Come to me.

venitha

Some Abominably Crummy Things

2006-12-12T21:42:00.000+08:00

There are undoubtedly some good things about being pregnant in Singapore, and when I'm not busy feeling so abominably crummy, I might actually notice them. In the meantime, however, here are some abominably crummy things about being pregnant in Singapore:

This is so not a good place to be big. With its naturally-stick-thin native population, Singapore is a terrible place to be overweight, and I look far more overweight at this point than pregnant. In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that I did grow up in Wisconsin, where there is perhaps too much tolerance of living large, but I've also enjoyed the spandex climes of California and the fit-for-fun terrain of Colorado, and I've never lived anywhere that an overweight person, let alone a mere normal-sized Western woman with such apparently-undesirable body parts as hips, muscles, and internal organs, is treated so disrespectfully. And don't get me started on...
What the $#@%! am I going to wear?
Lack of bland. Now I love spicy just as much as, if not significantly more than, the next gal, but the thought of chilli crab or beef rendang when I'm already nauseous is enough to push me over the edge. And after I've been such a good sport about the food here for the last 18 months (Okay, I admit I haven't been a good sport about the durian; now please excuse me while I go throw up), it's downright cruel that the plain and boring snacks that might settle my queasy stomach are hard to come by and are buried amidst all those bags of really unappetizing prawn crackers.

Triscuits? Sure! Here's the rye version.

Wheatables? We've got 'em: herb and onion flavor.

Pretzels? Omigosh, Snyder's! Good grief! Jalapeno pretzels?

Even the Saltines at my local Cold Storage are a mutant no-salt variety. Like people who buy MSG in bulk from grocery stores that devote more shelf space to soy sauce than to chocolate are worried about their sodium intake.
Oh, man, that smell! No way around it, Singapore is one rank place, and how did I live this long not knowing that pregnancy makes you more sensitive to odors? My days have become one long olfactory assault, from the sweaty guy here to repair the fountain (of course, I smell like fresh daisies myself) to the raw fish fumes of the wet market, from the Indian curries wafting from the open air restaurants to the prawn crackers I have to dig behind. Oh, man, that smell!
The fine for vomiting on the MRT. Actually, I have no idea. Hey! There you go: something good. Thank God.

venitha

Six Weeks And Four Days

2006-12-09T15:41:00.000+08:00

I had to add Master Soon's pedal conclusion to the mounting evidence: three positive pregnancy tests, including one performed at my doctor's office. But having been told for years that this was just plain, well, if not impossible, then highly highly improbable, I was holding out for visual evidence: an ultrasound scheduled for the following morning.

"Very early," Master Soon had elaborated knowingly in English, and I'd nodded sagely in response. That would jibe with when I'd started feeling like complete hell, a couple of weeks ago, shortly after we'd returned from Cambodia. Pregnancy certainly was preferable to some obscure Angkorian disease, which is what I'd been thinking before it occurred to me that, pun or no, it was not inconceivable that I was pregnant. Pregnancy was also vastly preferable to cervical cancer, which was my doctor's answer to my first post-positive-pregnancy-test question: What can fool this?

The strictly-business ultrasound technician would tell me nothing, would not even let me look at the screen. But when she turned on the audio, I heard a heartbeat, a heartbeat that definitely wasn't mine. Criminy, I thought, if the baby's an unknown life-form, it probably means Ricky wasn't from West Hartford either.* Giggles and tears merely moved Nurse Ratched to desert me, a sweaty popsicle propped on the alarmingly long vaginal ultrasound wand, while she checked with her supervisor that I'd been poked and prodded and printed sufficiently.

So hours later, when the phone finally rang just as the rush hour traffic started to build on the CTE, I was unsurprised to learn of the pregnancy, relieved to hear of its viability, and stunned to hear of its length.

"So that puts you at a few days past six weeks, with a due date of... let me check here..."

"I'm sorry, did you say six weeks? One two three four five six?"

"Yes, here, I've got it. Due date of 8 June. Six weeks, four days."

"Six weeks, four days."

"Six weeks, four days."

After the echo died away and I'd been reassured that yes, I could still go to Vietnam the next day - but absolutely no street food - I hung up, my rock and roll lifestyle of the past six weeks and four days slam-dancing in my mind.

On my computer, I clicked back through my calendar, back from our scheduled next day departure to Hanoi, back through our Cambodia trip and its - Oh, no! - malaria medication. I clicked past a severe bout of insomnia conquered by Ambien, through daily doses of xxxx-xxxxxxxxxxx and weekly xxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxx. I clicked through six weeks and four days of running outside in Singapore's heat, not only dehydrating but also overheating, easily the equivalent of daily hour-long immersion in the hottest of hot tubs.

Click. Sushi. Ai yah! Does this mean no more hana maki?

Click. Hair coloring. Ai yah! Does this mean no more red?

Click. Alcohol. Ai yah! Does this mean no more Cafe Iguana margaritas?

Ai yah! Cafe Iguana margaritas! With horror, I thought of late August and the egregious alcohol abuse that kicked off the night of WOMAD. With relief, however, six weeks and four days of clicking came to a halt just clear of August and entire days clear of WOMAD. Days I spent alone in Singapore. Days Jim spent alone in Taipei. Days at the end of which we were reunited on September 1st.

venitha
My doctor, regular ultrasounds, and, strangely, brutal morning sickness have gone a long way toward making me feel better for being such a horrible mother.

* The following quote, written on a narrow slip of paper, is one of the few items that journeyed across the world from the door of our refrigerator in Colorado to the door of our freezer in Singapore. It received honorable mention in a contest of opening lines; alas, no, it is not mine.

Criminy, thought Francine as she left the birthing center, if the baby's an unknown life-form, it probably means Ricky wasn't really from West Hartford, either.

Ode To The Rubbish Chute

2006-12-05T20:59:00.000+08:00

"I'm going to miss the garbage chute," Jim announced from the kitchen one rainy Saturday afternoon.

"Oh, yeah. Me, too." I agreed wholeheartedly. "But the smell not so much." Toss your trash in quickly, then close the door tightly. And if you're pregnant and therefore annoyingly sensitive to horrible smells, shamelssly use that fact to get Jim to do the honors.

So last night, still abask in the glow of a real honest-to-goodness departure date, we were prepared with a consensus response to Ingo's question.

"What will you miss?"

"The rubbish chute." Jim and I nodded agreeably at each other, then at Ingo, a friend in town on business from Germany.

"The what?"

Okay, yeah, maybe there are a few other things as well.

The awesome public transportation. I love not owning a car, never having to drive.

The wonderful friends we've made. Oh, great, now I'm going to have to miss them.

Our amazing apartment. It's really fun to live in a place that makes guests gasp and pull out their cameras.

The incredible travel opportunities. I never thought I'd see the Taj Mahal and Angkor Wat, hike a volcano in Bali, say g'day in Australia, eat soup dumplings in China and spring rolls in Vietnam, let alone all in the same year.

And don't forget sushi, orchids, mangoes, Mustafa, cheap massage, and our always-smiling condo guard, Dawood. Not to mention lovely evenings like last night, made possible by living somewhere that's both a common business travel destination and a popular gateway to Asian vacation spots.

Still, it's hard for such a list not to degenerate into what we won't miss. The stifling heat and torturous humidity. Jim's stress-filled, travel-laden job. The dense population, with its accompanying rude behavior and total lack of personal space. The poorly-stocked grocery store. My endlessly frizzy hair. The inescapable noise. The unconquerable ants. The freezing air-con. The expensive alcohol.

And, oh, God, that smell.

venitha

YEAHYEAHYEAH

2006-12-04T18:10:00.000+08:00

Jim's had a frantic several days at work, ~~playing whack-a-mole~~ inching toward release of the latest camera, negotiating an exit from his current job, and searching for sanctioned Ft Collins employment, all while battling a nasty cold.

We are aiming for a move date of Jan 31st.

He's sedately professional in the official e-mail to his group at work. When I query for the glorious details over IM, however, although he's miles away, I can see the ear-to-ear grin and the fists pumped triumphantly - Yes! - in the air.

yeah, mia! YEAH YEAHYEAHYEAH

I'm grinning ear-to-ear myself, and I look around our living room, fighting the urge to start packing. My eyes caress pictures of beloved family we'll soon get to see and land on two small desk calendars side-by-side: from our local community center, the twelfth in a year of months ripped savagely off in satisfaction, December 2006; and from Cold Storage, the gift of the year ahead, January 2007.

:*

I kiss Jim good-bye and go in search of a marker that is big enough... red enough... fat enough... to mark off these remaining days.

venitha

Just The Facts, Ma'am Mom

2006-12-01T13:44:00.000+08:00

I love the staff at the International Medical Clinic.

"Good morning. I'm a patient of Dr. Snodgrass, and I think I'm pregnant."

"Is it his? Sorry! Sorry. None of my business. An appointment, then?"
Foot reflexology is very scary.

Master Soon palpated my left foot in his hand for less than a minute before speaking in Mandarin to my friend Mei beside me.

"Uh..."

"What? Mei? What did he say?"

"He says congratulations. You're pregnant."
Something's gotta give.

The baby's due date: June 8.
The last day of our planned two-year stint in Singapore: June 8.

venitha

Knickers

2006-11-30T10:16:00.000+08:00

Just when I get my juvenile giggles under control with regard to the titbit situation, I go underwear shopping (Why oh why doesn't VivoCity get a Victoria's Secret?) and discover that underwear in Singapore are called knickers. Oh my God.

"Excuse me. Do you have these knickers in any other colors?"

"What's in the bag?"
"Oh, just some new knickers."

"Look, Jim! Check out my knickers!"

I wonder how long it'll be before I stop giggling every time I go to the bathroom.

venitha

Love, Hate, Name Something You Ate XIII

2006-11-28T14:38:00.000+08:00

One thing I love about living in Singapore is...
...the fruit stands. Whether you're hungry for slices of guava or apple, a hunk of papaya or pineapple, a stickful of chikku or kiwi, a healthy snack is always at hand. Fresh, pre-washed (at least that's what I keep telling myself), pre-peeled, pre-cored, pre-sliced, and served up in a plastic bag (of course). Best of all, if you share with someone, you can joust with the serving sticks. En garde!
One thing I hate about living in Singapore is...
…talking on the phone. To be fair, I hated talking on the phone before we moved here, but Singapore has significantly increased my aversion. In addition to a disconcerting lack of candor ("Yes, we're open today" - other than from 3 to 6, which they don't bother to mention) and a surprising number of outright lies ("No, we don't have that" - when I was just there, and they do have it, and I'm calling to see how long the sale price is good), I have also, in the last 18 months, gotten exactly no better at understanding the Singaporean accent on the phone.

"May I please speak to someone who speaks Engl-... er... better... Um... I'm sorry. Is there someone else I might talk to?"

About half the time, this gets me hung up on, something which, over the last 18 months, I've gotten quite used to.
A new thing I ate recently is...
…burritos! Apparently it takes just about a year-and-a-half for two Westerners to get really sick of Asian food. We recently united the rockin' good find of whole wheat tortillas with a fridge full of leftovers and hence issued into our home a new culinary era. I admit that the appeal of refried beans is significantly enhanced by the fact that many Singaporeans, who, astoundingly, believe that beans belong in dessert and only in dessert, would find them revolting. Yum!
Something I recently bought is...
…the coolest of cool Christmas presents for the family members who have visited us here in Singapore. But I don't want to spoil the surprise. A note to all you shoppers out there, though: I first saw this item in VivoCity, but when I called to ask for details, they hung up on me (see above). I called a competing store in the right-next-door Harborfront Centre, and they not only spoke English I could understand, but they had the same item for less than half the price.
Singlish o' the day:
Titbits: snacks. So I think this is not so much Singlish as British English versus American English, but this word never fails to make me smile. I especially love that people here deliver it without batting an eye ("Thank you for the titbits" or "There are titbits in the break room" or "Help yourself to a titbit"), and suddenly I'm a 13-year-old stifling giggles in Health class. Before you send me mail saying "Geez, Venitha, grow up already!", try using titbit in polite conversation yourself, and let's see how far you get.

venitha

Shopping for Walnuts

2006-11-25T14:57:00.000+08:00

Butter? Check.

Just one more item on my list, and then I'm out of here, off to whip up one scrumptious Thanksgiving apple crisp. I talked Sonja out of a pumpkin pie when collecting the ingredients proved a challenge, and I just unearthed some brown - well, brownish - sugar that I hope-hope-cross-my-fingers-pray will carmelize more than the lame stuff I used in Test Crisp #1.

Jim: "You think a blowtorch would help?"
Venitha: "More than snarky comments."

Directly in front of the walnuts, a man is squatting, restocking the shelves. I so cannot do that pose. I peer around him and swear softly. The narrow walnut row, just yesterday crammed with cans and cans - yes, cans - of walnuts is now empty. Rats. I look hopefully at the many boxes littering the aisle.

"Excuse me, do you have any more walnuts?"

The man looks up at me blankly, clearly not comprehending English, and exhales a breath so fouled by cigarettes that I step backward. He leans to look around me and shouts to his co-stocker, on a ladder down the aisle.

"Walnuts?" I repeat.

"No ma'am. Out of stock." He says, not even looking up.

"Yes, I realize there are none on the shelf, but... " I indicate all the boxes spread in the aisle, but still, he doesn't look.

"Out of stock," he repeats firmly, clearly dismissing me. I glare at him venomously.

Exasperated with both his typical lack of cooperation and his inexplicable lack of vaporization, I turn back to the nuts, still infuriatingly obstructed by Smelly Squatter. So pecans, then. I rudely reach around him. Pecans will be perfect. I snap the package savagely from its hook. Much better than walnuts. I throw it into my basket. Whatever was I thinking?

As I sashay past Ladder Boy, I'm thankful that he's too high up on the ladder to kick in the shins. Also, for the fact that I don't say out loud what I am thinking: I am so not thankful for you.

At the checkout, my favorite clerk, Celine, greets me warmly, and our smiles evaporate my foul mood. She nods knowingly at first the ice cream, then the sugar. Yes, she thinks, this explains her figure much more than her usual guavas and snap peas.

"Where I'm from, it's a holiday today. Thanksgiving."

"Oh, are you Christian?"

"Well, um, it's not, well, Thanksgiving isn't a religious holiday. It's about family. And we have special foods. Or... not. And... we give thanks for all the good things in our lives." Or we miss the point entirely and spend the day throwing temper tantrums in the grocery store. Whatever.

I bid Celine Happy Thanksgiving and gather up my groceries. On the walk home, I make a mental list of the many, many things for which I'm thankful. And I don't kick anyone in the shins.

venitha

Lemon Juice, Ah?

2006-11-23T15:02:00.000+08:00

"Aaaannhhh!" With a wincing pucker, Jim hands my drink back to me.

"I warned you it was sour. I love it." I take a big noisy slurp of the lemon juice, then rattle the ice cheerily in the cup.

Jim nods slowly, then licks his teeth with a grimace. "I can see that if you like sour, that would be the case, yes."

"That bad, huh? Would you like something else? Say... sugar cane juice?" The Super Sweet Wonder Twin of lemon juice's Super Sour, sugar cane juice is decidedly not a favorite. And letting such Wonder Twin powers activate in your stomach could be lethal.

"No, thanks, I think I'm done."

*****

I discovered the pleasures of Singapore's tangy lemon juice the last time Rohit was in town. At Newton Hawker Centre, he asked for lemonade, and like the doting auntie I am...

"Two lemonades, please."

"Lemon juice, ah?" the woman asked.

"Yeah, whatever."

Fresh-squeezed lemon juice and water and ice - note no sugar - is what we got. My first thirsty slug left my jaw tightly clenched in sour shock. No sugar? That's just not... American! Well, I know, this isn't America. No, I am reminded every frickin' second of every frickin' day that this isn't America, but... yum! I really like it!

Rohit, a child who doesn't even like chocolate - Good Lord, Deepali, is he serious? That's just not... American. Well, I know, he isn't American, but chocolate?!? - didn't bat an eye, though he let me drink most of his lemon juice and wasted no time hitting Baba up for the much cooler delivery system, if much lamer flavor, of coconut juice.

*****

So I've been happily puckering and clenching away as I perform a grand taste test on the lemon juices of the many juice bars in my neighborhood. As there appear to be no secret ingredients, the true competition is just in the shops. My favorite, of course, is the most expensive, but has a quality that I've grown to appreciate in Singapore: I can see the entire kitchen and watch them make the juice. Clean city, my... um, yeah.

At my least favorite shop, a scary woman screeches my order in a Chinese accent to an ogre caged behind a very high wall, and in less than a minute, Shrek's somehow squeezed out my juice. I can clearly make out lemon and juice among all the nasal twangs of Flo's short order. This is followed by some other words, which, surprisingly, are not ang moh, and my apparently-quite-complicated order is finished up with the same sound Jim made when he first tasted the lemon juice: Aaaannhhh!

Somewhere in between these two shops, both geographically and on my preference list, is the Tropicana, with its convenient location and its chaotically colorful Carmen Miranda fruit cooler, but its stomach-unsettling milkshake menu, where, nestled nefariously among the innocent banana and the harmless papaya, are the Dastardly Duo, corn milk and carrot milk, and that Evil Genius at the heart of every olfactory crime in our fine city, durian milk.

Super Sour and Super Sweet have their work cut out for them. Wonder Twin powers... Activate!

venitha

Well, Dang

2006-11-22T21:15:00.000+08:00

This working for a living thing is really interfering with my blogging time.

Oh, wait, I'm not working now. Well, dang. Then what...?!?

venitha

Thankful for Football

2006-11-20T18:54:00.000+08:00

As the second Thanksgiving in a row during which I don't get to race in a Turkey Trot with a Will Run For Pie sign tacked to my butt approaches, I'm still thinking of everything for which I am thankful: my mother-in-law home from the hospital, my kind and thoughtful neighbor Mei, good friends with whom to share a turkey dinner. Sadly not on the list, not anywhere even close to list, not even on the same planet as the list, is my - and Jim's - current location at the bottom of the heap in my family's (American) football pool.

Top ten reasons why Jim and I are so incredibly lame:

Insufficient beer consumption. It's too expensive to drink much beer in Singapore, whereas all the rest of the pool players live in Wisconsin, cheap beer capitol of the world and, as a happy consequence, a really really really fun place to visit.

Distinct lack of football weather. It feels like we're still in those pointless August pre-season games. Who can care about football when it's this hot?

Poor timing. Unlike some other pool players who shall remain nameless, Jim and I submit our picks before the games are actually played.

Share and share alike. After the solid thumping I gave everyone, er, well, almost everyone last year, it's only fair to give someone else a chance. (This excuse doesn't work for Jim, as he sucked the king twinkie last year, too.)

Unfriendly football environment. There will be no Singaporean kids out playing football during half-time on Thursday afternoon, there were no good-natured bets placed on Monday night's game around the ~~water cooler~~ Nescafé machine at work today, and there's never any speculation in the local paper about Favre's imminent retirement. Being so removed from civilization takes a toll.

Geographical sabotage. We now live in a place with no domesticable fowl, yet we're competing against residents of a country that not only farms turkeys but has genetically engineered them to grow extra sets of legs just for my man Madden. How can we possibly compete with that? (Yes, I admit that I'm currently reading Guns, Germs, and Steel.)

The Badgers! We're too distracted by Wisconsin's awesome season to pay attention to the NFL. Woo hoo!

Out of sight; out of mind. Never actually seeing a game has taken its toll. Actually, I did catch some of Peyton Manning's smooth moves on ESPN when I was in Taipei, but it was a ~~Sunday night~~ Monday morning game, and those have never counted as real games in my opinion. Plus, I was just a wee bit distracted by the constant interruptions by ads for the pay-per-view porn channel. And you thought the toilet was the most interesting thing about that hotel room.

Time difference. All the other poolers have a jump on us because of the time difference. I mean, the Monday night game isn't even played here until Tuesday morning! Can you imagine? Every week, we therefore start out behind, and even my brilliant prognostication can't compensate for such a consistent and brutal handicap.

Well, we're at the equator. This is a popular catch-all excuse for just about everything in Singapore - until you think about it. Why do light bulbs burn out so quickly? Well, we're at the equator. Why does that man have 6-inch long hairs growing out of the mole on his face? Well, we're at the equator. Why does the sun set consistently at the same time every night? Well, we're at the equator. Oh, um, right.

venitha

Dreaming of a White Christmas

2006-11-16T21:44:00.000+08:00

In mid-October, Andrea and I jogged down Orchard Road. "Good God, are those Christmas decorations? It's not even Hallowe'en!"

A month later, Jim and I vainly searched the aisles of Cold Storage for pistachio pudding while White Christmas blared from its loudspeakers. I rolled my eyes in annoyance, at the song, at the lack of pistachio pudding - and Snyder's pretzels and grape jelly and good cottage cheese - and at being taunted. White Christmas indeed.

Jim has repeatedly tried to interest me in a Christmas vacation.

How about we finish off Indochina with a trip to Laos?

Let's tag along with Brian and Andrea to Borneo. Caves and mountains and... what else do they have? Orangutans?

And in a kind effort to cheer me up when he had to nix my southern-India-in-January plan, I say we splurge: Christmas in Sydney!

To each new destination, I've had the same response: "I don't know, Jim. It sounds... hot."

*****

Several months ago, at a party, we met a man from India who asked us where he should vacation in America. "New York or LA?" We laughed and tried to convince him that America was much more than its coastal cities.

"Go to the Grand Canyon and the Rocky Mountains and Niagara Falls," Jim urged.

"And New England in the fall," I added.

"Oh, yes! I must go to New York City at Christmas and go skating at that place."

"Rockefeller Center? You've seen too many movies."

"No, no! I must go!" At the time, I was amused by his insistence. Perhaps, like the Germans' inexplicable love for David Hasselhoff, Indians have a thing for Meg Ryan.

*****

Today I shopped on-line for a Christmas present for my parents. As I stared longingly at Amazon's falling snow and frolicking penguins, I suddenly knew great empathy for Mr. Rockefeller's quest, for I have a dream of my own.

I go running with Sue in the crisp morning darkness. Bundled in layers, we leave foggy clouds of breath in the air as we marvel at my neighbors' beautiful and ridiculous outdoor lights. I leave Martha Stewart's macaroni and cheese in the oven and go to church on Christmas eve and light my candle from Marilyn's while singing Silent Night. I go to Boulder on Christmas morning, play with Matthew and Elizabeth's presents, eat all the chocolate from their stockings, share a happy holiday family dinner. Then I pack Maggie up in the back of the 4Runner and sing a raucous "Blue Christmas" duet with Elvis as we drive straight up to Winter Park to spend a week skiing in fresh powder, drinking hot chocolate spiked heavily - Whoops! I'll take this one - with butterscotch schnapps, and watching endless college bowl games. Go Badgers!

My desire is equally narrow in scope: there's so much more of the world to see. And it's equally overdone: I've already been there. But I'm also equally as mesmerized, dreaming of a white Christmas.

venitha

Weasels And Cha Ca And Dog, Oh My!

2006-11-14T18:21:00.000+08:00

Jim's stinky tofu post absconded with my appetite, and I've been too nauseous to do justice to Vietnam's incredible cuisine. Here, at long last, are the epicurean highlights of our October trip:

Watermelon juice. Light and refreshing and pretty in pink. The perfect accompaniment to a buffet lunch deckside, though I wouldn't recommend drinking a gallon of it before a 3-hour van ride.

Dragonfruit. I wrote in my journal that aboard the Dragon's Pearl we were served dragonfruit that burst in our mouths with tangy flavor and lit the skies above Halong Bay with explosions of hot pink fireworks. Clearly a hallucination brought on by too much watermelon juice.

Bia hoi. It's fresh, and it's beer, light and refreshing and really really really cheap. Best of all, it makes Jim really really really happy. That wonderful smile is all-too-rare these days.

Dill. I had no idea that dill was so big in Vietnamese food, and I'm hoping it was just a fluke. Perhaps we just stumbled onto dill season. Or maybe Hanoi is experiencing a dill surplus similar to what's fueling Taipei's current Banana Bonanza. To my palate, dill is a bully, overpowering all the shyer, better-behaved herbs, and I resented the feathery sprigs protruding from our spring rolls and the down blanket burying our cha ca.

Dog. While I had no intention of going anywhere near a restaurant serving dog, the suspiciously few street dogs in Hanoi managed to upset my stomach nonetheless. The village we trekked through on Cat Ba Island had a comforting crowd of canines; then it occurred to me that perhaps they were no different from the flocks of chickens.

Weasel coffee. It's hard to believe that weasel coffee - yes, you guessed it; they pass the beans through a live weasel before roasting them - is anything but a joke on the tourists, but we all happily fell for it. And it proves my theory that just about anything brewed by superslow drip and mixed with sweetened condensed milk is going to be delicious. FYI, the below converts to just under USD 3.50/lb.
Praying mantis prawns. If these have anything to do with passing the prawns through a praying mantis, I don't want to know.
Spring rolls. Mmmm mmmm mmmm. Any spring roll delivery system works for me, but my favorite is roll your own with shrimp, basil, bean sprouts, cucumber, pineapple, and - yummy! - lots of that delicious sauce.
Cha ca. We worked up an appetite wandering from a closed-for-the-afternoon restaurant to a closed-forever restaurant to a relocated-down-the-street-but-woo-hoo-open restaurant in search of the famous cha ca. Lonely Planet Vietnam may be just a tad in need of updating. Cha ca is fish fried with herbs. Dammit, Dill! Stop molesting the fish! Ours was served with rice noodles, spring onions, cilantro, peanuts, and - yummy! - lots of that delicious sauce.
That delicious sauce. No, no, not the peanut sauce, though that one's scrumptious, too. And, no, not the tamarind sauce either, though hey! I could make that here with fresh tamarinds! No, the sauce that's closest to my heart is, well, that's just the problem. What is it?

Light, refreshing, watery, yellow, it skips playfully across my palate and induces me to tag along in its childlike behavior, licking my fingers, ignoring double-dipping etiquette, and jousting over the sauce bowl with cucumber spears limp with the afternoon heat. My searches on the web would have me believe that it's fish sauce, lime juice, and garlic, but I'm skeptical. These are all heavy hitters, and this sauce is anything but. I'm collecting recipes - please post yours here - and eventually I'll make some spring rolls and do a Vietnamese dipping sauce taste test. Want to come?

venitha

Eating The List

2006-11-12T13:16:00.000+08:00

"How are you doing?" Jim asks as we jaywalk through the rain to the shelter of a bus stop.

"I'm really hungry. I could go for sushi." A common state of affairs.

"Ooh, me, too." Thankfully, also a common state of affairs.

"Do you have your card?" A year of regular patronage, or, actually, a month of obsessive patronage, and Jim has qualified for a membership and very exciting special birthday discounts come April.

"No, of course not." Tragically, yet another common state of affairs.

"How about that paper?" Initially, they gave him a paper receipt, valid until he received the golden card.

He opens his wallet and searches to no avail.

"Ooh, do you have cash?" Hitting an ATM was his task as he left for a massage this morning and we scavenged less than $10 between the two of us.

"Well, I, um... no."

I look at him, bite my tongue, and take a deep breath to staunch my implosion over his sheer worthlessness. If I did implode, disappearing right here and right now, it's entirely likely that he would never find his way home. If not for the magnetism of their enormous flat screen tv, impossible to ignore for those of us without tv's, I have serious doubts whether he'd find his way back around the corner and down the block to the shelter of Cheryl and Eric's.

I look down River Valley Road bereft of buses and clench my fist tightly round the list in my pocket. Errands, numbered for optimal execution efficiency, are listed on one side, props required for said errands on the other. I want to make Jim eat it.

*****

Three hours later, sushi cravings sated, errands run, and fatalities narrowly avoided, we slump on the couch with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a single spoon in celebration of Marilyn's 80th birthday far too far away. Her son has his faults, to be sure, but he's also honest and loving, smart and funny, handsome and sexy, cheerful and kind. And he has a wonderful mother.

"Thanks for putting up with me, Jim. I'm sorry I made you eat the list."

"Eat the what?"

"You mean I just imagined that? Oh, thank God."

He eyes me warily, taking the ice cream. "Thanks for putting up with me. I'm sorry, too."

I rest my head on his shoulder, and when we get to the bottom of the carton of Ben and Jerry's, he lets me have the last bite.

venitha

Morning Song of Hanoi

2006-11-09T18:49:00.000+08:00

Dawn creeps lazily into our hotel room, damp gray fingers curling through the window slats, slowly outlining the elaborate moldings of the ceiling above. I listen for the inevitable raucous crowing of a cock, but I hear only the outraged squealing brakes of a bicycle, the rhythmic shishing scrape of a broom, the beloved soft snore of a husband.

My handphone reveals it to be... oh, crap, I have no idea. Is it an hour earlier in Hanoi or an hour later? Did I change my watch or my phone? Or neither or both? A pox on Asia for preferring beauty (my handphone is adorable) over brains (I have to set its time myself), low prices over quality, beans and corn over chocolate.

The me-meep of a passing xe om diverts me from my internal rant, reminding me instead of our cyclo driver yesterday, hornless, but undeterred. Roadrunner, he shouted me-meep! Laughing, Jim and I echoed him.

Soft music begins to play, haunting and beautiful and vastly superior to the in-need-of-a-gong show we were appalled by last night. Is it an ice cream man? I can only hope. Hanoi has the best dark chocolate ice cream. A phở man? Mmmm... the noodle bowls are nearly as scrumptious as the ice cream. Morning tai chi? Hey, that would be worthy of a picture!

Barefoot and tousle-haired, still in my pajamas, I step out onto our sunny balcony and look down upon the Old Quarter three stories below. There is no tai chi, but the morning street scene is just as captivating. A girl and her mother, both also clad in what I can only call pajamas, walk hand-in-hand, each clasping a small plastic bag. I wonder what they've got. A yawning man tends an enormous pot over a tiny stove. Will it ever boil? A goth teenager rides on the back of scooter, holding a half-eaten banana in one hand, SMSing furiously with the other. Now there's a talent.

Eventually, the balcony becomes uncomfortably warm, the scooters outnumber the pedestrians, and the watched pot boils. When the lovely music is replaced by the harsh reality of the morning news, I go back inside to wake up Jim.

venitha

We spent nearly a week in Vietnam in October.

It's very common for women and girls to dress like this in many southeast Asian countries, though not, to my knowledge, in Singapore. Can someone please explain this? I mean, these are pajamas, right? I took this picture in Cambodia, where the mother of these two girls asked if she could take a picture of her daughters - dressed like this - with Jim. He agreed, and he has not yet, to my knowledge, been blackmailed.

Stinky Tofu

2006-11-07T19:35:00.000+08:00

"What is that?" Venitha asked, pointing out a row of deep-fried blocks of quivering goo buried under slimy gray-green-brown sludge.
"Stinky tofu!" Woo hoo! Finally one I know! The street foods in Taipei are particularly mystifying, and not being able to read doesn't help.
"It smells awful," she said. "I think I can live without trying it."

Fine by me, for I already know Stinky Tofu. I'm not completely immune to his appeal, but when I meet him on the street, I keep my distance. My excuse for giving him the cold shoulder? I keep mistaking him for Raw Sewage.

I was introduced to this charmer at a Hsinchu night market, and if I had my way, our relationship would have ended then and there. Seriously: Raw Sewage.

We soon met again, however, at a classy lunch spot, and Stinky had cleaned up his act. His smell didn't induce an instant hangover; his taste was not completely revolting. I was stunned. Could this really be the same Stinky? I admit that Stinky benefited more than a little from the theory of relativity: when you're expecting Raw Sewage and Rotting Garbage shows up, Rotting Garbage doesn't seem so bad! While I wouldn't go so far as to say I liked him, I sent the jury back out and vowed to stop badmouthing him to all the other, more fashionable, Tofus. (Pictured is one of my near-the-Taipei-hotel favorites, though I never seem to catch his first name. I brought him back to our hotel room this weekend to meet Venitha, but she was unimpressed.)

A year passed, and I forgot all about Stinky, until one day, by chance, we renewed our acquaintance at a fancy restaurant. We even became friends of a sort, for Stinky, at least in his steamed-and-floating-in-an-orange-ish-soup get-up, is good, and reveals himself to be a close relative of Bleu Cheese: slightly rotten, but smooth, with just a touch of tangy tartness. Like his cousins Sauer Kraut and Kim Chee, Stinky Tofu is fermented, and he unfortunately suffers more than a little from the resultant odor problems.

So what's his big brother King Durian's excuse?

jima

I Love This Bathroom

2006-11-03T18:00:00.000+08:00

"This bathroom is huge!" I gushed as I squeezed Colgate - alas, I am out of travel-sized Crest - onto my toothbrush.

"How do you really feel about it?" Jim responded from the comfort of the king-sized bed.

I love it.

I love the separate tub and shower. I love the big white bathrobes. I love the phone by the toilet. Hmmm... who to call... who to call...

I love the well-lit vanity and its generous counter space. I love the built-in shelving next to the sink and in the shower. I love the super magnifying shaving mirror. Well, actually, that mirror is kind of scary. Way too much information.

Best of all, though, I love the toilet. Check this out.
I love it all. A woman could live in this bathroom.

It wasn't til I was rinsing my toothbrush - God bless countries where I can drink the water from the tap - that I realized that the Grand Formosa Regent Taipei's bathroom is about the same size as my bathroom at home in Colorado, and the two share a lot of the same fabulous features, though of course we don't have that toilet. Yet. I made a mental note - not that I'm likely to need it - to thoroughly appreciate my glorious bathroom when we return home. For an entire day at least.

*****

Jim lured me out of our hotel's bathroom this morning with goodies snitched from the hotel's breakfast buffet.

"Do you think there are weird... things ...in this?" I eyed the yogurt with suspicion as some I bought at a 7-11 last night had one large mushy strawberry (pictured, though less mushily, on the container) and a dozen unnaturally-rectangular sticky chewy globs (not pictured, and a most unwelcome surprise).

"Doubtful. It's from Germany."

"God bless the Germans."

"Some of them especially."

As he left for work, he encouraged me to make the most of my day of leisure. "You should definitely try out that toilet. It's pretty cool. I'll warn you that I took all of my clothes off first, though."

"Ooh! How exciting!"

It took me most of the day ~~to work up my courage~~ to get bored with the rest of the bathroom, but I can now happily report that certain parts of me are cleaner than they've ever been before. Of note:

I prefer the easy-going "family"/shower setting - "family" as in you might still be able to have one if you stick with this mode. No "rhythm" for me, thanks; that was just a bit weird. The "bidet"/woman style is a very directed no-nonsense approach, which I love symbolically, but it's perhaps a bit much for a bidet virgin like myself.
I really dislike the heated seat, and there does not, unfortunately, appear to be a way to get the water without the hot seat. A serious design flaw, in my admittedly-uneducated opinion.
I did not undress completely, preferring to - here's a concept, Jim - just sit on the toilet.

venitha

Hot Dates

2006-11-02T21:29:00.000+08:00

Jim kisses me good-bye at o'dark thirty, and I roll over and go back to sleep, perchance to dream of the pleasures of the day ahead: limpid brown eyes, thick black hair, and a devilish 4-year-old grin. Jim is off to Taipei, but I'm sticking around Singapore for one more day; I've got a hot date flying in from Shanghai.

The doorbell rings right on schedule, and Rohit swaggers in, mother in tow, even more adorable and, in a sassy disregard of my strict orders back in June, taller. Within minutes, his coy shyness has abated, he's consumed all the orange-mango Fanta in the fridge, and he's ogling with manly interest the construction site across the street.

He teaches me to count to wu in Mandarin, soundly trounces me in a cutthroat game of Dots and Squares, and serenades me on my bamboo flute.

"Do you know Take Me Out To The Ballgame, Rohit?"

"No. What's a ballgame?"

"My God, Deepali, is he serious? You've got to get this child back to Colorado, pronto!"

Rohit peppers me with questions: Why are your fingernails so long? Can I have a cookie? Where are your socks? Do you have a car?

We send giggling ho-ho-ing snorting barking toilet-flushing emoticons to Jim in Taipei. We race my pint-sized Comfort Cab up and down the hallway. We count all the real Comfort Cabs creeping slowly along the CTE, and we ooh and aah at all the snazzy sportscars. The minis are our favorite.

Deepali chaperoning, we walk hand-in-hand to Newton Hawker Centre, sit side-by-side to share a lemon juice with two straws, and play an uproarious, wildly enthusiastic, side-splittingly hilarious game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Okay, now you do rock and I do scissors. No, wait.

At last Rohit's Baba, chaperone number two, arrives with, unexpectedly, chaperones three through ten, some of whom turn out to be - horrors! - my competition for Rohit's affection and capable, astoundingly, of eating chilli crab with chopsticks. No way can I compete with that. Lucky for me, Rohit is a rice man.

Later, alone in my apartment, I admire the messy fingerprints on my mirrored walls and the newest artwork on my cluttered fridge. I scoop the stash of niece/nephew birthday gifts, now given the four-year-old seal of approval, back into their bag, and I scoop my clothes for Taipei off my bed and into my suitcase. I turn out the lights and snuggle under the covers, perchance to dream of the pleasures of the day ahead: soft brown eyes, slightly-graying hair, and a beloved 39-year-old grin.

venitha

The Love Boat

2006-10-31T17:23:00.000+08:00

"Hi, there!" Brian's good-natured tenor skips playfully down the boat's railing and into my cabin. He's performing his usual graceful routine on the balance beam of charm, dipping first a bashful tippy toe, next a tickling twirling finger into the bay of smarm below.

"How are you tonight?"

I can't hear a response, and I wonder as I lie in my post-hike, post-swim, post-shower, pre-nine-course-supper siesta to whom he's talking. Perhaps it's smiling, soft-spoken Bay, whom Brian has dubbed Captain though he is clearly the Vietnamese love child of purser Gopher and cruise director Julie and flashes, inexplicably, bartender Isaac's smile. Or maybe Brian's merely spotted a flasher of a different sort, Jim, through the angled slats of our bathroom wall.
"How much for a big water?"

Woo hoo! It's a guest star! Flashy Charo perhaps, who's strapped on her flamenco guitar and rowed an enticing display of Oreos, Pringles, and ChocoPies out to our boat, currently anchored for the night in a peaceful lagoon along with several dozen other Halong Bay cruisers.

"Twenty!" Mock horror. "That's very expensive. I paid much less in Hanoi."

"Is that beer? How much for the beer?"

"How about thirty for one big water and two beers. No? Okay, well you just let me know if you change your mind."

"Go Brian!" Jim encourages from our shower. I take a swig from my own water bottle, then snuggle deeper into my pillow, softly singing The Love Boat theme. Before I even get a chance to wonder what comes after We're expecting you, however...

"Hel-lo! Are you ready to negotiate again? How much? Oho! That's more than where we stopped before!" That silly Charo.

Jim and I both laugh aloud, and from within Brian's cabin emerges a very loud cough.

****

The next morning, returning to the ~~Pacific Princess~~ Dragon's Pearl from our shore excursion to the amazing caves of Hang Sửng Sốt, I pause along the jetty for some Kwik-E-Mart raft shopping of my own.
"How much for a big water?"

"Fifteen."

"Will you take ten?"

The raft-clerk shrugs and tilts his head in the universal signal for Yeah, sure. If I say no, you'll keep walking, and as I pass down the money, he passes up the water.

"Thank you. Er... cảm ơn."

"Okay, so in about ten seconds, you just got the same price Brian had to bargain for for how long?" Andrea shakes her head.

Yeah, but I think Brian probably had more fun. I mean, Charo! Cuchi cuchi!

venitha

VivoCity

2006-10-29T07:54:00.000+08:00

"We'll be coming from HarborFront, probably around 5."

Andrea gasps. "You're going to VivoCity."

I wish I could deny it, but it is the sad truth. "Yes. Yes! I admit it." I hide my head in my hands. "But it's not what you think."

I have not been taken over by a Singaporean pod person, desperate to hit the latest greatest hugest shopping mall before most of its stores have even opened. Nor has HP cut off my air con, driving me the cooler temperatures of public venues on the weekend. My excuse, and I do have one, is that I'm surprising Jim with tickets to a film - Even this sounds good, right? It's a film, not a movie - at the European Union Film Festival playing at Golden Village in VivoCity. See? I'm being forced to VivoCity. Dragged there kicking and screaming, completely against my will.

*****

"So what are we shopping for?" I ask Jim. Half an hour early for our movie, we have wandered through the mall, fighting our way through throngs of shoppers and gaudy congratulatory floral displays to one of the mall's few open stores, VivoMart.

"A sense of youthful optimism?"

"I don't think they've got that. And there's no sarcasm either. But, hey! Look! Ikan bilis in bulk!" You learn to take what you can get in this country.
VivoMart, the mall's superstore, is incredible if only for its likeness to stores in the US. Wide aisles, towering shelves, and vast selection... if it wasn't for the smell of durian, Yesterday wafting from the loudspeakers, and the arctic blast of the aircon, I'd almost think I was home.

VivoCity itself also boasts a Gap (Singapore is unbelievably excited about this), a Levis store (called, creatively, Levis Store), and guys in yellow hot pants racing around on Segways, which I admit is darn close to a sense of youthful optimism, but I don't think they were for sale.

*****

Jim wiggles comfortably into his assigned movie theater seat, then leans over, kisses my cheek, and smiles widely. "Thanks for bringing me to a movie, Mia. You're a really good wife for me." He licks my earlobe with a smacking slobber, and I shoo him away like an annoying bug.

He shakes his popcorn, examining it for that bug or a prize, tosses a kernel in the air, picks it up from his lap, and pops it in his mouth. "We get to go shopping again after the movie, right? 'Cause I don't wanna miss anything. VivoCity is super cool."

I lean my head against his shoulder as the lights go down. Who needs to shop? Optimism, sarcasm, a really good husband for me: I've got everything I need right here.

venitha
This was two weeks ago. There are surely lots more open stores at VivoCity now, though the guys in yellow hot pants may be gone. The Finnish film Mother of Mine was excellent, though completely devoid of both optimism and sarcasm.

Trekking Cat Ba

2006-10-27T19:37:00.000+08:00

Our trekking guide, Mat, smiles across the table at his four charges and tips his cigarette in greeting. He is slim, trim, and muscular, dressed in a wifebeater and baggy khaki trousers. He's a bit too tall for my stereotype, and hey! Where's his green pith helmet? I, on the other hand, am playing my role to perfection, strongly resembling the too-many lumps of cheese, three cream-and-sugar coffees, and two crumpled almond croissants I had for breakfast. Slathered with sunscreen, doused in bug spray, and sporting overpriced branded tennis shoes, I am a vision of American tourist loveliness.

Mat, pronounced Mah in the nasally twang of sheep and durian hawkers, sets a fast pace on an overgrown path. I dismiss my nagging thoughts of landmines and quickly sack Jim's testosterone and its manly insistence on keeping up. Mat won't ditch us, at least I hope not, and installed in second place myself, I try to keep Mat in my sights while I breath more easily and enjoy views other than those of my filthy tennies.

When the path starts to climb, however, in the severe Asian we-don't-need-no-stinking-switchbacks method, my feet re-absorb my attention as I scramble for solid footing among loose dirt and wobbly rocks. Mat sprints effortlessly ahead, perfectly agile in his plastic flip flops. He pauses again and again to let us catch up, clearly oblivious to the mantra in my head: Slow and steady. That's fine with me, as it probably means he also can't hear the mantra it's drowning out: Follow the dink; you're in the pink. I listen for Mat's mantra, but hear nothing. The man's not even breathing hard.

At the top of a steep rise, Mat stops, arms akimbo, to watch us climb. I smile at him, he smiles back, but before I near him, he continues on. I nearly laugh aloud in admiration of this move I thought was mine. If only we were on skis and at altitude, buddy. And if only I had never moved to Singapore. Okay, that's not so funny. Plus it's really frickin' hot here. I think of Brian's favorite shop in Hanoi, Master Bake, and let the sunny light of juvenile giggles disperse the gathering storm cloud.

At our destination, a peak boasting stunning views of the limestone karsts of Halong Bay in one direction, the wild jungle expanse of Cat Ba National Park in the other, Mat crouches in a pose of which my body is incapable and lazily smokes a cigarette. He is completely dry, every hair on his thick dark head in place, while I am drenched - absolutely drenched - in sweat, a frizzy, smelly, dripping mess, wishing for nothing more than to be transported three hours forward in time, directly past the nine-course lunch awaiting us in the village, and to be deposited, already-sopping clothes and all, into the cool clear green waters of Halong Bay for the afternoon swim we've been promised.
As I follow Mat down the mountain, like countless Americans in Vietnam before me, I curse technology for letting me down. My current beefs: no time travel, no transporters, and, worst of all, no effective deodorant. Understandably, Mat keeps his distance, and again and again, he melts silently away. Just as I wonder which way to turn, I spy him through the trees, standing still, waiting patiently. He then saunters on casually, arms slung loosely at his sides, absent-mindedly twirling the silver watch fastened loosely round his wrist. I scramble after him, grabbing roots, trees, rocks, anything within reach that might stabilize my descent, and my wrist has swollen, my watch cutting off circulation.

Mat stops to assist us one-by-one through a steep, eroding drop, and I look at him as he reaches out for me. He is completely unaffected by our two-hour trek, and I smell neither his cigarette, which gave American troops away, nor nuoc mam, which gave the Viet Cong away. Smelling hugely terrible myself, like sunscreen, like perspiration, like over-consumption of dairy products, I quaver onto more level ground, check my balance, and let Mat's smooth brown hand slide from my sweaty grasp.

venitha

Ode to the Piastre

2006-10-25T17:07:00.000+08:00

*****

"Do you have a little dong?" Andrea asks me as she returns from the Temple of Literature's restroom, where there is apparently a little charge.

"Yeah, but maybe you want to ask the guys."

*****

"Can you pay for this?" Jim asks as we climb into an Old Quarter cyclo. "I've got no dong."
*****

Outside a Hanoi ATM, Brian surveys the boss: "How much dong you gonna need tonight, baby?"

*****

Jim puts some serious thought into it when I ask for his Vietnamese food impression. "I appreciate the challenge food. Dog meat and weasel coffee? Very creative. And that 15-dong soup Brian had? Whoa."
For the record, no way am I eating dog meat, we all loved the weasel coffee, and Brian thoroughly enjoyed his 15-dong soup.

*****

Andrea is extraordinarily kind when the third atrocious singer finishes her third atrocious song. "They need an editor."

Jim is not so kind. "They need Chuck Barris and a gong."

Gong, dong, close enough. And truly, if I manage to save anyone's dong from exposure to Hanoi's Central Circus, it's well worth the thematic departure. Seriously, stick to the water puppets.
*****
venitha

Must Make Dong Joke

2006-10-18T21:40:00.000+08:00

"So I got a bunch of cash but I didn't have a chance to exchange it for dong."

I can see Jim's mind race... must...make...dong...joke ...but he's silent long enough that I give up and head down the hall to the packing-strewn bedroom.

A minute later, his response limps in. "We can exchange it at the airport tomorrow."

Wow, he must be really wiped out. I add the Vietnam Lonely Planet to the massive pile on our bed and mentally assign some homework for the six-day weekend.

Jim: recover sense of humor
Venitha: get over crud
Singapore: get over haze
You: send good dong jokes

Due Tuesday.

venitha

Yearning For Rain

2006-10-16T19:58:00.000+08:00

"It needs to rain," Andrea said. "Singapore is starting to smell."

Drenched in sweat after our morning run, I'm hardly in a position to criticize. And I don't imagine the dog doo (few dogs and even fewer pooper scoopers in this oh-so-clean country) in the grass next to us is helping much either.

But two weeks of no rain to wash away this fetid haze, and Andrea's right: Singapore is starting to smell. And even worse: it's starting to fester. Jim's shingles pain ("I'm now being stabbed with needles instead of screwdrivers"), waves of nausea and chills that I can't seem to shake ("I'm not even hungry for sushi"), a lethargy that's settled heavily onto both of us...

Jim sits beside me on our bed, his chin in his hands, and I run my fingers through his beautiful hair, scratching ever-so-lightly.

"Oooh, I like that."

"Well then I won't stop. You've gotten significantly grayer in the last year." I kiss the back of his neck. "And four months and six days." Like my passport number and the lyrics to Tainted Love, I know this without even thinking.

Jim smiles ruefully up at me, and I don't know until he speaks if it's his graying hair or my extraordinary math skills that have earned the tired look in his eyes.

"It's hard not to be exact when people ask how much time we've got left here. Seven months, twenty-five days." Wow. Even I don't have these numbers at my without-even-thinking disposal. Though I admit I've thought about adding a countdown timer to this blog; I discarded the idea out of fear I'd do nothing but watch it. I've also wished I could locate that millennium clock my mom gave me. After January 1, 2000, you could reset it to count down to any date. I wonder briefly now if maybe Jim's got it, but this is not a time for accusations: That clock was mine, old man!

"Sorry lah."

"Me, too."

My feet don't reach the floor from this bed, and I feel like a little kid as I swing my legs. I lazily caress Jim through his graying hair, and I look across his bent head to a soft white sky and an utterly unfamiliar skyline. The downtown has vanished, the trees of the Istana's stately grounds are a choking charcoal smudge, and the towers of nearby Little India and Bugis loom eerily out of focus, bleak shaded backdrops to some depressing black-and-white documentary about poverty, disease, pollution, and starving children.

There are no clouds in this hopeless sky, yet I yearn for rain. I crave a massive soul cleansing, stench quenching, lethargy lifting downpour. I want lightning to emblazon Singapore's majestic skyline, to shock us all wide wide awake, to ignite a smile in Jim's eyes. I ache for thunder that rocks our apartment and shakes this nausea from my gut. I long for a storm so powerful it washes away the haze, this attitude, those damn counters, and all - all - 80s song lyrics.

venitha

If I Had A Hammer

2006-10-14T20:57:00.000+08:00

Vietnam looms large on our southeast Asia map. Pretty in pink, it arches in a graceful layback spin, its delicate wrists dancing seductively into China, the toe tips of its pompom-ed skates whirling up a typhoon in the South China Sea.

Before we moved to Singapore, Vietnam was the only country I could have accurately placed on this map. I'd still have been mostly guessing, but hey, I can pass the US 3rd grade.

Much harder than assembling the jigsaw puzzle of this map, however, is fitting together the disparate pieces of Vietnam's history. I have an overwhelming assortment of shell fragments and bombing debris, ten times more than can possibly fit in one slender country, even one as war-torn as Vietnam. None of them - how can this be? - go together. I need a hammer. Or several aspirin.

There's the country of ancient Confucian traditions, where mandarins and the educated were revered, merchants and the wealthy despised.

There's the country colonized by the French that sent its sons to study in Paris, that romanized its alphabet, that learned to bake baguettes for breakfast.

There's the jungle hell my sister-in-law invoked when we found ourselves hiking in Vermont in its biting black fly season. "My God! This is what Vietnam must have been like."

There's my university (Go Badgers!) where student war protestors rioted, were beaten with clubs and gassed in the very dorms and classrooms where I would later live and learn.

There's the country devastated by war that somehow mustered an army to oust the Cambodian regime infamous for its killing fields.

There's Young's restaurant in my Colorado hometown, where I fell in love with spring rolls and lemongrass, and I discovered the world of Asian food beyond chop suey and sweet and sour pork.

There's my friend Stephanie in Colorado, who as a baby was a Vietnamese boat person. I'm embarrassed that I learned this fact about her more than 5 years ago, but I only this month bothered to learn just what it means.

There's the Vietnamese embassy in Singapore where I got our visas: no security, a filthy paper-strewn room, and a sweaty man who furtively put my cash in his shirt pocket.

There's the lovely modern-day Hanoi I will enjoy next week: its cafés and its water puppets, its Temple of Literature and, what Jim highlighted in our Lonely Planet guide, its bia hoi (fresh beer).

But mostly, there's the biggest piece, the Vietnam War, which just doesn't fit at all. It's a jagged rusty scrap of shrapnel shaped like gritted teeth, like a broken heart, like a clenched fist, like an ocean of tears and eyes too empty to cry, like a ditch filled with bodies and a flag-draped coffin, like a nightmare, like futility. It's got the don't-fall-for-it boyish charm of JFK, the stab-you-in-the-back treachery of tricky Dick, the weak-stomached queasiness of Lyndon Johnson. It's missing limbs, and its skin is burned off, and it's blind, and it lives on bark and lizards and fervent belief in flawed political systems.

I need a really big hammer. And several aspirin.

venitha
Clearly, I've been doing a bit of reading. I can highly recommend The Things They Carried, The Quiet American, and The Sacred Willow.

Love, Hate, Name Something You Ate XII

2006-10-12T17:27:00.000+08:00

One thing I love about living in Singapore is...
...the bus. For our first year here, getting around was all about the MRT. Year two arrived, and without fanfare or notification, we graduated; now, it's all about the bus.

I recognize street names, so I can glance at posted routes and know that the approaching bus will work. I know my way around, so I no longer fear wandering in overheated frustration if I embark more than a block from my destination. I recognize city landmarks, so I no longer pay attention every second, worrying that I'll get lost or that I'll miss my stop. I know the routes that run from Orchard Boulevard to Holland Village, I know where the hole-in-the-wall stop is just down from Mustafa, and I know not to be caught dead without a book. My ease has brought an opportunistic spontaneity and a spice-of-life variety to my outings, and I love it.
One thing I hate about living in Singapore is...
…the haze. Indonesia has wrapped its forest fire smoke in an enormous smoldering box and sent the gift of dangerous air quality to its friends(?) and neighbors. Like that rock-hard fruit cake your crazy aunt sends every year, the haze is an annual problem, and this year it has resulted in the worst air quality in Singapore since 1997. Unlike the fruitcake, however, which at least inspires humor, the haze has no discernable upside. If you think that obscuring the sun might mean cooler temperatures in Singapore, I've got a two-year expat stint you might be interested in.
A new thing I ate recently is...
… roast duck. My lovely neighbor Mei highly recommended the nearby Rocovo Restaurant, of wanton noodle fame, for its excellent roast duck, and she was sooooo right. The smiley(!), friendly, chatty chef cuts the duck off the bone, while the scary, stern, disapproving auntie bags up the delicious sauce (plum?). I tote it home licking my lips, eat it licking my fingers, and clean up licking the bowl. Delicious!
Something I recently discovered is...
…that I have not won the war against the ants. The Terro I brought back from the US to eliminate our ant problem cleared the little buggers out of the kitchen faster than Pol Pot evacuated Phnom Penh. They wasted no time organizing a serious resistance force in the jungle of the dining room, however, working together in ant, er, globules in a new and most disturbing way. In the equally disturbing traditional American response to such a development, I napalmed them with three more Terro packs and enjoyed a blissful ant-free month, entertaining smug thoughts of victory thanks to superior American fire power.

Alas, these ants are tenacious as the Viet Cong, and this is their country, not mine. When I discovered scouts in first the bedroom, then the kitchen, I half-heartedly dropped more Terro, resigned myself to a stalemate, and gave thanks that, in a bold departure from traditional American military planning, I came into this war with an exit strategy.
Singlish o' the day:
Woo: the Chinese term for winning - or "going Mah Jong". We finally learned to play this very fun game last weekend and therefore also learned some new Chinese characters and vocabulary. Woo is what you say when you win a hand, and like all Americans, with the probable exception of my mother, we couldn't help but pronounce it Woo! or even Woohoo! Yoong Han, our excellent teacher, laughed and said that no, no Chinese would woo like us, particularly when he wasn't actually gambling, which we weren't, and even more particularly when he had won with lamest possible hand, which I had. Woo!

venitha
Dave Barry fruitcake quotes:

The easiest way to make a fruitcake is to buy a darkish cake, then pound some old, hard fruit into it with a mallet. Be sure to wear safety glasses.

Fruitcakes make ideal gifts because the Postal Service has been unable to find a way to damage them.

Thumb Wrestling in Cambodia

2006-10-09T18:11:00.000+08:00

"You know they're full of bean paste."

"Yummy! Probably egg yolks, too. Just humor me. It's not like we have to eat them. I'm curious. And it's important to stimulate the economy."

The main thing we stimulated at the Siem Reap roadside stand was great confusion in the salesgirl. Shock that Caucasians would buy such goodies? Difficulty in jacking up the prices and adding them together at the same time? The universal hand signal for I'll take this one isn't actually universal? I can't say.

*****

Back at our hotel, we freed our booty from cocoons of plastic, arranged the three unidentifiable treats on the bed, and wished we had a knife. Jim bravely took the first bite.

"It tastes just like it looks."

"Like masking tape?"

"Well, now that you mention it... but I meant chalk. And grainy... bean... goo."

"But there's no egg. I'm so disappointed."

The tragedy was short-lived: numbers two and three delivered on the egg front. But not that short-lived: they were just as yucky.
I looked in disgust at the detritus strewn across the faded bedspread.

"I can't believe that not one of these is worth a second bite."

"I can't believe you're surprised."

We slid the mess into the trash can, and I went to find the Pepto Bismol.

*****

The next morning, we pooled our dwindling financial resources on our unmade bed. With three strikes against us, we were almost out.

Our hotel doesn't take credit cards. A sign claims the machine is out of service; first in English, then in French, and then laminated.
ATMs are less than common, and the one we found and used in Siem Reap felt so shoddy and took my card so suspiciously slowly that I was very relieved to get it back and fervently wished I'd read beyond the headlines of all the recent skimming news.
Cambodians like their cash in good shape. In a strange contradiction for such a raggedy, war-torn country, no one was willing to take a $100 bill with a 2mm tear in it. Nothing was missing from it; it was just a tear. But I don't think we could even have given it away. A young girl in the market followed us for a block complaining loudly after we'd purchased her exorbitantly expensive postcards. Jim finally figured out the problem and exchanged the offending dollar for another. "So there you have it: beggars can be choosers."

We slowly stacked our remaining cash against our remaining expenses. $43/night for the hotel, plus $12 for our restaurant bill, plus $5 to get to the airport, plus $30 in airport taxes. Jim was still clutching a stack of $1 bills. Woo hoo! Breakfast! I had visions of a frothy mocha latte and crusty French bread, treats a former French colony can deliver in style.

Oh, wait, our massages! We'd scheduled an inedible treat before our late morning departure. Jim slowly counted ten ones onto the pile. We both looked at the lone remaining dollar in his hand and laughed.

"I'm sorry I squandered our limited funds on yucky desserts. What a bummer."

Jim kissed my pouting lips. "Thumb wrestle you for the masking tape."

venitha

Hey, Mikey!

2006-10-07T16:27:00.000+08:00

"I really like this, Mei. Especially with the chilli. But you've got to come up with a better way to sell it. It just doesn't sound good."

She nodded in agreement. "It's my comfort food." Scrape off the goo, and I can actually see this, shui kueh the Asian equivalent of my mashed potatoes or Jim's saltines.

But comfort food or not, it sounds awful, and it doesn't look much better. Mei's original description of shui kueh, delivered with enthusiasm in the taxi on our way to Tiong Bahru market, was "water rice with fermented turnip". Her expat husband Russell, she assured us, hates it.

Jim and I exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror. We'd both really wanted to accompany our neighbor Mei to her favorite wet market, the one where she procures the delicious fruits she's always giving us, unbelievably juicy Chinese pears and sensuously vivid dragonfruit [pictured]. But we hadn't expected a Singaporean breakfast.

"It sounds interesting," I told Mei with a smile. "You'll have to show us what you like." Maybe Russell is a British Mikey: he hates everything. And on a relative scale, how bad can it be? I've eaten fried worms.
And grilled bees, Jim reminded me telepathically. They were chewy, and I would not recommend them.

Shui as in feng shui, means water, and I haven't a prayer at pronouncing it correctly. Kueh means cake and is not kooey rhymes with gooey as I've been mispronouncing it for the last year, but kway, and is of course not to be confused with quay, as in Clarke Quay, which is pronounced kee - got that straight? Here, have some fermented turnip; it'll clear things right up.

Add it all together, and, obviously, shui kueh is steamed rice cakes, soft and warm and smooth, topped with pickled Chinese radish, salty and tangy and, in our case because we added chilli, spicy. Jim and I eyed it curiously - it kind of... jiggles - and took tentative first bites.

And enthusiastic second bites. Hey, Mikey! We like it!

venitha

Festering In The Tropics

2006-10-05T19:11:00.000+08:00

"I don't know, Jim. I think it's getting worse. It's not as red as last night, but it's... puffier. And it looks like there are blisters."

"So, what? I'm oozing puss?"

"No. But you're definitely going to the doctor."

"No argument there. This," he turns and displays two red spots on his chest, "is new."

I tenderly soothe the war zone of his back with aloe vera, then scrupulously scrub my hands while we discuss the possibilities. What started out looking like a nasty bee sting has marched boldly across his back and is now accompanied by guerilla attacks of numbness.

An allergic reaction? To what? Mooncakes?
Malaria? True, we were just in Cambodia, but we also just finished our maladrone.

Dengue fever? Nope, no fever.

Bird flu? I don't know the symptoms of bird flu, but he's not bawking like a chicken. Always a good sign.

Poison ivy? Does Singapore have poison ivy? Is there poison... I don't know... frangipani?

I'm mulling over the trifecta of alien abduction, voodoo, and my morning alarm clock curse - A pox on you! - having missed its target when Jim surrenders his favorite Singaporean scapegoat: "Not enough alcohol."

He officiously insists on examining me in all my naked glory. "But I drank all that Bailey's last night! Oh, okay, but no touching. You're... diseased."

I am thankfully pox-free, unless you count my zillion or so freckles, and I wave him off to work amid his promises to see the doctor as soon as possible. "Try not to infect anybody, honey!"

*****

"Shingles," he announces later on the phone, leaving me a moment of silence to wonder whether I didn't get the whole story on his, ahem, massage outing with the guys last week in China.

But no, apparently shingles is merely a reactivation of the virus that causes chicken pox, a cocky little Napolean-type that decided to swagger out and attack because Jim is really run down. Poor guy. I should take better care of him. Buy him mangoes. And rub his back. Well, not now, but in general. In spite of tragic wifely neglect, he would likely recover soon all on his own, but his doctor prescribed an antiviral drug, because, in what is sure to become a common phrase around our house, "These things can fester in the tropics."

I hang up the phone, and I itch everywhere. According to the doctor, though, I'm perfectly safe, as I've already had the chicken pox. At least I think I have. But, no kidding. Seriously itchy here. Mom?

venitha
To save myself international postage, I'm just posting my secret here: I desperately want someone to pimp a mooncake.

I Was Born To Run... I Was Born To Dream...

2006-10-04T10:49:00.000+08:00

Driven to the great outdoors by my condo's broken treadmill, I mop the sweat from my brow and remind myself of advantages of this situation...

my most faithful running partner

Don Quixote

gulp!

Marion Jones

venitha

Charlie Murphy

2006-10-02T18:50:00.000+08:00

Stuffed to the brim with one last amok, we fend off the hungry tuk tuk drivers, opting instead for a walk. As we amble hand-in-hand toward our hotel, we people-watch, negotiate a morning wake-up time, and finally stumble across a supermarket.
In any Asian city, the wet market is where it's really at, but the grocery store holds truths of its own.

Burning questions are answered. Who graces the tabloids? Far far too often, Britney Spears. Do the women use tampons? Very rarely. Do they like oreos? Everyone likes oreos. Do they unplug the freezer case every night? You think I'm joking.

Little-known facts are revealed. Even the scuzziest dive in India sells Parle-G biscuits. Bananas are outrageously expensive in Australia. Peanut soup exists. Even chocolate is scary when you can't read the label.
In Siem Reap, we happily embark on a scavenger hunt.

"Good diet soda." I stare wide-eyed at a shelf crammed with a dozen different brands, all, of course, sold by individual can.

"Cheap beer," Jim drools. He loves this aisle, too.

"Oooh, here's a new one: almond juice."

"What does a cow have to do with papaya? I'm just sayin'."

Hot pink pickled taro root blinds us from the dairy (?) case. It's beautiful and... frightening.

Pringles cans form towers of epic proportions. Given the limited selection and paltry supply in most Asian supermarkets, this is shocking, and yet I'm disappointed with the same-old-same-old flavor selection. Where's the tom yum, the udang, and, dare I say it, the durian?

In the freezer case, an unbelievable find: Johnsonville brats! Right next to the glutinous rice balls.
Scavenger hunt successful, Jim gallantly carries our liquid prizes, bottles of Bailey's and French wine at heart-stopping prices, and raucously informs all Siem Reap that Charlie Murphy's cooking Johnsonville brats... Johnsonville brats... Johnsonville brats... I tune out the echo, unwrap a stick of Extra! Lemon Fresh chewing gum and am thankful that he doesn't appear to remember the Pringles jingle.

venitha

Good Luck, Lah

2006-09-29T09:22:00.000+08:00

Skirting the tented stalls of the Bugis pedestrian mall, I'm avoiding the half-hearted precipitation and admiring my new watch, wondering how long a $5 watch's battery is destined to last, when a flash of blue - blue! - catches my eye, and I stop agape at a rack of those ubiquitous Chinese charms.

These silly fetishes are typically pale queasy you-don't-look-so-good green or grubby tarnished teeth-grinding metal, and they're always but always on cords of bold jarring whore's-lipstick red. They're never ever ever the lovely sedate ol'-blue-eyes blue that soothes my soul, which, I admit, should have been a damn good indication to me how I would feel about Asia before I moved here.

"Bring good luck, lah."

I smile at the small Chinese woman next to me. I can't disagree: one is fortunate indeed when a Singaporean stranger is friendly. And if the sullen and bored woman examining her nails at the back of the stall is any indication, Lady Luck is not an employee.

"Does it work?"

"Yeee-eeessss!" She proudly shows me her oversized purse, its every zipper boasting a charm. I ooh and ahh, point out the one I like best, then turn back to the rack to fondle my beloved blue stones, suspended, of course, from thick bright red cords.

"This one best. So many coins." She draws my attention to a tawny tobacco-stain amber number with a bell birthing a bonanza of little coins, definitely not one that I would choose myself. "Suc-cess in ev-ry-thing you do."

I grasp the mass of dangling honeyed coins, then exchange a smile with Lady Luck before she moves away, leaving my fate in my hands.

venitha

Cambodia Favorites: He Said

2006-09-27T22:07:00.000+08:00

Favorite temple: The Bayon. A crumbling pile of rubble from a distance, the Bayon is transformed when you draw near. Enormous, tranquil faces grin from almost every vertical surface. They spy on you through carved doorways, boldly confront you as you round each new corner, and laugh together behind your back. You wander mesmerized through this compact temple and can't quite believe you thought it mere stones.
Favorite non-temple activity: The Pchum Benh carnival we stumbled across near the floating village of Chong Kneas. We strolled through the crowds, marveling at the similarities to our childhood hometown summer festivals: a clanky rusty ferris wheel that no American would go near, win-a-stuffed-animal booths manned by unkempt carnies, guys wearing Buffs t-shirts and Berkeley ballcaps, endless food stalls selling... ummm... Okay, so the similarities only went so far.
Favorite food: Someone already stole the hands-down favorite, amok, for this category, so I'll opt for a distant but delicious second, the Khmer Kitchen's "pumpkin piece in oven". I'm not a person who usually appreciates gourd-based dishes, but as this restaurant was touted as the most authentic Khmer food in town and pumpkin is common in their cuisine, we decided to give it a try and were astonished to like it! No, really! Pretty much a good, old-fashioned, midwestern (US, that is) hot dish, it was baked in a metal bowl, with onions and cheese and eggs and God-knows-what-else. We finished every last bite but passed on the pumpkin and potato pudding dessert.

Favorite street food: Snake. Stuffed, coiled, skewered, and roasted over an open flame. As Venitha pointed out, it's probably not that bad - just roasted meat, right? - but you do have to wonder where they're getting all the snakes. And then we crossed the road to walk on the side away from the river.

Favorite purchase: My new coffee mug! I don't think Cambodia is particularly known for its pottery, but this mug is a great remembrance of the beautiful and colorful dragonflies we saw everywhere.

Favorite quote: "The sugar cane was all cut off below my waist." Kim Rieng, our excellent guide, was born in early April 1975, just a week before the Khmer Rouge captured Phnom Penh. It's amazing that he's alive, let alone that he's a responsible, friendly, well-educated adult. His tales of his childhood first under the Khmer Rouge and then during the Vietnamese occupation/civil war, were moving, disturbing, and awe-inspiring. The quote above was how he ended his description of the morning after he spent a harrowing night in a sugarcane field while troops battled with machine guns over his prone body.

Favorite "I did not know that" fact: The Khmer empire at its peak was vast, ruling much of present-day Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam, and Thailand. Of course, this golden age was about 1000 years ago, but that only makes the grandiose and exquisitely-adorned temples all the more impressive.
jima

Cambodia Favorites: Photos

2006-09-26T18:07:00.000+08:00

Like the demon Ravana stealing away with the beautiful Sita, Cambodia's rainy season absconded with the incredible sunrises, breathtaking sunsets, and optimal lighting conditions around which most Angkor Wat itineraries are planned. Not that I'm complaining. We were duly compensated with cooler temperatures and sparser crowds, and we still had a surprisingly hard time narrowing down our favorite photos to only ten.

Scenes from the Bayon...

Deities of the underworld at the Leper King Terrace...

The Elephant Terrace...

Banteay Srei...

Dancing apsaras at Ta Prohm...

Angkor Wat...

Channeling the apsara dancers...

Downstream to the Tonlé Sap...

venitha

Cambodia Favorites: She Said

2006-09-25T18:30:00.000+08:00

Favorite temple: Banteay Srei. I loved the drive through the Cambodian countryside to reach it. I loved the russet tones of the red sandstone from which it is made. I love that its name means Citadel of the Women and that it was thus named because the delicate beauty and the intricate detail of its carvings are "too fine for the touch of a man". I loved the scenes from the Ramayana depicted on its pediments. I loved the girls wandering around it in... Do you think they know those are pajamas? I loved the tranquil calm that descended on it as closing time neared.

Favorite non-temple activity: Wandering the city. From the peaceful shaded walk along the river to the bustling chaos of the Old Market, from the good-natured and joking tuk-tuk drivers to the raggedy and hungry children, from the scooter-packed streets to the deserted back alleys, Siem Reap captivates with its complete contrast to its nearby temples.
Favorite food: Amok. A friend mentioned amok in passing the night before we left for Siem Reap, and thank Vishnu! Fish in a thick coconut curry, amok was the first thing we ordered for every meal and the one dish we always finished. My favorite presentation? In a young coconut.
Favorite street food: Glutinous rice and something scary - for peace of mind, I'm going with the theory that it's banana - wrapped in a banana leaf and deep-fried. It looked... interesting, but I was happy to live by our travel rule: If no drinkee the water, then no eatee the street food.
Favorite Purchase: Bamboo tonettes from the young girl who provided a haunting seranade on our approach to the Angkor Thom temple, Phimeanakas.
Favorite quote: "You like only the big girls." Cambodia is poor, and while I'm not a fan of beggars, I frequently buy whatever kids are selling and give something to children who have smiled into my camera. When this creates the inevitable mob, however, the party's over, much to the despair of a little girl who followed us for several blocks, petulantly repeating this single line. Her will ran out before mine did, but I sure wish I had a dozen of her bamboo bracelets on my wrist right now.

Favorite "I did not know that" fact: Cambodia uses US currency. Prices are posted in US dollars, and even ATMs disperse greenbacks. The only Cambodian riel you'll get is in bills worth less than US$1, which is a shame, because the notes have lovely drawings of the temples.

venitha

A Boddhi-what?

2006-09-24T20:58:00.000+08:00

We've returned exhausted but happy from Cambodia, land of steep staircases, unphotogenic food, and overcast skies. And, oh yeah! You might have heard of this old temple there: Angkor Wat?

venitha

Swimming To Cambodia Off To Cambodia

2006-09-20T19:05:00.000+08:00

Just me, Jim, and more smiling Buddhas than you can snap a camera at, though we'll do our best. Back on Sunday.

venitha

And Another Thing!

2006-09-19T20:47:00.000+08:00

In a bad hair day mood, I attempt to cheer myself up with a popiah (extra chilli, having here) in a nearby basement food court, and afterwards I rack my brain for an easy errand to make the outing more worthwhile.

Hello Kitty ~~crap~~ paraphernalia? No. All stocked up, thanks.

Maternity clothes? No. In spite of the astonishing number of maternity shops in United Square, I am not pregnant. And thank God, because where would I find clothes? In the treacherous depths of my mind, I store away the hideously depressing thought that these maternity stores may actually carry clothes that fit me now, a standard non-pregnant Western woman being about the size of a pregnant Singaporean woman.

Beauty supplies? Well, I certainly could use some pampering to counteract the funk induced by that last thought. And yes! Shampoo! I need shampoo! Upstairs, I unearth a familiar green and white bottle from a bottom shelf.

"You want I show you something new? Better. All natural. No chemical."

Start with a bad hair day, take it for an umbrella-less dash across the street in a fitful drizzle, and then shellac it with the grease of a just-past-the-lunch-rush food court. From within this frizzy masterpiece, I stare at the salesgirl's hair, naturally stick straight. Oh, I know exactly what I want: to hit her, or at the very least, to kick her in the shins. And I also know exactly what I do not want.

I do not want yet another expensive bottle of ineffective defrizzing shampoo.

I do not want the small plastic bag that you'll insist on putting it in, and I really don't want the are-you-from-this-planet look you'll give me when I tell you that I don't want your f-ing plastic bag.

I do not want the whitening creams that will rid me of my apparently-hideous freckle pox.

I do not want the slimming pills, slimming coffees, or strange and scary slimming devices that will rid me of my normal human body shape.

I do not want a two-year membership when all I came for is a one-time visit, and I still don't want it when you discount it to $XX+++, whatever the @!#%?*+++ that means.

I do not want anything floating in my drink.

I do not want that disgusting deep-fried garbage that is sold at supposedly-Western food stalls, and I do not want you to keep steering me toward it.

I do not want to pay S$12 for a bottle of crappy beer.

I do not want beans in my dessert.
I do not want to walk behind you on your meandering cigarette break.

I do not want those worthless flyers you shove at me at the top of every escalator, and I do not want to participate in your stupid survey, not even if you are just a volunteer.

I do not want any more phone calls for Winston. Ah!

I do not want criticism of my attitude from strangers who read this blog and think that entitles them to judge my life.

And I'm not gonna pay for this either!

Okay, that last line worked better when it was Brian's and he had one of those annoying plastic-wrapped wet-wipes to thwack onto the table. (Yes, in napkin-challenged Singapore, many places actually charge for these.) I, unfortunately, had only my bottle of shampoo, which I'm actually quite willing to pay for.

"No, thanks. I'll just take this one. Let me just set it up here straight. Um... sorry."

As I leave the shop, swinging my latest purchase in a pretty purple plastic bag, my hair still looks like hell, but I feel much better.

venitha

Irasshaimase!

2006-09-18T17:02:00.000+08:00

We are in a rut. A profound, delectable, groaning-with-epicurean-pleasure... rut.

Sure, its walls glisten with soft orange salmon, and they're topped with seductively snowy peaks of creamy mayonnaise sprinkled ever-so-lightly with the elated fluorescent zing of roe.

But down in the trenches, we slog ankle-deep through soy sauce murky with slimy green wasabi. Its sinus-clearing stench leaves me cross-eyed, I have lost my mildewed sandals in its quicksand, and Jim's size 12 feet make malevolent muddy thwoks as he wearily pulls them from the muck.

I deliver stern lectures about high blood pressure and the likelihood that the human body's vegetable requirements extend beyond seaweed wraps and edamame beans. I cheerlead rousing mantric chants: Variety is the spice of life. Variety is the spice of life. Variety...
But then we spy that familiar conveyor belt chugging merrily along, and our good intentions scatter at our feet, forming a yellow brick road leading straight to the emerald city of Sakae Sushi. Irasshaimase! the waitstaff greets us, and the hana maki melts like butter in my mouth.
venitha

The Persistence of Memory

2006-09-15T17:27:00.000+08:00

Women wear black and necklines plunge. Men sport The Hard Man and dress shirts cling. Wine flows freely in a most unSingaporean / très French manner. This may be heaven.

"Can I get you another drink?"

"But, of course!"

"A refill, madame?"

"Ah, oui! Merci!"

I have only once in my life been this good a host at a party of my own; I was labelled a beer wench, and at least one guest threw up in the gutter outside our house. But tonight's supercilious French crowd is far more sophisticated than my usual clique, and, to my knowledge, no one vomits on the gallery's centerpiece, a bronze cast of Rodin's The Thinker that just sold for US$1.8 million.

We chat pretentiously ...almost episcopalian in its predictability... We feel severely underdressed ...V: Your hair could do that. J: Stay away from my hair.... We enjoy both wine and art: an I-like-it-but-I-don't-know-why Miro [pictured], a this-is-the-one-I-would-buy Kisling [pictured], a woo-hoo-I-know-one-without-looking-at-the-name-plate Modigliani. We discover Botero, we of course love Monet, and neither of us understands Chagall in the least, not even after downing a very enlightening amount of free red wine.
Fast forward one year. Subtract one opening party, several dozen members of the Alliance Française, and - sob! - all traces of good French red wine. Replace Rodin's pensive poet with Dali's melting clocks. Add one man ranting loudly on the phone in English with a French accent so caricatural it must be a joke.

Hold constant, however, the tour de force that is the Opera Gallery's artwork. It charms and seduces, amuses and perplexes. We easily tune out Gaston as we wander in spellbound silence.

On our way home, we practice our outrageous French accents and compare notes. They've sold my Kisling. Zut alors! I absolutely adore the modern-day Rubens, Botero [pictured]. We both prefer Dali's sketches [pictured] to his sculptures. And Jim is starting to appreciate Chagall. Mon Dieu!
venitha

WTF

2006-09-14T20:44:00.000+08:00

With our first year here well behind us, there are times that Singapore seems downright... normal. But they never last.

What would Tipper Gore say?

I have no idea, but I'm sure glad they're rectifying the situation.

Also available in Durian and - New! - Azuki Bean flavors. And, yes, as is quite common in mooncakes, that's an egg yolk. I asked.

Dr. Seuss should sue.

venitha

Take A Peek

2006-09-13T15:49:00.000+08:00

I stared indifferently at myself in the mirror of the door-sized medicine cabinet as the agent did her Vanna White imitation. "Mmmm..." I nodded in the apathetic catatonia of a woman who had tromped through a dozen too many apartments.

Two weeks later, I unpacked one box of toiletries after another into it. You'd have thought I was moving to a remote jungle village with no indoor plumbing instead of to a cosmopolitan city with two drug stores right across the street. Still, while there are some items I haven't touched in the last fifteen months, there are other supplies that I happily restocked on our recent US trip, and our medicine cabinet is fuller than ever. I should have been vastly more enthusiastic the first time I saw it. Contents of note:

Pepto Bismol. It boggles the mind why Pepto Bismol is not available in a country where diarrhea is a common and acceptable topic of polite conversation. We take it prophylactically whenever we travel and are thankful to have very little to contribute now to the ubiquitous traveller's diarrhea conversations. Knock on wood regarding our upcoming Siem Reap jaunt.

Nyquil. It's not available here as far as I can tell, though I admit that I haven't looked for it in liquor stores. Next time I'm at the airport, I'll look for it in duty free. Right next to the schnapps.

Crest. In spite of the lack of smiles and the seemingly rampant poor dental hygiene, toothpaste is widely available in Singapore. But we all have our favorite brands, no? Carried away this summer with the heady excitement of being in a Target store surrounded by wide aisle after wide aisle of familiar and beloved products, neat and clean and in stock, and me with an enormous cart and a car with a huge trunk to carry my booty home... well, we've now got a lifetime supply of Crest. Know any other uses for toothpaste? Actually, I could probably make a small fortune off it on the Singapore expat black market. Or give it as Christmas presents to my expat friends. Crest is the brand most often mentioned as missed from home. Apparently, we should all buy stock.

Shampoo. What we brought several large bottles of cheap Suave shampoo for, I can't say, but I suspect we're going to ship them right back to Colorado next summer. Jim's penchant for swiping the little bottles of shampoo from hotels means that he will never ever for the rest of his life have to buy shampoo. Lest you think you've found the source of my frizziness problem, rest assured that I spend a small fortune on my own salon shampoo. And yet Jim's hair is never frizzy. Hmmm...

Prescription drugs. Let's just say that Singapore is not Canada.

Sunscreen. I've never been anywhere that I need it more, and yet 50 SPF sweat-proof sunscreen is not easy to find here. I've run across the good stuff only once, and I now suspect that was a dream. Jim dreams of snow; I dream of toiletries.

Lotions. Foofy scented lotions used to be a nice treat in gloriously-dry Colorado, but I've thrown them over for sunscreen these days, and I'm no longer dismayed when locals tell me that I smell like it. Sunscreen: my signature scent.

Hair defrizzing products. You name it, I've tried it, I've cursed its inefficacy, and its nearly-full container is now sitting on a shelf in my lovely medicine cabinet. If I mix them all together, these fine products will a) explode b) finally work c) dissolve my hair, resolving this frizzy problem once and for all.

venitha
YouTube is being uncooperative. Here's the video I wanted to include.

Old Mac Don Ald!

2006-09-11T18:56:00.000+08:00

"I think these guys would even beat your dad," Jim murmurs in awe.

Well, yeah. We've both lost every ping pong game we've ever played against my father, even those he's played left-handed, defense only, and blindfolded. Okay, maybe he wasn't blindfolded, but you get the idea. He kicks butt. These players today, though, the top ranked in the world, could teach even my dad a thing or two, in particular that cool jump serve.

To console myself for missing the opening kick-off of the NFL season, I have roused Jim from his hangover and dragged him to the Toa Payoh Sports Hall for the Volkswagen Open Singapore Table Tennis Tournament. Table tennis is a serious sport, and today's prize money is US$100,000. A quick perusal of the player roster confirms what I already knew: Asians, particularly the Chinese, are dominant. There is a single entrant from the US; her name is Gao Jun.
"Who are you rooting for?" Jim asks as the men's doubles final gets underway, and I give this momentous decision some thought. The team from China, or the team from China? No help there. How about the team with the best names? No, they both have a Mr. Ma. I finally opt for the pretty purple and blue uniform. Unfortunately, my support curses them, and it's the team of Mr. Ma in China's predictable red and yellow that emerges triumphant from their complex weaving and bobbing dance. Among amateurs, doubles table tennis must be a contact sport.
The singles games, with their faster rhythm and longer volleys, are far more fun to watch, and the women especially play with grace and finesse. The Chinese duo victorious in the women's doubles plays each other in the women's singles final, and I throw over Miss Pretty In Purple for the smiling - smiling! - and perkily pony-tailed underdog, the lowly fifth-ranked in the world. The stoic Miss Numero Uno, however, is not to be ousted, not even with the audience raucously backing her opponent.

"Old Mac Don Ald! Old Mac Don Ald!" I'm happy to cheer along, and I'm looking forward to learning just what animals are on the Chinese branch of the old man's farm when Jim interrupts with a laugh and the fact that the cheer is "Wang Nan xxx yyy," where Wang Nan is my smiling player. xxx yyy, well, he doesn't know, but it's likely the Mandarin equivalent of something like rah rah. I'm duly impressed by this deduction from someone whose other accomplishments for the day include lying in bed wishing he were dead well into the afternoon, spilling a bottle of water on his laptop, and splattering himself and his sympathetic wife with soy sauce. So apparently a hangover makes Mandarin more understandable. Noted.

The men's singles final gets underway, and it's quickly apparent that they've saved the best for last. Soaring lobs, smashing attacks, and lightning-fast volleys mesmerize us, and we're treated to a thrillingly close match, a country rivalry (China vs. Chinese Taipei), and what is undoubtedly the best hair of the finals, women included.

"Who ya rootin' for here?"

"Oh, definitely the guy with the hair. Old Mac Don Ald!

venitha

Tiger Moon

2006-09-10T12:29:00.000+08:00

A delicate breeze wafts through Holland Village, and we bask in the competing lights of the full moon, neon beer signs, and the nearby fluorescently-lit hawker center. Seated outside Gem and Rashid's new shop, the four of us are enjoying some beers and catching up after a long summer apart.

When the conversation turns to the relative merits of the local brews, Carlsberg and Tiger, and I actually have an opinion, I know it's time to cut myself off.

"I like Carlsberg better. It's smooth."

"Tiguh so bittuh," Gem agrees, setting down her glass. Just as in the movie we saw earlier in the evening, I see an English subtitle, Tiger is too bitter, at the bottom of the screen. Yep, definitely time to cut myself off.

Luckily, Jim and Rashid aren't as refined as their wives, because at these prices, it's a sin to let beer go to waste. Jim cheerfully takes over my glass, while I make a run to the 7-11 across the street. Ice-cold water easily trumps Tiger.

As we hail cabs an hour later, I press a no-longer-ice-cold water bottle on Rashid. "Drink it on the way home." He's the only one of us who has to get up and go to work on Sunday, and after my recent WOMAD experience, I have renewed sympathy for hangovers.

Back at home, Jim is no longer cheerfully bourgeois. "I'm going to regret this in the morning."

While I perform our newest nightly ritual, rubbing Tiger Balm into Jim's sore lower back, I search my memory for the afflictions against which Tiger Balm is supposedly effective. Along with the to-be-expected muscles aches, flatulence is on that list, though Jim has admitted that even applied in the current you-would-think near-optimal location, it hasn't made a difference. And even in the interest of science and even when he's this drunk, I doubt he's willing to get any more optimal in this regard. I know I'm not. But I digress. Hangovers that would kill small farm animals, unfortunately, is not on the Tiger Balm remedy list.

I get him some aspirin and kiss him goodnight.

venitha
Gem and Rashid's new shop, ManyMoons, is opposite 7-11 in Holland Village. It's loaded with lovely jewelry, pashminas, and other trinkets from India; please check it out.

Jim and I both thoroughly enjoyed Singapore Dreaming. Check it out, too.

Success! Woo Hoo!

2006-09-06T16:47:00.000+08:00

I write today as Singapore's - if not the world's - foremost expert on armpit stain removal. And you thought I was just frittering away my leave of absence with nothing but frequent flyer miles and whiny blog posts to show for it! No, no, I have been hard at work, and after ~~entire minutes surfing the web~~ a great deal of dedicated study and one crushing laboratory failure after another, I have at last, after two arduous and laundry-filled weeks, succeeded in removing actual stains from the actual armpits of actual clothing.

To appreciate my triumph fully, you must envision my lovely wardrobe of sky blue and cloud white, its happy Western sizes, its complete lack of sequins and beads and fringe. You must feel the heartbreak of this glorious treasure trove, irreplaceable - I'm not kidding - in Singapore, slowly wasting away with the cancer of one tragically yellowed armpit after another. You must imagine the despair when on my recent US shopping sprees I cruelly denied myself my heart's desire and opted instead for un-stainable colors: dark blue (not so bad), black (great with my hair, but sure to lead to spontaneous combustion in Singapore's afternoon sun), and - in a fit of foolish inspiration - sweat-stain colored (just kill me now).

After the unsurprising fact that I look plum awful in sweat-stain-colored clothing, the most important knowledge that I gained on my quest to rescue my wardrobe from the rubbish chute is that I'm an idiot, for that's the only possible explanation for why, when I regularly completely drench entire articles of clothing, especially all those pristine white running shirts, in sweat, I believed that a stain confined to the armpit area was caused by perspiration. The sad truth: it's caused by antiperspirant.

Jim, ever supportive, kicked my self-esteem as it slunk onto the floor.

"Like your antiperspirant has a chance in this climate anyway."

He then performed "My Speed Stick Is Just Deodorant", a snotty little superiority dance which is an armpit-focused cross between traditional Balinese legong and the Chicken Dance.
So while I'm not sharing the secret of my success with Jim, and while I'm definitely not scrubbing the armpits of any of his clothing, I'll gladly share my hard-won expertise with you.

Mix one tablespoon cream of tartar with three white uncoated aspirin (crushed) and enough warm water to turn it into a paste.
Scrub the paste into the stained area with ~~Jim's~~ an old toothbrush, imagining yourself as Cinderella. Sure, you're scrubbing a filthy cinder-strewn hearth now, but a beautiful blue and white ~~ballgown~~ wardrobe awaits!
Let it sit for half an hour.
Rinse in warm water.
Repeat as necessary.
Revel in your success. Woo hoo!

venitha
An aluminum compound in antiperspirant causes these stains, so obviously the best way to avoid them is not to use antiperspirant. You can still use deodorant, though. Other stain removal solutions I tried include vinegar (completely ineffective), hydrogen peroxide (it gave me hope for the whites but is obviously unusable on colors), and baking soda (even less effective than vinegar).

Love, Hate, Name Something You Ate XI

2006-09-04T14:35:00.000+08:00

One thing I love about living in Singapore is...
...the sushi. It's fast, it's easy, and it always sounds good to both of us.
One thing I hate about living in Singapore is...
…the sweat. The temperamental treadmill at our condo has driven me outside for my morning run of late, and the amount of sweat I generate here is truly astonishing.

"I know. I know. You're jealous because I'm so stylish," I told Jim this morning as I tied a handkerchief around my wrist.

An hour later, I could have wrung it out. Tomorrow I'm going for both wrists.
A new thing I ate recently is...
…ondeh ondeh. Look, Ma! No beans! For those of you who are keeping score at home, this makes a grand total of two good Asian desserts. (Number one is mango with sticky rice.) Ondeh ondeh is pandan-flavored glutinous rice surrounding liquid palm sugar and rolled in coconut. Glutinous is still not a texture with much to recommend it, but the flavors here are all delicious, and that burst of sugary goodness: yum!
Something I recently bought is...
…a reading lamp, super cool super strong fridge magnets, a rug, a mod corkscrew, cutting boards that don't have a scary fungus growing on them: a whole bunch of home stuff that I just couldn't live without from Ikea, here pronounced ICK-e-uh. Recent visitors from Colorado gave me the motivation for a shopping spree when they couldn't decide whether their favorite Singapore attraction was the streets of Little India or the local Ikea.
Singlish o' the day:
Singlish? Are you kidding? The Speak Good English Movement has all but wiped Singlish out, lah.

venitha

Macaque Attack

2006-09-01T19:54:00.000+08:00

Kalyn's shriek echoes through the nature reserve, pierces the calm of MacRitchie Reservoir, and nearly strikes the resonant frequency of the tree-top walk's suspension bridge, sending it crashing to the rainforest floor below. Good thing we already crossed it.

"Oh, dear," the Australian woman beside me says, and we both watch my niece, halfway up the Jelutong Tower, scamper in terror around the platform, a motley crew of macaques in hot pursuit.

"Kalyn! Kalyn! Stop screaming!" my sister, her mother, commands and intercepts her mid-lap. The monkeys stop but don't retreat. I'm happy to be safe on the ground. Kalyn would be, too, if an adorable baby monkey hadn't bewitched her as she followed me down the tower.

"Venitha? They are kind of... threatening. Do you have any suggestions?"

Good thing I aced that ever-popular Living With Singaporean Wildlife: Monitor Lizards, Macaques, and Hungry Ghosts course. Criminy. It's Valerie and Kalyn who just spent an entire day at the Singapore Zoo. Is it so much to ask that the zoo impart some practical information?

"Ummm... They're probably just like dogs. Don't act afraid, and they'll leave you alone. I stomped my entire way down." On the way up the tower, there'd been only one monkey, and he was far more interested in his own genitalia than in any of us. His gang arrived while we were distracted by the view - of the reservoir.

Valerie stands up taller, but Kalyn is clinging to her and, I think, whimpering. They don't move. I exchange a glance with the sheila - she is so glad not to be me - take a deep breath, and boldly stride to the tower. Aunt Venitha to the rescue. I'll probably survive the macaques, but Kalyn's father will definitely kill me if anything happens to her.

I slowly ascend the stairs, stomping loudly. "Fee fie fo fum, I smell the blood of..." Well, I have no idea, but it certainly sounds... confident.

Safe on the ground, Kalyn is uncharacteristically taciturn.

"You've got a pretty good scream."

"I hate monkeys."

"Well, they sure seem to like you, darlin'."

venitha
Valerie and Kalyn returned safely to the US from Singapore on 24 August. Valerie took the scary monkey picture above, and she swears he was yawning.

Eliza's Minions

2006-08-31T18:47:00.000+08:00

Rain gushes from the darkened sky, cascades down the steps from the roof, seeps in through the leaky bedroom window. Thunder and lightning send physical jolts through my apartment. I can't make out a single one of the thousands of buildings forming my normal incredible 270° view.

I love storms.

I turn off all the lights, open lots of windows, and marvel at this wonderful world.

And then I remember the last time that it stormed like this. When the electricity in our apartment was out for nearly 24 hours. Unable to locate the source of the leak that allowed water to flood through the circuit panel, Eliza's minions still haven't fully repaired it.

I vote an emphatic No on a repeat experience. I am not spending the night here alone with no electricity. Jim's in Taiwan. Our nearest friends who would easily put me up for the night have just departed for a US vacation. No one in their right mind (only a gazillion stop-and-go drivers on the CTE below me) would go out in this weather anyway. Definitely No.

I retreat to the bedroom, giving the electrical closet a wide berth, turn all the lights on (Whew! They work.), close the windows, jack up the air-con, and say my prayers.

O, beautiful newly installed extra bright fluorescent bulb above me, please forgive my recent aspersions. I was momentarily blinded to your myriad unparalleled charms by your dazzling luminosity. I beg you not to make me face this dark and lonely world without the beacon of your radiant glow to guide me. Thank you for inventing dried mango. Bless Eliza's minions. Amen.

*****

I wake to a murky sky and a day made for napping. The bedroom is awash in the soothing splash of traffic on wet pavement. Raindrops have accumulated in the corners of the bedroom windows in a way most reminiscent of snow.

Emboldened by the daylight, the thought of snow, and my survival through the night, I emerge from my wintry oasis and tiptoe down the hot and humid hallway. When I open the electrical closet, water spills out and traces long slim scary fingers down my pretty blue wall.

Oh, Eliza! On the phone.

Can! She'll send her minions over today, probably this afternoon. In the meantime, might I determine which trunk is leaking? I shouldn't have to crawl inside the closet; just stick my head in to see where it's dripping.

Yeah. Here's a good rainy day activity, kids. Especially great for when you're home alone. Or, you can turn down the job of minion... and nap.

Bye-ee! I hang up, return with relief to my 18° bedroom, and snuggle deep under the covers.

venitha

Many Rivers To Cross

2006-08-30T17:58:00.000+08:00

Years ago, Marc, my big brother, made a tape for me that shaped my musical tastes. A collection of songs by Jimmy Cliff, a pioneer of both ska and reggae, the tape featured music from Cliff's albums released in the late 60s and early 70s and contained all the elements that make early reggae so much fun: heart-wrenching anguish (Trapped, later covered famously by Bruce Springsteen), defiance (I'm No Immigrant), and American-pop-with-a- no-problem-mon-Jamaican-twist (a cover of Cat Stevens' Wild World).

Last weekend, ~~by sheer luck~~ thanks to my lovely wife, I got to see Jimmy Cliff perform when, along with everyone else in Singapore, we attended WOMAD, a festival celebrating the music, arts, and dance from countries and cultures all over the world.

We skipped WOMAD last summer and endured raves about it ever since, so this year we made plans early, opting only for Saturday night tickets for the 3-night festival because, well, we're old. Venitha looked up the line-up the day before the show.

"Some guys, some band, some Hispanic-looking name, and... Jimmy Cliff? He's still alive?"

I'm happy to report that not only is Jimmy Cliff alive, but he was excellent. He dances with enough vigor and style to put most 20-year-olds to shame, and his voice retains the clarity and soul that made him a star. His performance took me back... to a late-night drive on a country road, Many Rivers To Cross (here rendered more appropriately Many Rivers I've Crossed) blaring on the car stereo... to a mountain bike ride cool down with my brother and nephew, all three of us singing You Can Get It If You Really Want... to a resort in Jamaica, where Venitha and I transposed Jitterbug moves to a reggae beat...

As we left Fort Canning after the fourth encore, however, I was abruptly returned to Singapore when I realized that this may have been the only Jimmy Cliff concert ever during which the air was not filled with pot smoke. What kind of scrutiny do you think Jimmy Cliff and his band received in customs?
jima

Plodding Along

2006-08-29T13:52:00.000+08:00

Out for my morning run from my childhood home, I plod along the deserted highway. The lake is glass, and while I appreciate the view, I'd prefer a breeze: I'm running, not water skiing, and Wisconsin in late July may as well be Singapore.
In less than a mile, I'm drenched in sweat and have arrived in town. In spite of its population explosion since I left twenty years ago, from my vantage point, it's definitely shrunk. It took my adolescent legs forever to walk from the high school to church, to bike from my house to the pool, to be picked up when I called home after junior high dances; as an adult, however, I run circles upon circles around the entire town, astounded by the apathetic progress of my watch.

I nod a greeting to Vickie, an old neighbor. I wonder if she recognizes me and marvel that she looks so young. My mother has informed me that her son, one of my brother's fellow delinquents, just had an angioplasty. I pick up my pace and hope that Jim, halfway around the world from me, is getting some exercise of his own.

I run past the church where my brother got married, then the pharmacy where his bride used to work and where, on his wedding day, I bought him hairspray to quell his fears of a last-minute bed head attack. He looked great.

The bar that would lead to my older sister's sure divorce if she ever moved back here belches a cloud of stale beer, and the restaurant where she worked as a waitress oozes a haze of stale grease. Ah, the scents of Wisconsin. And you thought it would smell like cheese.
I leap clumsily over the just-cock-eyed railroad tracks that led to my first crash on my first ten-speed bike, then jog through the park where I ate dozens of chocolate ice cream cones thanks to year after year of June Dairy Days celebrations. I backtrack toward the beautiful white church where my siblings and I were all four confirmed, but where not one us was married. Now sold and stripped of its incredible stained glass windows, it looks soulless, lonely, unloved, but no less so than the nearby hockey rink, deserted in summer.

I continue on past the middle school, from which my class was the first to graduate. It still looks like a prison after 25 years of tree growth. I round the corner to my high school, unrecognizable after a major expansion. It still sports the same unflattering-to-everyone color scheme, and it still compensates with the same super cool panther mascot.
Another block takes me past the healthcare facility where Tammy used to volunteer. Both dateless for our junior prom, we went together. She died of cancer last summer. Then past Stacy's house. We played piano duets for contest. She's now a lawyer, a partner in her father's downtown practice. Then past Shon's. He was always a jerk to me, a spoiled brat. I half expect his graduation present, a royal blue Pontiac Grand Prix now faded and rusty and missing its hubcaps, to be parked in his driveway.

I turn my back on my classmates, my memories, the inexplicable twists and turns of our lives, and I head toward home. Along the highway, my rhythmic breathing and my steady pace clear my mind, and I feel a slight breeze before I see the ripples on the lake.
venitha
I spent several days in July with my parents in my hometown of West Salem, Wisconsin, USA.

I Don't Do Floss

2006-08-26T16:27:00.000+08:00

A feast is set before us at my favorite Thai restaurant. Nine-year-old Kalyn sits across from me, making faces and whining. I smile into her pained and finicky expression, thinking I should take an oh-so-flattering picture for when I share this experience with her future boyfriends, especially the college ones to whom she wants to appear worldly and sophisticated despite having grown up in Smalltown, Wisconsin.

Kalyn resolutely clamps her mouth closed when her mom encourages her to taste our easiest dish, pineapple rice.
"It's pineapple and rice. What's not to like?"

"Mom, I don't do floss."

Only sweet yellow rice is on her spoon, but there's no denying that the serving plate is topped with pork floss, which, if Kalyn gave a chance, she would probably like. It's essentially sweet shredded bacon, and there's no denying that Kalyn likes bacon. One morning in Phuket, she ate her own bacon, her mom's bacon, my bacon, and would have eaten Jim's bacon if Mom's caffeine hadn't kicked in.

Mom, my big sister Valerie, doesn't like spicy, and according to her taste buds, calibrated in Wisconsin, even no spice at a Thai restaurant tips the scale. She's a good sport, though, and she provides great entertainment. She tries green chicken curry, grimaces, and grabs her water glass. She tries pad thai [pictured], grimaces, and grabs her water glass. She tries kang kong [pictured], grimaces, and grabs her water glass.
"Okay, even I think the som tam is spicy," I warn her.

She tries a sliver of green papaya, grimaces, and grabs her water glass.

I order more water, eat the som tam, and give thanks for yearly trips to Santa Fe, for a good friend from India, for fire-roasted chilies at autumn farmers' markets... for whatever it was that recalibrated my taste buds in the 15 years since I left Wisconsin.

The staff packs up our leftovers, and our shared dessert of mango w/sweet rice transforms Valerie's grimace into a smile. Kalyn refuses so much as a taste, but we don't mind a bit as we finish every last bite.
venitha
Kalyn starved in neither Singapore nor Thailand, and she found plenty of food to rave about. Send me your favorites, KK, and I'll post them here.

Happy Birthday To Me

2006-08-24T21:05:00.000+08:00

My stellar birthday presents:

Early morning good-bye hugs from my sister and niece.
Going back to bed until eleven. Eleven.
Finishing one book and immediately starting another one.
A beautiful vase from Singapore's dragon kiln (orchids courtesy of our hotel in Phuket).
Pretty purple running shoes and - even better! - the time for a run in them.
One perfectly ripe Thai honey mango.
Supper at my favorite sushi place with my favorite guy.

With this start, it's bound to be a great year.

venitha

Indecision In Phuket

2006-08-20T18:23:00.000+08:00

What was your favorite thing that we did yesterday?

Kalyn: "I can't decide. What did we do again?"

We saw gorgeous ocean views...
Jim: "You slept through that part."

And we went to a Buddhist temple...
K: "Oh, yeah! I liked tapping gold on those guys."
J: "Those guys were monks."

And we saw that place with all the elephants...
K: "And horses. And cats and dogs."
J: "Sleeping together! Total anarchy!"
K: "What's anarchy?"

And we had that awesome lunch at that restaurant with that great view...
K: "Where I had all that caffeine."
J: "Where we all had all that caffeine. I loved that place."

And we walked through that market with fruits and vegetables and seafood and frogs...
K: "The smelly market!"
J: "The cool market!"

And we hiked to that waterfall...
K: "I wanted to go camping there."
J: "I wanted to throw you in there."

And we went to that night market where you got that cool popsicle and we got that fresh-squeezed orange juice...
K: "That I liked and that my mom didn't like."
And that fresh pineapple...
J: "That your mom liked that you didn't like."
K: "I liked it; I just didn't want anymore."

And we had supper at that reggae bar on the ocean...
J: "With all the hookers."
K: "The what?"
J: "The piña coladas in coconuts."
K: "Oh, yeah!"

So what was your favorite?

K: "I can't decide. It was all my favorite."

Mine, too.
venitha

Phuket Massage

2006-08-18T17:53:00.000+08:00

Massage for four, please!

One hour and one massive oil slick later...
Kalyn: "That was the best massage I ever had." [Editor's note: Kalyn has had numerous massages in her short 9 years, so this is no small praise.]

Valerie: "It was all right. I would have liked more on my shoulders."

Venitha: "I may actually get completely comfortable with full-frontal massage at just about the time that we leave Asia."

Jim: "Ahhhhh... Back again tomorrow?"

venitha

Smooshing

2006-08-16T23:50:00.000+08:00

I'm smooshing water toys into my suitcase when a key turns in the lock. Seconds later, I've claimed my familiar spot in Jim's arms.

"My God! Home alone!"

But not for long. The birthday girl and her mom ditched us tonight to put the finishing touches on Sentosa, and Jim and I enjoyed entire minutes alone together before our bookclub descended, complete with good Asian dessert (thanks, Yoong Han!), which left me so shocked I forgot to take a picture! Don't worry; I'll track down the bean-free marvel and write all about it next week.

In the meantime, the girls (that would be Venitha, Valerie, and now-9-year-old and vastly more sophisticated Kalyn) ditch Jim and head tomorrow to the tropical paradise of Phuket for poolside lounging, gibbon ogling, and - oh, yeah, my favorite! - shopping.

Don't worry. Jim will catch up with us on Friday, in plenty of time for Thai massages, wicked spicy food, and one exceedingly cool reggae bar.

Back on Monday.

venitha

Kalyn's Favorites

2006-08-15T21:18:00.000+08:00

In celebration of her 9th birthday - Happy Birthday, KK! - here are Kalyn's Favorites of Singapore...

Indian food: naan
"Garlic is best, then plain."
Chinese food: soup dumplings
"I call them little basket buns."
Singaporean food: chicken rice
Breakast food at Aunt Venitha's: "I can't decide between hot chocolate, hard-boiled eggs, and waffles."
Tropical fruit: pineapple
Dessert: coconut crème brûlée at Brewerkz
Sentosa show: 4-D Magix
Sentosa ride: Luge
"The Luge-ous Lizard!"
Sentosa animal: pink dolphins
Zoo animal: Siberian tigers
Shopping destination: Chinatown
Singapore attraction: science museum
Fireworks display in last week's competition: France
Souvenir: Chinese outfit
Public transportation: MRT
Statue: Raffles
Orchid: red with freckles
"Just like me!"

venitha

Whine Whine Whine

2006-08-14T17:35:00.000+08:00

Over a year of whining about Singapore's weather is finally paying off. It is actually pleasant outdoors, and I don't just mean in that five feet at the open doorways of air-conditioned shops.

Of course, Kalyn, my almost-9-year-old niece visiting from Wisconsin, is doing her damnedest to undo all my hard work.
"I'm co-old," she whined last night, smiling teasingly at me as a cool breeze, obviously straight from heaven, stirred the bright pink tablecloths of our Starlite Dinner Cruise aboard an authentic Chinese junk.
"Whine whine whine." What is she, related to me? I glowered teasingly back, resisted the urge to toss her into the Singapore Strait, and looked around for some duct tape, to no avail, to shut her up. I mean, really, if you're going to whine incessantly, there's no reason to do it aloud.

Just start a blog.

Heh.

venitha
Watch this space for guest commentary courtesy of my favorite almost-9-year-old. Odds are quite good that it will be whine-free: we're having an awesome time, and even my whining has been drowned by raves, laughter, and Kalyn's gleeful cackles.

Seventy Cents

2006-08-08T00:32:00.000+08:00

"Oh, wait. I've got the 70 cents," I tell the Home Depot clerk, who is without a doubt Ashton Kutcher researching an upcoming movie role. I dig a handful of change out of the bottom of my bag, glancing about for Demi Moore. Surely she's in the power tool aisle, bare shoulders and cleavage enhancing her orange apron as she demonstrates first the DeWalt, then the Ryobi, power drill.

I liberate all the silver coins from my hand and stuff a fistful of pennies back in my bag, making a mental note to keep an eye out for a gumball machine, a marvel of which Singaporean children are tragically deprived. I set two quarters and two dimes on the counter while Ash stares vacantly at the open cash register drawer.

"That means you get... seven dollars back?"

"Yep."

I take the bills, and one by one he dully thumps each coin with his index finger, counting v-e-r-y slowly, silently mouthing numbers. Twenty-five... fifty... sixty...

"Long day?"

"Long night is more like it."

"I hear ya." Drinking for two ever since Jim departed for Asia, I consumed an impressive number of margaritas myself last night, and while I am not currently arithmetically impaired, it's not for lack of effort.

"I hope your shift's over soon."

"Thanks." He shoots me a queasy smile.

I grab my bottle of Goo Gone, pleased at not having been offered a bag, even if it's merely hangover-induced oversight and not Home Depot's token effort to compensate for the solvent I'm about to release into the environment.

There's something symbolic about my suitcase's attempt to implode here in Colorado and to expose beneath some decorative (at least I hope they're decorative, as I've removed them) straps a sticky goo that gloms onto everything: Humpty Dumpty, as my trusty (until this point) Samsonite shall henceforth be known, wants to stay here in Colorado, too. Always one to note and then to ignore such subtle messages, I do my best to put Humpty back together again and employ the brute force of Goo Gone to clean up his act.

I am tempted to wipe Humpty clean, to strip him of his colorful sticker storybook of airport security validations, immigration and customs certifications, and three-letter abbreviations for Asian cities next to smudged bar codes. But I don't. Like the slight hangover that reminds you all day of a night well-enjoyed, a little baggage is not a bad thing.

venitha

Not Even

2006-08-07T11:33:00.000+08:00

I don't want to go back to Singapore.

Not even to sleep in my own bed.

Not even to stop living out of a suitcase.

Not even for welcome-back sushi.

Not even for Thai mangoes and pineapples.

Not even to live without a car and to be oblivious to $3/gallon gasoline.

Not even for the bliss of not hearing GW on the radio every day.

Not even for our National Day party on Wednesday, enjoying the fireworks from our rooftop with all our wonderful Singapore friends.

Not even for the next three weeks in Singapore and Thailand with my sister and 8-year-old niece.

Not even for Womad.

Not even for the travels Jim and I have planned for the next year, to Cambodia, Vietnam, India, and Indonesia.

Not even to have interesting stuff to blog about.

Not even... to be with Jim?

Well, hell. My shuttle leaves at dark o'clock tomorrow morning, and 24 hours later, I'll be back "home" in Singapore.

venitha

Moonlight And Vodka

2006-07-26T11:32:00.000+08:00

I love being someone I would want to know.

venitha

Return On Expectation

2006-07-25T04:06:00.000+08:00

7 @ the Taj Mahal - see you then!

It's not that we're suffering mango lassi withdrawal so much as that it's inconceivable to meet David, a friend for over a decade, anywhere but the same place we've always met, at our favorite local Indian restaurant. The Taj Mahal's friendly owner greets us exuberantly - Welcome! Welcome! Too long! - and the pungent smell of curries waves hello from the kitchen. We devour the menu with newfound interest now that we're connoisseurs - Hey! Aloo chaat! And do you want to get one of these pakoras? - though just as with Singapore's Jaggi's (mmmm... butter chicken), we know the main dish we'll order at Fort Collins' Taj Mahal before we even step in the door: saag paneer, chunks of soft Indian cheese (that's the paneer) buried under a thick sludge of spinach and mustard greens (that's the saag).
Jim has ordered palak, a greener thinner version of saag, from nearly every Indian menu he's seen in the last year, but palak is a deathly pale imitation in spite of its brighter color. The Taj Mahal's saag lives up to its star billing in my memory and soars to new heights with an even more astronomical Return On Expectation ratio (how good it tastes divided by how good it looks) than I remembered. Doesn't it look revolting? But, believe me, it's divine.

At the other extreme on the ROE scale are these irresistible little gems we first encountered in Bangkok. I have no idea what they are, but trust me: steer clear! Unless, of course, you're looking for a good gag gift for your niece's upcoming 9th birthday. Hmmm.... And we are going to Thailand...
venitha

A Perfect Summer Afternoon

2006-07-23T08:43:00.000+08:00

Awaiting Jim's Taxi Service on a perfect summer afternoon, I'm sprawled on the grass beneath the shade of twin crabapple trees. After nodding off in my dentist's deserted waiting room, I abandoned the too-comfortable loveseat for the less-embarrassing-to-doze-on perfectly-coiffed lawn outside. The book I just finished, a depressing memoir by a survivor of the Khmer Rouge killing fields, is more effective as my pillow than as a Cambodian travel brochure; and it's a hardcover. I banish the second thoughts I'm having about our prospective tour of Cambodia in September - Out! Out, damned thoughts! - and I fleetingly wish I'd swiped a cushion from the loveseat.

Tammy, the cheerful receptionist who has worked miracles for us this week, pulls up in an oversized SUV, sporting a ponytail, a tank top, and an adolescent daughter. Must be her day off. Junior's jet black hair leaves me casting a curious glance at Tammy's pretty platinum curls, but I don't move. If she recognizes me, she'll come over and chat, but over-socialized lately to the point of extreme bitchiness to loved ones, I prefer to remain silently incognito behind dark sunglasses.

A cool, light breeze stirs the leaves above me, and I stretch one languorous foot into the sun, taking a tip from Australia's crocodiles to regulate my body temperature. The tension of two weeks packed solid with healthcare appointments, stock-up shopping sprees, and meal after meal after meal with found-lost-found-lost friends - Hello! Good-bye! - slowly oozes from my shoulders. I inhale slowly, then exhale completely. Ah, bliss.

I wake with the slam of a car door. Tammy's gas-guzzling SUV has been replaced by Marilyn's sporty sedan. I guiltily pull my un-suncreened foot into the shade, check my watch, and call languidly to Jim as he saunters toward the dentist office door.

He shoots me the smile that I love so well, then comes and sits beside me, emanating massage-induced relaxation.

"Done being cranky?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

venitha

Wonder Woman

2006-07-21T12:21:00.000+08:00

"You dodged a bullet. Do you want to count on doing that again?"

What? Does my doctor not recognize that I am Wonder Woman? I deflect all threats with my bulletproof bracelets! I possess super strength, super speed, and a fully-fused tibial plateau! And, best of all, I fly! I fly all over tarnation and back and then on to Singapore and - Oh, yeah! I almost forgot! - round trip to Thailand all in the month following a surgery that leaves me, at least for a short time, unable to walk! And my powers - most likely my magic lasso, don't you think? - protect me from death or worse via deep-vein thrombosis, which, in layman's terms for those of you who have not had the pleasure of giving or receiving daily Lovenox injections in the stomach, is a blood clot.

As glorious as being stranded in Colorado would be, my upcoming schedule just does not allow for a month planted firmly here on solid ground, which is what my orthopedic surgeon very strongly recommends be my plan after he removes the odds and ends Doogie Howser left in my leg. Reluctantly, I admit that Doc Martens has a point, and I don't just mean that avoiding the risk of DVT is worth a little discomfort for the next year.

From my woe-is-me perspective, I was shot multiple times at point blank range; but tilt my head and squint a bit, and I dodged a bullet. I walk, and I run. I don't limp. I stretch my quad and touch my butt with my heel. I dash gracefully down entire flights of stairs - down is much harder than up. With a little hard work and a little ~~Percocet~~ pain tolerance, I can do anything I want with this knee, and that's pretty frickin' amazing considering my initial prognosis.

Whaddya know? Maybe I really am Wonder Woman.

Nah. I'm just The Bionic Woman. At least for another year.

venitha

It's All Relative

2006-07-19T12:05:00.000+08:00

"It's official," I told Jim as we walked around the block, gloriously sweat-free after a five-mile run in the cool Colorado morning air. "Singapore is hell."

Jim smiled ruefully but said nothing, and not only because he was still gasping for oxygen in the mile-high air. It's a slippery slope, this bitter negativity, one he's lost his footing on before. Older and wiser, he now stands firmly on the Ridge of Neutrality. And gets one helluva good footing before offering me a hand up with his mantra: it's all relative.
Many dry miles and a few jetlag-free days and nights later, I'm more amenable to Jim's perspective. Singapore may not be hell. Ft Collins may not be heaven. Still, I'm glad I went to church on Sunday; I have no doubt about where I want to spend the rest of my life, let alone eternity.

venitha
This was the lead article of the local newspaper on Monday, July 17. Also of note is the fine print on the right: Today's Weather. The high of 99°F is significantly hotter than Singapore's usual 86, but believe me: It's not the heat; it's the humidity. The low of 61°F is significantly colder than Singapore's lowest temperature ever recorded, 67.

Great Gummy Gobs

2006-07-17T12:06:00.000+08:00

"Cherries! From U.S.!" the hawker at my favorite fruit stand in Singapore regularly greets me. It's been a year, and he still hasn't learned that I will buy his mangoes and his rambutan, his longan and his mangosteen, but never the cherries and grapes so common and inexpensive in my home country. No, I'm saving those for life beyond the confines of Singapore; as a sweet welcome home to Colorado this summer, we've indulged in pound after pound of luscious red strawberries. Mmmm... with chocolate.
Turn about is fair play, of course, and we laughed at my mother-in-law's offer to take us to our hometown's newly-opened Asian buffet. No, thank you. Instead we've been eating our way around the rest of the world: Italian pizza, Lebanese falafel, Mexican burritos, Tex-Mex fajitas, and oh-so-American steak and corn-on-the-cob.

The food(?) I was happiest to stumble across at the vast new grocery store (My! What big aisles you have!) near our Colorado home is chewing gum, which is unavailable in Singapore. I intend to chew great gummy gobs Valley-Girl-style, mouth open, noisily smacking and snapping and blowing enormous bubbles as I enjoy another item unavailable in Singapore and happily purchased this week: the unauthorized biography of Lee Kuan Yew.
venitha

Jim's Jaundiced Jawings

2006-07-15T22:24:00.000+08:00

People keep telling us it's hot here. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. What it is, is dry, and I had forgotten what dry weather is like. A downside: My feet are sore and cracking and screaming for lotion after three days. An upside: Wet laundry hung out on the deck dries in just a couple of hours!

In the late afternoon sun, the mountains reverberate, grey blue silhouettes that echo in increasing heights as they march to the west. Living here so long, we'd grown accustomed to this view and took it for granted - but no more!

It's been a culture shock to spend a week at work in my old office in Ft Collins. Oddly, it's noisier despite the higher cube walls. Americans speak very loudly. Office waste recycling boxes are a refreshing change from Singapore, and I love wearing shorts and sandals to work on a hot day - and not freezing in air-con so cold that I regret it!

Thanks to my lovely wife and the wonder of being able to bike to work, I've barely driven at all this week. In Singapore, I missed biking, not driving; in Colorado, I'm missing Singapore's MRT. For the record, we have an American friend in Singapore who bikes to work; he is insane.

We've invited friends over for a backyard BBQ tomorrow night, and strangely enough, our four unrelated guests have all enjoyed our hospitality in Singapore. How will our backyard deck in Colorado compare to our rooftop garden in Singapore?

Last night we enjoyed a wonderful evening with some wonderful friends and finally met their latest addition: a beautiful daughter with enormous brown eyes who was born the day we moved to Singapore! Kaitlyn's just starting to walk, which seems an appropriate metaphor for us.

jima - Stay tuned for pix!

Venitha's Verbal Vomit

2006-07-14T11:25:00.000+08:00

Not driving for over a year has made me the worst driver, appallingly discourteous to pedestrians, bikers, and other drivers. In addition, my once stellar navigation-about-town has deserted me. I can't decide if I should blame jetlag, an astonishing amount of road construction, or the evil trickster who rearranged the city in my absence.

Clerks everywhere, from the grocery store to restaurants to clothing stores at the mall, are so friendly and helpful that I'm suspicious of them.

That bastard Eddie Bauer is currently stocking fall clothes - no shorts! Not as ridiculous as Esprit in Singapore pushing denim jackets with fur collars, but still.

I gave my hairdresser the hugest tip.

If the number of postcards on the fridge are any indication, Jim and I have done a buttload of travel in the last year. Strangely missing from my mother-in-law's postcard collection: Singapore!

I've really missed my favorite local restaurant, Yum Yum, and its incredible falafel. Yum yum.
Running in Colorado is glorious: cool and breezy early mornings, gorgeous sunrises well before 7, and yard after yard ablaze with summer flowers. What with one broken bone after another followed by Singapore's continual attempts to drown me in sweat at the mere thought of physical exertion, it's been way too long since I've been able both to run and to love it. Now, does anyone know where I can pick up a pair of high-altitude-capable lungs?
venitha

No Little Magpie

2006-07-12T11:42:00.000+08:00

"No little Magpie," I say to Jim as we round the final corner toward home.

"No little Magpie," he confirms.

Our house is not the same without her. No Oh, yay! It's you! waggle greets me at the door, no luminous brown eyes stare up at me while I make lunch, no one anxiously dodges past me out the garage door in wild enthusiasm for any and every errand.

Still, in her absence, there is a presence. A shadow catches my eye as I walk by the back door. Do you want in, little girl? A ghost trails after me, "helping" me weed the backyard. You're going to make yourself sick, Mags. A phantom tail thumps in companionship as I tiptoe to the bathroom by the light of the moon. I see you, sweets.

Stuffed with our traditional welcome home meal of Pulcinella's double-crust spinach pizza, the three human inhabitants of our house go for a walk in the balmy summer evening, following Maggie's well-worn path to the mailbox. I delight in a package from Amazon, Marilyn marvels at a beautiful postcard from Australia, and Jim stuffs his large pockets full of junk mail for all three of us. Maggie never received anything but threatening postcards from her nemesis, the vet, so she understandably eschewed the mailbox, straining past it to the extent of her long leash. C'mon! C'mon! The short walk is for poodles. Onward!
We follow Maggie's steps around the block past the infamous Barky Dog Corner, where B.D. himself accosts us, yelling the same old obscenities with the same old vociferous abandon from the same old edge of his invisible fence. God help me, but why are this cur's vicious barks allowed to contaminate the languid evening while Maggie's lovely lilting broo-roo-oo will never be heard again? I want to kick the bright yellow fire hydrant, buried under layers of never-to-be-received p-mail.

As we near the corner and home, our pace slows along with Maggie's, and she warms our hearts with smiles and laughter, conjuring memories of The Wheelchair Incident. Eighteen months ago, Jim off in exotic Singapore, the ladies of the house formed a train in this exact spot. Marilyn, the little engine that could, pushed me in my wheelchair, while Maggie, our dawdling caboose, careened chaotically off the track at the end of her very long leash.

"C'mon, Maggie!" I gave her an impatient jerk. "Get a move on!"

Maggie ignored me completely, busily sniffing a bush taller than she.

"Move it, Maggie!"

Marilyn, indulgently waiting, giggled, and a moment later her amusement penetrated my Percocet-addled brain.

"Let's go!"

What a shocking sight we must have been to my neighbors! That evil woman! Berating that little old lady who's kind enough to take her for a walk! Maggie, delving deep into her bush 20 feet behind us, was, of course, nowhere to be seen.

But I could feel her then as I tugged on that leash. And I can feel her now as she tugs on my heart. I miss you, little girl.

venitha

Exhausted But Happy

2006-07-11T10:12:00.000+08:00

"Where are the mountains?" a voice shrill with high-maintenance demands from the back seat of the Hertz bus.

Seated facing us, a man weary of travel and, I must assume, of his traveling companion glances up from his map. He does a brief out-the-window survey, taking in Denver International Airport's man-made peaks, gleaming white points which protrude sharply from a vast brown plain that extends to Kansas and beyond.

"There," he decides, gesturing vaguely in the exact opposite direction of Colorado's Rocky Mountains, currently obscured by the haze of a lazy summer afternoon.

Jim squeezes my hand, and we stare with tired smiles at the quavering line that dimly traces a profile of distant mountain peaks against pale blue sky.

Exhausted, but happy, we are home.

venitha

Let The Countdown Begin

2006-07-09T22:19:00.000+08:00

10 hours til we dig through the candy bowls at Changi Airport's emigration check to find the best flavor, ~~lemon~~ yellow.
32 hours til I see the majestic Rocky Mountains. America The Beautiful.
34 hours til I kiss my beloved mother-in-law's cheek. God bless Marilyn.
2 days til I get to shop for clothing that will fit me. God bless Eddie Bauer.
3 days til I get my hair cut by a competent professional. Overly harsh? Unwarrantedly bitter? I have suffered greatly, and I have the photos to prove it.
4 days til I get to ~~be driven into the ground by~~ go for a morning run with Sue. I barely kept up with her on our last run, in sea-level Bali, so I'll have my work cut out for me in mile-high Colorado.
6 days til I bask in the love at a Colorado family gathering.
11 days til I get the hardware removed from my knee. Think they'll let me keep it? Think I'll still be able to walk?
14 days til I am treated to a feast cooked up by my favorite Chinese chef. Mmmm... dumplings... we are having dumplings, right?
15 days til I cuddle my little sister's adorable son, whose age has more than tripled since the last time I cuddled him. I feel like my age has tripled as well.
16 days til I hug my parents. Hi, Mom!
16 days til I drink Wisconsin cherry beer, eat cheese curds, and savor frozen custard. Good thing I've been eating so healthily in Asia that I can afford to splurge a bit.
19 days til I cheer on the Brewers at Milwaukee's Miller Park.
3 weeks til I sleep in my brother's new home. Here's to repatriated cheeseheads!
4 weeks til Singapore's National Day, when I return to 41-year-old Singapore and my beloved husband, my older sister and my 8-year-old niece in tow.
5 weeks til we all four go to Phuket. Sawadee, Thailand!
6 weeks til I turn 38 and collapse in exhaustion from a really wonderful summer.

venitha

Pointlessly Rambling

2006-07-08T19:37:00.000+08:00

It's 5:30am, and I'm wide awake. I'm typing feverishly and sweating profusely. Whatever possessed me to eat two entire Lindt chocolate bars at 1:00 in the morning, I can't say. Can you hear that shrieking STRESS WUAH WUAH STRESS WUAH WUAH alarm, too? So, okay, that may have had something to do with it. Plus there was the horror of discovering that the chocolate bars were melting - mellllting! - a la the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz as they glimmered temptingly from the kitchen cupboard all week. Plus there was the overwhelming necessity of saving them from the adjectival newly-hatched kitchen ants. Plus there was the post-happy-birthday-D alcohol haze further impairing my normally-already-fairly-impaired judgment. Jim wisely, or, to be more honest, drunkenly, or, to be even more honest, exhaustedly, went straight to bed and now hours later snores obliviously as I type this.

Major Insomnia is a frequent STRESS WUAH WUAH and stratospheric-blood-sugar-level guest, but General Profuse Perspiration usually prefers to ambush me with a body slam in the gym downstairs. And, of course, he loves to tag along, a pesky younger sibling, on any and every outdoor excursion. This morning, my dampened state is the result of our newfound commitment to the environment: we've finally started turning off the air-con in the parts of the apartment we're not using. We've surely only lasted this long decadently and profligately cooled thanks to our bargain with ~~the devil~~ HP: I didn't see Jim on our tenth wedding anniversary, but I've never seen a Singapore electric bill. Of course, we don't now benefit financially from our temperance; instead we merely glow smugly with self-satisfaction. And sweat. Kindly allowing Jim his beauty sleep, I'm now in our dining room by day, sauna by night.

The bedroom, on the other hand, is our escape from this tropical paradise. I turn the air-con to 18, its lowest temperature setting, and Jim, the sneaky ratbag, increases the temperature while I brush my teeth. While he brushes his teeth, I calmly and quietly turn it back to 18, put it in powerful mode just for revenge, then spoon with him beneath a thin blanket, and fall asleep to dream about the crushing weight of a thick down comforter and ice cold feet to warm against his legs. And to have nightmares about sweat and insomnia and pointlessly rambling blog posts.

venitha

Adjectival Ratbag

2006-07-07T11:20:00.000+08:00

"Get a move on, you adjectival rat... umm... Ratwhat?"

"Bag. Ratbag."

"Ratbag. Why can I not remember that?"

Jim gives me a sidelong glance, closes the boot, and wisely holds his tongue. We haven't been married for ten years for nothing.

Ratbag is my favorite word from our Lonely Planet Northern Territory's glossary and is defined as "a friendly term of abuse". Woolly butt, on the other hand, is just a tree. Adjectival isn't listed in Lonely Planet, but it's my favorite Aussie adjective anyway, well ahead of wicked, cheeky, and brilliant. I'm the only one I've heard using it, but I'm determined to gain something from having suffered through The True History of the Kelly Gang, and an Australian expletive seems appropriate.

We make our way through rows of cars parked on the grass, our destination a rare Saturday opening of Darwin's Mindil Beach Sunset Market in celebration of Territory Day. A bit weirded out by the odd similarities to summer festivals in our small Wisconsin hometowns, we concentrate on the differences: the smell of saltwater in the air, the electrified didgeridoos in the band, the booth selling stuffed cane toads in obscene poses.

"Care to share some paradise?" We order one Tropical Paradise, a mix of orange, pineapple, mango, and, my favorite, tangy passionfruit, and head out to the beach to take turns slurping noisily while basking in the glow of yet another stellar Australian sunset. Our Lonely Planet lists so many places as excellent for viewing a sunset that we've examined the author photos and debated over who has the fetish, but it's contagious, and we could even add a few sunrises to the list. Tonight's vibrant orange glow above the blue Timor Sea, we agree, is the best of a dazzling lot.
Eventually hunger, Jim's eyeball-roll-inducing sappiness, and imminent death at the hands of yahoos unable to wait for the official fireworks display drive us back to the market. Feasting on wide Aussie smiles, we wander the trailers serving a schizophrenic combination of Asian noodle dishes, deep-fried carnival fare, and native Aussie critters, notably crocodile, emu, kangaroo, and witchetty grubs served up in style by The Roadkill Cafe, motto: You Kill It, We Grill It. We somehow resist all this temptation and settle instead on a novelty in Asia, a falafel wrap, complete with hummus and tabouli, seduced by its label: An Orgasmic Sensation!

"Did it work for you?"

"No, but it was good."

The fireworks commence with a boom, and we stand shoulder to shoulder, oohing and aahing along with the crowd, amused at this same reaction to fireworks the world over and blown away by the smashing display. One nutella crepe later, we interlace our sticky fingers in the darkness and stumble back through the field toward our car, full and happy.

"Can you make out the Southern Cross?" I ask, craning my head upwards and spinning clumsily around.

Jim, yet again, starts singing that song.

"You adjectival rat... umm... Ratwhat?"

venitha

Ah, Romance!

2006-07-05T18:24:00.000+08:00

"Whoa! And how's he going to make that up to you?" Ingo asked last night when I explained the real tragedy of Jim's Taiwan trip this week. It's not missing the chance to meet Ingo in person, though it was a terrific and several-years-overdue evening. Nor is it missing the Fourth of July, for some reason not celebrated in Singapore. Nor is it getting to stay up all night with me, fruitlessly cheering on Germany in the World Cup. Nope. It's missing spending our 10th wedding anniversary with me, today.

It's actually not as heartbreaking as it sounds, as Jim and I both quite wisely married someone not too hung up on dates. And, honestly, we have more fun days to commemorate than our stressed-out, hot, sleep-deprived wedding day. My feet hurt just thinking about those shoes.

Last weekend, we celebrated the 15th anniversary of our moving in together (sinners!) by spending a night in a Cooinda backpacker hostel nowhere near as nice as, but featuring far more wildlife than, any of the six homes we've shared. And this coming Monday, we'll celebrate the 10th anniversary of our honeymoon stay at Vancouver Island's Aerie, a place we talked about returning to for our 10th anniversary, by making the 24-hour pilgrimage from Singapore to Colorado. Ah, romance! I just hope we get to sit together.

If you're still feeling sorry for me, rest assured that Jim and I have a hot date tonight. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, we're meeting for some Sheepshead in Dolly's Barn. If you know what I'm talking about, come celebrate with us by joining us for a hand or two.
Happy anniversary, Jim! And no mistake.

venitha

Top Ten of the Top End: Food & Drink

2006-07-04T16:40:00.000+08:00

In spite of Australia's reputation for meal after meal of shoe-leather steaks topped with two fried eggs, we thoroughly enjoyed the Top End's cuisine, probably because we resisted the temptations of Weet Bix (what is up with that?) and that ubiquitous Aussie favorite, beans on toast.
Instead, we enjoyed the following:

Barramundi. This fish rocks! Known simply as barra to the nickname-happy Aussies, it's incredibly versatile: we had barra burgers, barra and chips, barra filets, barra balls(?), and smoked barrmundi slivers. A delicious light white fish that apparently takes on any flavor and apparently is impossible to ruin, Barramundi is also the region's premier game fish, as it gets quite large (up to 2m!). And it's been around so long that it's commonly featured in Kakadu's captivating Aboriginal rock art.
Kangaroo. It's advertised as a very tender, slightly sweet, deep purple meat, and we were served what looked like a perfectly-cooked (so perfectly-cooked that I can't believe I didn't think to take an interior photograph) filet mignon. Unfortunately, it was all downhill from there. Disappointingly tough and slightly gamy, with a texture that leads me to believe that the kangaroo diet is heavy on spinifex. Despite the temptation of such impressive fusion cuisine as kangaroo laksa another night, neither one of us tried it a second time.
Crocodile. Yep, you guessed it: tastes like chicken.
Emu. Given its pounded-thin appearance, I was expecting either salisbury steak or beef jerky and was wildly delighted to be completely off. I'll-thumb-wrestle-you-for-the-last-bite delicious and melt-in-your-mouth tender, emu is the elk of Australia. If this comparison is lost on you, you'll just have to trust me that it's high praise indeed.
Dairy products! Not that I'm looking forward to my upcoming trip to Wisconsin or anything. The home-made ice cream (I'll have vanilla with a TimTam mix-in, please) and the native cheeses were unexpected treats. Jim laughed at the discovery of a new challenge food for his Taiwanese co-workers: blue cheese.
Iced Coffee. Besides being aw-man-you-finished-it yummy, Iced Coffee was just what the doctor ordered, and ordered and ordered and ordered, for a trip that started with a red-eye flight and never really stopped.
TimTams. Bite off opposite corners, and use it as a straw for your milk. Or your Bailey's. Whatever. Best of all, TimTams come in dark chocolate, too.
Quandong. It sounds like it belongs in China, doesn't it? True blue bushtucker, however, quandong is a fruit that tastes like a cross between a cherry and a grape and has the unfortunate here-Jim-you-can-have-mine texture of an olive.
Passion fruit. I am passionate about passion fruit. Sour sour sour!
Coopers. Jim is passionate about beer, and in spite of the fun names given to Fosters (blueys) and Victoria Bitter (greenies), our favorite was easily the South Australian Coopers.

venitha

Top Ten of the Top End: Quotes

2006-07-02T22:25:00.000+08:00

Quotes of note from our whirlwind weekend in Australia's Top End:

"No worries." The Australian response to just about everything. I love this country.
"You're on the wrong side of the road."
"Sorry, lah."
No worries; we only had this conversation once, and no damage was done, though we did lose a game of chicken.
"The wipers still work." We'd be so rich we'd have been able to stay in Australia if we had one of those small fat $2 coins for every time one of us turned on the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal.
"That's the best tip ever!" The Cooinda Lodge receptionist when I gave her a Tim Tam.
"Must taste like shit." Our Yellow Waters Cruise guide's explanation for why the green pygmy geese swim all over the crocs while the other waterfowl (and sane humans) keep a safe distance.
"No speed limit totally makes up for having to drive."
"This may be missing the point of statehood." Comment in an NT paper regarding surveys showing that most Territorians want the Northern Territory to be called, well, the Northern Territory when/if it becomes a state.
"Why not steal something good?"
" Like what?"
Darwin's cuisine is heavily influenced by nearby Asia, and the Singaporean contribution to the Mindil Beach Sunset Market's dessert menu is an iced kacang. We opted for a Nutella crepe instead.
"All hail the great parking goddess!" In spite of our excessive use of the windshield wipers, we both quickly mastered driving on the left and negotiated roundabouts with ease. I even parallel parked!
"Now where's the damned iced coffee? I'm lost without it!" Poor Jim had to go in to work today after our red-eye flight home to Singapore.
That's a termite mound in the middle of the advertisement. Creepy crawly close-ups still to come.

venitha

Financial Times

2006-06-28T16:04:00.000+08:00

Just as we are being escorted (Who can afford a car?) into the poorhouse by our US condo and by our US ~~accountants' embezzlement~~ taxes (and by my not working and by my excessive consumption of overpriced alcohol and by my library fines and by my mango addiction - hmmm... perhaps I'm the one driving after all), Singapore comes to the rescue in a most American fashion: a credit card.

Now, if you're in the US, you're thinking, Give me a break! I could tile my kitchen with the credit cards I've received this week alone! But this is Singapore, and despite the kitchens being teeny-tiny, our two lonely Singaporean credit cards (Jim and I each have one for our single account) wouldn't cover more than a single wall.

We have been hot in pursuit of a local credit card not in an effort to check off another one of Singapore's 5 C's (Cash, Car, Credit Card, Condo, Country Club: we are doing abominably against this list. Shall I change it? Child, Cat, Career, ... Well, Crap. Hey!), but in the frugal desire to avoid the 3% international fee, on top of the crappy (See! I'm good at this one!) exchange rate, that American credit cards charge. One year, several application forms, and a letter from Jim's employer later, we have captured the prize and shall commence to charge at will.

First up: Soup Restaurant (Whaddya know! It works!), where we thoroughly enjoyed the Samsui ginger chicken (cucumbers, tender chicken, and minced ginger that you wrap in lettuce leaves) and thoroughly poked at the snow fungus jelly. (Andrea: "Hmmm...three different textures, none of which I like." Venitha: "I may need chocolate to make up for this.")
Nestled in my wallet next to my shiny new Singaporean Mastercard and my well-worn American Visa is something even cooler: Australia dollars. Just like the sexy Aussie accent, Aussie cash leaves bland American dollars and pale Singaporean money crying in their beer while it seduces all the girls. Boldly colorful and indestructible, the notes are adorned with women; the coins sport kangaroos. I'm going to love this country. Or at least I'm going to love spending its currency. I'll surely spend some on an internet café, should I stumble across one; regardless, we're back on Monday.
venitha

Anything But Ordinary

2006-06-26T18:58:00.000+08:00

Back in January, a hundred years ago, a quick run to Cold Storage with my sister-in-law left her wandering the aisles in delighted curiousity. It left me, on the other hand, outside the check-out with my groceries wondering where I had lost her.

I wasn't worried. You might call Cold Storage a supermarket, but honestly, the place is not that big, and I know from experience that a red-haired, freckled ang moh cannot become invisible in Singapore - even if she wants to. Sure enough, before long I spied her, examining first the spices, then the rices (an entire aisle for rice). I quietly watched her and was left to ponder: When did this become so ordinary?
Today, I sing mindlessly along with REO Speedwagon (or is that Air Supply?) as I stock my basket (never a cart, for I have to carry this home) with my usual oatmeal, bananas, and eggs (brown, not white, in Singapore). I regularly purchase such exotic items as palak paneer, persimmons, and pecks of pickled peppers (not really, but I was stuck on p's). I tut-tut calmly over the ever-changing, but always tragic, salad dressing offering. I shrug at the unsurprising information that no, Cold Storage doesn't carry Indian pickles, which really are pickled peppers; Mustafa, here I come. I sagely acknowledge a friend's Singapore grocery shopping rule: If you can get 75% of the items on your list, it is a smashing success.

Of course, such a been-there-done-that attitude is a sure sign that all hell's about to break loose. Or at least that as I paw through the containers of durian ice cream in search of the ever-unpopular chocolate (Bwa ha ha ha! All the more for me!), I'll find something worthy of "Jim, look at this! How much do you think we'd have to pay Matthew to eat it?"
venitha

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

2006-06-24T16:19:00.000+08:00

I'm willing to accept any number of reasons for it. Lower testosterone levels. Cultural differences. The fad - please tell me it's a fad - of the metrosexual. My gaydar being way off. Still, these facts remain: there is a distinct lack of macho in Singapore, and I am going through withdrawal.

Like the prim and proper girl with the strict religious upbringing who crashes and burns on the hedonistic freedoms of college dorms, I do best with moderation. Deprivation ultimately leads to over-indulgence. Alongside the very real possibility that Singapore's high alcohol prices are paving the road to Alcoholism, USA, I have recently laid a new concern: what will be the effect of the missing macho?

Don't get me wrong. I am a very happily married woman, and this has nothing to do with my handsome, sexy, studly, plenty-macho husband. Nor is it an intended slight to any of the other hot hot hot men I've had the pleasure of spending time with this past week. I'm not saying that I want to have a mad passionate affair with an Adonis straight off a romance novel cover. Or that I want to touch the rock hard pecs of a suntanned lifeguard. Or even that I want to look at a sexy cowboy or two wearing tight Wranglers, an enormous belt buckle, and a come-hither grin. Well, okay, looking would be nice, but really, I just want the assurance of knowing that manly men - and lots of them - exist.

Of knowing that there are men bigger than I am, taller than I am, stronger than I am.

Men who can fix things around the house without requiring three levels of management to lord it over one small sad non-English-speaking grunt who hasn't a clue what he's doing.

Men who cook meat on backyard grills wearing aprons that say Kiss The Cook, and you want to, to take his head in your hands a plant a big wet noisy smooker in bright red lipstick in the middle of his forehead.

Men who hug you hello and good-bye, enveloping you in warmth and affection.

Unattached men who make you wish you knew more single women.

Men who don't like to shop and who don't have cars for pets and who don't read self-help books and who don't use more gel than, well, than - I'm sorry, but what the @#$! is with all that gel?

Men who love dogs and football and beer.

Men who flash straight white teeth in frequent smiles.

Men who are equally comfortable in flannel and in fleece and in a baseball cap.

Men who are sarcastic, appreciate irony, have a biting wit and a quick sense of humor.

Men who read novels, have rhythm, who make me think and make me laugh.

Perhaps all of this is just the result of my getting older, and this in-want-of-macho world is where I live now that I'm a 37-going-on-50-year-old woman who hasn't had a good haircut in God-knows-how-long and who is larger than what-seems-like-everyone else, including all the men, and who dresses plainly and soberly in a scandalized reaction to the popular bling-bling-is-not-just-for-teeny-boppers / is-she-a-prostitute-or-is-it-just-really-hot wardrobe of the women around her and who is unhappy.

Nah. It's much more likely that I'm just thinking too much and that all I really need is to kiss my husband passionately in the elevator and to join a gym that will provide some eye candy. But as I tick off the kilometers on my condo's lonely treadmill, my iPod quivers with Paula Cole's lament: Where have all the cowboys gone?

I hear ya, sister. I hear ya.

venitha