Tianni on Shop: The Unbearable Inconvenience of (Responsible) Being

The waiting....and the coming (pictures from www.culture.tw)

On my days home during the one year I lived in Taipei, my ears will prick for the distant strains of Beethoven’s Fur Elise five minutes before and after 7p.m., save Wednesday and Sunday. It didn’t matter that the first barely perceptible notes were close to drowned in the din of downtown city traffic on the street one floor down. Or that the mangled tune broadcasting from afar was almost indistinguishable from the Chinese pop blaring from my neighbour’s. Like Pavlov’s perfectly-trained dog, I will sit at apt attention come the same time on said days, and spring up the moment I heard Fur Elise wafting in from outside my windows. Even on the rare occasion my ears somehow miss the cue, the opening and slamming of my neighbours’ doors, the rustling of plastic bags and the hurried slap of flip flops down the dank staircase outside my door will alert me to the much awaited occasion – the coming of the city’s garbage trucks.

Sometimes they even come in broad daylight... (pictures from http:// www.culture.tw)

(Watch this Youtube video, coincidentally shot near my old place)

Ludwig van Beethoven must be proud that more than a century after first being published, his classical composition is not only playing to broad swathes of Taipei's population, but also assuming a pivotal role in saving the earth. For Taipei is one of the greenest in East Asia precisely because of its unique waste management system, preluded by Fur Elise (at least where I live). Five days a week, the tune will herald the evening parade of the waste collection trucks and the recycling vehicles that follow along the streets in my former part of town, next to Da’an Park. Residents know they miss these trucks at their own peril, especially at the humid height of summer. They are about the only way residents can dispose of household waste and should they somehow miss the day’s rounds, the only other alternative for putrid bags of rotting garbage is to knot them as tight as possible and put them in the furthest corner of one's home till the next collection. Tough luck if it was a Tuesday or Saturday. I still remember the home stink of 2.5 days old organic waste putrefying in 35 deg C heat, it’s that unforgettable.

The first time I learned of the city’s garbage disposal methods though, it sounded absolutely bizarre, especially to the ears of a Singaporean used to having trash cans on every street corner and a garbage chute within (or just outside) the home into which bags of refuse disappear as if by magic. In Taipei, one will be hard pressed to find a single bin on the streets for stretches on end. It's not uncommon to go out for an entire day only to lug home empty drink bottles and lumps of used tissue for disposal via what would by now have evolved into a sophisticated home waste sorting mechanism. For aside from the dearth of public trash cans and the strictly scheduled rounds of collection trucks, in Taiwan residents had to also separate organic waste from the recyclables, and among the recyclables, to separate the paper from the glass from the plastics, each type of which went into their own special recycling truck which only came by on designated days.

When I eventually mustered enough courage to lug my days-old trash down to the street corner, I dragged my feet and dawdled behind a chattering crowd of domestic helpers and housewives in pyjamas so I could study how the intricate sanitation system worked. Still, on that occasion, I ended up getting a earful from the sanitation worker handling the trash for 1) failing to use a city-approved trash bag that had to be purchase from the supermarket at $0.25 a piece, and 2) trying to dispose of newspapers on a plastics-only day. So intimidating was this recycling/trash-tax mechanism, it took me all ofa month or two to get the recycling days and the trash bags exactly right. In between, my husband and I took care of the trash we failed to throw out in a most shameful way -- by splitting them into tiny bags which we’ll then take out under cover of night to stuff into the teensy waste bins that fortunately for us, Taiwanese public parks still had in plenty.

Clean and green with no dustbins (pictures from http://commons.wikimedia.org)

But I eventually got into the swing of recycling and surprising myself, derived immense satisfaction in organizing household trash. I loved knowing that the two-litre plastic milk bottles going into my 'Plastics' corner won't be adding to some landfill but will be used again. I also relished scrapping dinner leftovers into the 'Organic Waste' bags, knowing some hogs at a farm will slurp up my mediocre cooking more enthusiastically than my spouse did. By the end of our stay in Taipei, I was close to 8 months pregnant and eagerly lumbering down the stairs to street level every time Fur Elise played so I could join the rest of the neighbourhood in meeting the trucks with our perfectly sorted trash in their blue city-approved 25-cent bags.

By the end of one year, I had come a long way from my public park dumping days, finally having gotten the hang of being a (more) environmentally aware citizen. But then I moved to China, where recycling, like the no smoking rule indoors, seemed to be just another motto hanging from the lips of officials but far removed from the reality of ordinary people. Here, pedestrians toss cigarette butts and fruit peel into bins distinctly marked for recycling and vendors use the flimsiest of plastic bags that can barely stay intact for half a day, let alone be reused. And while I was used to seeing Taiwanese friends whip out their own chopsticks and cutlery while out dining in restaurants, in Beijing, businesses deliver takeout paired with so may wooden chopsticks and disposable plastic cutlery, it's like there is no tomorrow. Which considering this is the world's largest population, may indeed become a not-too-distant reality for planet earth.

Trash bin on Beijing street - looks nice, doesn't work that nicely

Against this unsupportive backdrop, I'd have reverted to my pre-Taipei environmentally unfriendly days if not for my noisy conscience. Indoctrinated from a year of chasing after garbage trucks, it loudly protests each time I mindlessly crush a paper cup or trash a plastic bottle. So to assuage it, I've taken to lugging around my heavy metal coffee mug in an already overweight work satchel to save on paper cups and, while trying to kick my addiction to Beijing's abundant delivery services, compensate by avoiding take-outs from wasteful restaurants (like the one that doles out one plastic container each for noodles, soup and sauce). I also shop with a shopping bag and insist to delivery boys that they take back plastic bags and cutlery that come with my lunch, which must certainly befuddle them since the motto here leans more towards, when it's free, grab more.

Signs of too many take-outs

So far, no sweat. But when it comes to having to put up with physical discomforts, like literally sweating, I'm finding being environmentally-friendly is not so easy. Especially when I really really hate the heat. Almost nothing gets to me more than when I'm in a rush getting the tot and myself ready for school and work and I get all sweaty before we even go out the door. And that has made my 'greening' efforts a little tricky when this summer the mercury in Beijing soared past 40 deg C. In addition to the night time usage I've rationed myself in the summer months without which none of us pampered ones would be able to fall asleep, I've had to leave the air conditioner blasting away in the mornings while chasing the little one all over the apartment. During these sweltering months, I've also had to ditch my two-wheeler, the same one that brings me to work even when temperatures fall below freezing, in favour of the air-conditioned interiors of a cab. Even the garlic-breath of Chinese cabbies is a better option than the embarrassment of stepping into my workplace with my shirt plastered to my back with sweat.

But cooler months are coming this way, I can feel it these days on the evening breeze. And with them, I tell myself I will renew my earnest efforts in saving the planet. This time round the test of endurance will be the other way, as we see if we can huddle under our blankets till the city's central heating is turned on mid-November. Failing which we will reach for the heat switch in our apartment and flip me back onto my private guilt trip.

Clarissa on Love: The First Time I Saw Paris

Today's story is by our guest blogger Clarissa Tan, a contributing editor of asia! magazine. She is a Malaysian based in Singapore, and has just returned from four months in Paris and London.

Born in Malaysia, a young country with a hodge-podge culture, I naively thought the polished, implacable French capital held all the answers.

The first time I saw Paris was when I poked my head out of a hole, emerging from the caverns of the Metro with fifty other students, all blinking in the raw sunlight. Something smelt of piss. Before us stood our French professor, explaining something about the square, or perhaps about the statue in the square. He had a lily-of-the-valley in his buttonhole because it was the first of May. We were on a month-long university immersion programme.

I felt slightly sick. This was my first real trip abroad – let me put this more clearly, my first trip to a Western country – and I had anticipated this for so long, was wanting everything to go so perfectly. My stomach was in knots after a 13-hour flight from Singapore, during which I had not slept a wink.

Everything was new to me on that flight – the tight politeness of the Air France staff, the boarding passes, the way you could turn on a reading light with the flick of a button. The girl sitting next to me, a fellow student who had traveled widely, looked at me with incredulity.

I was 22. My mother, who lives in our hometown of Kuala Lumpur, had dug into her meagre savings so I could make the trip. There was not much money left over to get me nice cardigans, a windbreaker, good luggage, proper walking shoes. As we students were shuttled across France during that springtime of long ago, I remember my unease every time our baggage was piled into a heap – mine was the only backpack that had weird iron rungs at its spine, and was made of cheap vinyl. The backpack said ‘Chow Kit Road’ rather than ‘Champs Elysées.’ I was ashamed. In my self-absorption, my selfishness, I gave hardly a thought to several of my Singapore classmates who had not been able to make the trip at all, because they were even more cash-strapped than I.

Now, sixteen years later, I am in Paris again, this time for three months. The intervening years had seen me encounter one of the biggest heartbreaks of my life – having to give up a scholarship to France because of tangential financial reasons. So now, I figure, now that I have some money of my own, I will spend some time in Paris and discover the city for myself.

Looking at Paris: Sometimes our vision of others depends on how clearly we see ourselves

And this time, this time I will be prepared. I have brought different pairs of shoes, for every conceivable occasion. I have lots of scarves, because scarves are so important in Paris, aren’t they? And I have four – no, five – different overcoats, all to protect me, make sure that I don’t look different, ensure that I fit in. My outer layer, my shell, my carapace, will be intact. I will not be caught wrong-footed, found off-guard. I will be, as the French say, blindée, which means fully armoured. (It is also their word for military tanks.)

Paris can be a cruel city. Its centre, the cultural heart that contains the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Jardin des Tuileries and all the rest of it, is so impossibly elegant that it immediately shows up anything anachronistic or out of place. Its denizens move about with the kind of savoir-faire that makes them at one with the Empire architecture and Hausmann boulevards. Amid such perfection, strangers can feel awkward, maladroit, gauche. The City of Light can shine a blinding torch on one’s aesthetic shortcomings.

I think my case is an extreme one, but I do believe that people in general feel more self-conscious while in Paris. I have had two female friends visit me here, and both of them bought light summer coats within 24 hours of their arrival. (The covering, always the covering.) At night, the young couples kissing along the banks of the Seine seem to do so with some anxiety, as though afraid that if they don’t embrace artistically enough, they will spoil the scenery.

Looking back, it now seems obvious why I became a Francophile. I was born in Malaysia, a country with a highly heterogeneous population that won independence from the British only a little more than 50 years ago. I was brought up in a family situation that,while never lacking in love, was also unconventional and sometimes downright bizarre. I wanted, above all, a sense of lucidity and continuity, some rock-hard rules to live by. I sought surety and security above all else, and I thought – erroneously – that France, with its long history, its flair for pageantry, its cultural confidence and strong social codes, had the answer.

Not for me the greasy mamak shops standing choc-a-block with the noisy yong tau fau and nasi lemak stands; I wanted rows of neat cafés with gleaming facades and white-aproned waiters. Not for me having always to explain to foreigners where Malaysia was, what kind of climate it had, and how come an ethnic Chinese like me could not speak fluent Mandarin; I wanted an instantly recognizable country and culture.

Not for me the sight of my father on a tropical Sunday afternoon, in a holey singlet and flip-flops, pounding spices on mortar to make sambal belachan, wearing my mother’s huge sunglasses to protect his eyes from any spurts of chili; I wanted a daddy with an impeccable sense of style, who would take us all out to a fancy restaurant where we would clink wine glasses.

We travel not only to see new places, but also to escape ourselves. We think that, by encapsulating ourselves within new surroundings, we can become new people. And we think, mistakenly, that the people who do not openly exhibit all our own idiosyncrasies, must naturally have all the answers.

I’ve walked down the Boulevard Saint Germain, which is near where I live, many times in the past few months. The boulevard is home to such famous establishments as the Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots, which once welcomed patrons such as Sartre, de Beauvoir, Gide, Picasso and Hemingway, but which now serve mainly tourists.

Each time I notice different things. The first few times, everything and everyone seems remarkably neat and composed. Then, gradually, you make out the trembling of a hand here, the stumbling of a step there. Through the shiny windowpane of a restaurant, I see a French girl seated at a table, casting shy, longing looks at the aquiline-nosed boy next to her, who does not seem to be aware that she exists. He is clearly enamoured of another, the charming brunette on his other side. The first girl raises fluttering fingers to readjust the barrette in her glossy hair, carefully arranges her pleated skirt. She is wearing defeat and sadness as best she can.

And so the truth stares back at us, bringing with it both disillusionment and relief. All of us, no matter where we live, fear that we will not be accepted, that we do not belong. From the chic cafes of Saint-Germain-des-Prés to the haphazard hawker stalls of Jalan Imbi, humanity is terrified.

A river runs through it: Sunset on the Seine

This evening, I sat at a bench on a little bridge, a practically unknown one that lies between its vastly more famous cousins, the Pont de la Concorde and the Pont Royal. I put down my bag, took off my denim jacket. And then, for no reason, while gazing at the sun setting behind the Grand Palais, I started to cry.

Perhaps some dreams have to die before others can be born. Perhaps it’s not about belonging, but about being who we really are. Perhaps insecurities are the grandest, most sublime things that we can ever have, because they make us human. Perhaps blubbering on a bridge in one of the most romantic spots on earth, with tears impeding our vision and snot running down our noses, helps us to see better.

And that is where, in the gentle flickering light, I think I saw her. I think I saw Paris. She is, perhaps, as fragile and as vulnerable a city as you could hope to meet. Beneath the faultless stone façade runs a tremulous river, a river of longing for the perfection that can never be. The world will always feel a need for Paris, not because of her beauty, but because of the yearning her beauty induces.

I smiled at her, and I believe – yes, I do believe – she smiled back at me.

And that, I think, was the first time I really saw Paris. Perhaps because it was the first time I allowed her to see me.

Cirrus Cloud on Eat: Disco Biscuits

Today marks the first day of my training with a trainer. Who would have thought that I would succumb to being a gym freak? Me? At a gym? Looking like a hamster trapped in a glass cage? A few years ago, you would not see me at the gym much, even though I had a corporate gym membership.

Let me tell you how I ended up, in what I used to call "the glass cage."

Run, Rabbit, Run...

One fateful night, I was feeling peckish and it was snowing. I decided to run to Duane Reade (in New York, there is a Duane Reade almost every three blocks). Duane Reade is similar to a 7-Eleven in Singapore. I ventured into the cookies department and picked out this particular brand of Italian biscuits-Stella D’Oro Margherite made in the Bronx, New York.

As it was two packs for five dollars, I thought this was a great deal especially since I was not going to buy them again. Or so I thought. That very night, my husband and I finished all twenty sticks in the pack. Each stick was about as long as an iPhone, and approximately half the thickness.

The Disco Biscuits!

Caloric count: 65 calories per stick. We didn’t look at the information on the back until we had finished the whole packet. It is very delicious. It is not pretentious. It is a simple yet flavorful old-school biscuit. It is not as heavy as shortbread. It is light and fluffy akin to a chiffon cake, but has the texture of a regular biscuit. It is not too sweet and does not leave you satiated.

Within weeks, I had purchased 24 packets and counting. My jeans were tighter and tighter as I could chomp down a pack in a day. As I typed the beginning of this story, I had a biscuit in my mouth. This biscuit could make me salivate just thinking about it.

The 2 very important objects in my life.

I had three options:

1. Keep buying and get sick of it after stuffing my face silly. Not working. Next option please.

2. Stop buying immediately. Tried cold turkey but didn’t help. I would sit in church and dream about the biscuit during the priest’s sermon.

3. Join a gym to counter the calorie and fat intake.

I chose option 3. I joined the nearest gym and decided to enjoy my biscuit but work out. I have been to the gym everyday for 10 days now. Today I upped the ante by meeting a personal trainer to fight the flab.

In retrospect, I did not foresee that a $2.50 per pack of biscuits would cost me $145 per month at the gym. Obviously, the one year away from the banking industry has robbed me of the ability to count or read value!

My trainer, CJ, was intimidating. I had to allow him to use calipers to pinch my fat on my triceps, abdomen and thigh. He was allowed into the secret mysterious world of my weight and height; furthermore, he could comment on anything he wanted. How terrifying. As he did test after test, the suspense nearly killed me. Anyhow, I was rather shocked by my results. My body fat ratio was below average! My resting heart rate is 45 beats per minute, which was a beat away from the “Elite” category in my age group! I am trim and fit, biscuit or not. The only few points I need to work on are improving flexibility in my hip flexors (wherever they are), strengthening my core muscles and losing some weight (I added the last point myself as I like to be skinny).

With CJ's implicit backing, I skipped gleefully home, the whole time dreaming about gorging "the Disco Biscuit". However, the truth is my jeans have been feeling very tight of late. Perhaps it is a hormonal time and I am suffering from water retention. Or perhaps it is a permanent condition.

The reality is, denial is a beautiful thing.

Fat, I am not.

Weight put on, I surely have.

Biscuits I will eat

Life I will enjoy.

*Some pictures taken from the internet*

Una Ragazza on Play: Bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!

Un Ragazzo has many passions. A child of the 70's who grew up in a music-loving household of film buffs with a curious streak of his own and a love for the outdoors, he is the ultimate Jack of all trades and certainly master of several. These are a few of his favorite things: the Beatles, camping, playing the guitar and drums, fishing, healthy cooking, shooting pool, rock climbing and surfing.

But combine all of these and double the dose of passion, and you will probably just get a whiff of how he truly feels for his numero uno: the bicycle.

I remember being asked to guess what his favorite sport was when we first met, working off the hint that it requires patently unflattering clothing.

"Skiing. Curling. Ah -- cycling!" I said with satisfaction.

The iconic bike on my neighborhood block belonging to a bike-crazed neighbor

For a Singaporean girl who grew up a geek with her nose perpetually in books or essays and being told extracurricular activities were distracting and unedifying, I did not learn to swim, let alone balance on a bicycle, until just months before entering college. I thus find his eagerness to ride the bike every day endearing and his excitement in every international cycling tour refreshing.

The kid race before the big-people races

During the first year we hung out, I allowed myself to gain armchair knowledge about cycling in which I had little prior information. I found myself really enjoying three things:

First, the landscapes through which the cyclists of Le Tour de France, Il Giro d'Italia and La Vuelta a España meander are simply breathtaking. Watching every stage of these cycling tours seems like the perfect product placement for the French, Italian and Spanish national tourism boards.

Second, the language of cycling is French, and that is music to my francophile ears.Le peloton, le maillot jaune, un soigneur, la tête de course, la flamme rouge, un panier... Understanding the sport's lingo made me feel like I'm almost a fan of these classic cycling races.

Lastly, the cycling kit. To the non-cyclist, the kit may look like the modern-day twist to the Papal Swiss Guard uniform, especially in certain bright colors. After having had multiple opportunities to check it out at close proximity, I now think it looks great on the cyclist who regularly cycles. The extreme tan lines, I learnt too, is a mark of pride.

Looking chic in orange and blue

Over time, slowly but surely, Un Ragazzo's excitement about cycling started to rub off on me... to the point that I decided it may not be such a bad idea to buy a foldable bicycle.

"Do you think it makes sense for me to buy a bike?" I asked with feigned nonchalance one day.

Un Ragazzo's eyes lit up as he momentarily tore himself away from the Tour of Flanders race on TV.

"Of course! Why not? You may even be able to get rid of your subway metro card and ride straight to the office. Think of the health benefits! I can look into a few models for you..."

To his credit, Un Ragazzo never once pushed me into taking up the sport. It was his contagious enthusiasm that eventually swayed me into dipping my toes into this unchartered territory. After all, I'm a self-confessed klutz with no sense of balance who occasionally has difficulty even walking in a straight line on the sidewalk while keeping up a conversation.

That weekend, we walked a good 50 blocks along the bike path down the West Side Highway to get to a bicycle shop in Midtown. Now that I'd decided to buy one, I found myself beginning to be more aware of cyclists on the streets. And there were a lot of them. For a novice like myself, somehow that increased my level of anxiety. Shucks, more people to witness how much I suck at this.

Taking my new toy out for a ride by the Boat Basin and in my 'hood

And boy, did I suck. The week the bike arrived, it took me two days to psych myself up to take it out of the apartment. When I did, I ended up walking it instead of riding it for a good 15 minutes before mounting it: the streets of New York with its irreverent drivers seemed all too ready to run me over. When I eventually did get on the bike, I got off five times in the span of three blocks. Each time a vehicle drove by, I was seized with fear that it would swerve into my path and so I would nervously preempt that with a dangerous, sudden stop. Each time, I'd add a bruise or two to my poor legs.

War wounds from the first week of riding

Despite the injuries, my bike handling skills somewhat improved over time, and the new set of wheels soon gave me a new sense of freedom and a new way of looking at the city. In the last few years, Mayor Bloomberg has played a big part in pushing for a more pedestrian- and bike-friendly Manhattan. Big sections of streets in Times Square and Herald Square are now off-limits to cars and buses and multiple bike lanes have been added throughout the island. Bike Month NYC is also gaining popularity, with hordes of riders taking over the streets in May.

From a practical point of view, it really does make sense for everybody to ride a bike instead of to drive. It takes up a lot less space, can be faster during morning rush hours, and helps you exercise. I found myself talking about biking every now and then, so much so that a friend teased me about getting all giddy and wrapped up in Un Ragazzo's sport.

Imagine my pleasant surprise when Hollywood landed in my new Upper West Side neighborhood and picked my block as the location for a full week of shooting Premium Rush, a movie starring a bike messenger who picks up a package from Columbia University and catches the attention of a dirty cop. As I stood on the sidewalk with my Whole Foods groceries in my granny cart, Joseph Gordon-Levitt of 500 Days of Summer fame zipped by in a red shirt and funky helmet, along with an entourage of actors driving yellow cabs to complete the chase scene.

Yellow signs pasted on every other tree on my block announcing the movie shoot

Movie crew from Premium Rush readies the scene on an early Saturday morning

Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the bike messenger in Premium Rush

What a treat, I thought. Even the cinema directors are cashing in on the increasing popularity of what was once considered a poor man's car.

"So I guess that's a 'yes' to joining me on the Tour?" Un Ragazzo said with a twinkle in his eye, as he watched me being mesmerized by the bike chase.

The decision wasn't hard. Oui -- and oui again! -- to spending a week in the French Alps to chase Le Tour de France riders.

After all, if I were to get tired of seeing too many toned men in tights, I always have French wine, cheese and terrine to turn to, wouldn't I?

Some madames and monsieurs on a field trip to watch Le Tour de France in the countryside

Radioshack's Lance during stage 9 of his final Tour

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Duck's Nuts on Play: Playing the Ball Game

There’s no doubt that I inherited my love of football (soccer to American folk) from my (very) Singaporean dad.

An active football player till his late 30s, he would wake up in the middle of the night during the 1986 and 1990 World Cups, blurry-eyed but all excited about the live games being beamed into our living room. From the 1990 World Cup onwards, I slowly took over the mantle of blurry-eyed football watcher in the family and it was during those early hours of the morning that I grew to love the beautiful game.


Some Aussie certainly loved his/her football enough to stick a football icon on this street sign.

But football has never been much of a girl’s or women’s sport in Singapore and while I did a bit of “kickabout” under my HDB flat, I didn’t get to play it at school until my junior college days.

It was only when I left Singapore for Australia shortly after that I got to join a women’s team for the first time. It was an exhilarating experience. In Australia I found a society that embraced sport – not just professional sport but sport at all levels, for toddlers to geriatrics. Sport wasn’t just for men. Sport wasn’t something you had to be excellent at to play. Even if you couldn’t even kick a ball properly (me!) you could still join a team, get decked out in a full kit and have weekly training sessions with a cool football coach ala Bend It Like Beckham (OK, he was not as cute as Jonathan Rhys Meyers but he was still English and pretty hot.)


[Five-minute break to swoon over Rhys Meyers .... Ok, back to reality now.]

There’s something energising about living in a country that is so mad about watching and playing sport. I’ve played just about every sport in my years here, and watched plenty of live games in packed stadiums. On television, there’s a regular diet of sport to watch, and Aussies love their live sport so much there’s an ongoing tussle going on between free-to-air channels and cable TV providers over who gets to broadcast which tournaments.

There’s also a culture of teaching children to play as many different sports as possible when they are in primary and secondary education. All my Aussie friends learnt to play at least three or more different sports, a new one each year I think. As a result, they take to any physical activity like ducks to water. I’m always a wee bit envious though in the end I’m just happy to be alongside them playing too!


A Sydney women's football team.

In terms of professional sport, Australians take pride in the fact that many of their top athletes are also amongst the world’s best. They turn in excellent results at the Olympics and are usually one of the top two teams when it comes to rugby union and cricket. Of course, there’s plenty of debate too about whether Australia as a country is spending too much money on its professional athletes. Have they got their priorities right when there are plenty of other pressing issues to tackle, such as the welfare of indigenous Australians, and the needs of healthcare and education? But perhaps for a young nation still defining its identity, sport is an apt unifier that can give its citizens something they can be proud of.

As they love to chant in stadiums and beyond, Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi! Oi! Oi!


Duck's nuts trying her hand at outdoor climbing just outside Sydney.

Some images taken from the internet.

Horse With No Name on Eat: Feeding the Soul in a Fast-Food Nation

Comfort food: It's the quintessential pick-me-up for any jaded traveller.

Sure, you can expand your horizons any which way when you touch down in new territory; eat where the locals eat, try out strange and exotic cuisine. But when you've had your fill of curious things and world weariness sets in, the palate craves something familiar.

That's been the case for the HWNN clan. Four months into our stay, having grazed on a steady diet of Western food, we began to look and feel a little like the meat on our plates.

We love Western food. We love our burgers, our pastas, our buffalo wings, our haute- and even not-so-haute pizzas (Hi Dominos!), even plain ol' grilled cheese sandwiches. Thing is, as comforting as some of these dishes are or can be, they can't beat the makan of our Singaporean childhood.

I'm talking about Hainanese chicken rice, chai tao kway (tapioca starch cubes fried with egg), fish-head curry, Indian mee goreng (fried egg noodles) and the créme de la créme of fatty, luscious, heart-stopping (literally) comfort food – char kway teow.

Can you feel your arteries clogging at the mere sight of this? I can. Mmmm... clogged arteries...

Whose cuisine reigns supreme?
Now, so magnificently satisfying yet scrumptiously unhealthy is this dish, that CKT deserves at least a paragraph or two all on its own. So I shall digress for minute. Join me on this delightful detour: CKT, or 'fried rice cake strips' (Thanks Wiki!), belies the intense, almost orgasmic experience of consuming it.

Slathered in a rich, dark sauce, drenched with the fat of Chinese pork sausages, often accompanied by a volcanically spicy and pungent shrimp paste-chili blend, and moistened with a squeeze (or three) of lime, CKT hits all the right notes in a sour-sweet-savoury-spicy quad-fecta. It is the epitome of Singaporean comfort food – in my book at least.

For a period in my 20s, I made it my life's work to try any and all CKT dishes across the country. Leave no hawker stall unturned. Yes, I was a woman obsessed.

So now, four months without this, my king of dishes? Left me just a little crazy-eyed.

Potato Potahto
Arizona has its fair share of Asian restaurants and we've found a couple that are our go-to places when we're too lazy to cook at home. But even their menus feel generic and foreign at times because most of the flavours seem to cater to an American palate. A lot of sweet and sour in everything; unspicy, often lacklustre curries and unfamiliar, tongue-twisty stuff like Moo Goo Gai Pan. Say what?

The only thing that might occasionally hint at Singapore is something folks here call Singapore noodles – a dish commonly found in Asian restaurants across the world, but not in Singapore. Think Mongolian Beef and you'll understand what I mean.


Sweet and spicy/sour anything. A staple at American-Chinese and Chinese-American restaurants.

So comparing a meal at any of these establishments to lunch at my favourite food court back home is like saying a ham sandwich and a hot dog are the same thing.

They are NOT.THE.SAME.THING.

Bereft of authentic options, I often turn to my own culinary heritage for inspiration: my late maternal grandmother and my mum are revered in our family for their supreme Cantonese-style cooking. On my father's side, I unabashedly declare that my aunts would easily win in a throw-down of Eurasian/Chinese cuisine. The stuff of legends, really.

So whenever a hometown craving takes hold, I cross my fingers and spring into action in the kitchen, hoping some of this culinary genius will genetically find its way into my food.

Note, springing into action in my case involves more of a gentle skip rather than a colossal leap because it's difficult to find the right ingredients at the local supermarkets to engage in aforementioned springing. (Also, eating of many burgers makes girl chunky. I'm sure Confucius said that.)

Most of the supermarket chains here devote a column of an aisle, but not an aisle in itself, to Asian sundries – by which I mean several types of instant noodles, some very small, very expensive bags of jasmine rice and about a hundred brands of soy sauce.

Note to supermarket stockists: Asian food is more than just soy sauce.

The COFCO Chinese Cultural Center in Pheonix appears to be the closest thing to a sort of Chinatown around here.



Essentially a strip mall, it is also home to an international supermarket that stocks a boatload of Asian groceries.

To be fair, the Asian population in my neck of the woods is far smaller than say, in Sydney, where we lived for four years.(For those interested in details, Arizona's Asian community makes up just 2.5% of the state's population of over 6 million people, so says the US Census Bureau's 2009 estimate. And most of that population isn't located in my city.)

In Sydney, Asian culinary influences were duly reflected in the way the large chain supermarkets like Coles bestowed huge segments of their stores to fresh and imported Asian foods.

Freshly-grown mangoes and longans, emerald green bok choy and kangkong, curries from Malaysia, sauces from Thailand, dried goods from Indonesia and India. The weary traveller could feel right at home.

If one craved even more exotic fare, there was always the large Asian supermarket in Pitt Street, located in Sydney's central business district, and close to the city's bustling Chinatown. A trusty port in a homesick storm, this supermarket carried everything from fresh durians to the most obscure dried Chinese herbs for soup.

The equivalent of this treasure trove in AZ would involve at least a half-hour's drive from where I live to one of three far-flung suburbs. However, once you get to LeeLee's Oriental Supermarket you will, no doubt, be stunned by the choice and variety of Asian and international foods available in small-town Arizona. It's like finding a reservoir in the Sahara.

Makan mecca: LeeLee's Oriental Supermarket in Peoria stocks all manner of Asian eats and treats.
And even some familiar household items and icons.

My only gripe (yes, so Singaporean) would be its lack of Singapore-specific food brands, like Glory or Ya Kun kaya - a rich, coconut-egg breakfast spread that I'm totally addicted to. There is no Singapore aisle to be found! Gasp. So I substitute. I improvise. I trawl the other nation's aisles for items that bear a fleeting resemblence to the ingredients I need to make my comfort food.

Which brings me back to char kway teow.

Culinary (mis)Adventures
Newly invigorated by a friend's awesome blog post on her family's char kway teow recipe, Mr HWNN and I did an 'Amazing Race'-style run through LeeLee's, hunting and gathering everything we needed to put this coveted dish together.

Because we couldn't find ingredients imported from Singapore, we made do: Japanese fishcake, Vietnamese 'Chinese-style' sweet sausages, thick and wide Vietnamese (or Thai) flat rice noodles made the grade.

Thankfully, LeeLee's carried the right condiments and vegetables to go with the dish. Best of all, we managed to find a massive block of Malaysian-style belachan, or dried shrimp paste, to make the accompanying chili sauce. Now THAT was the ultimate trophy. I was so happy, I held the smelly thing up in the air and did a dance of joy, right in the middle of the dried goods aisle.

Then we went home. And we cooked.


Rocking the sweaty-Ah-Seng-hawker-with-grubby-handtowel-on-shoulder look.

The result? Orgasmifying. I know, that's not a real word. Just humour me here, okay? After an hour of hard stove work, Mr and I spent 20 minutes in complete, utter heaven. Eating, that is. What were you thinking??

But as with all first-time experiments, I mean, attempts, at a new recipe, there were teething problems. Thanks to Skype, I could call my walking cookbook, I mean, Mum, for immediate advice.

Mum: So how was your char kway teow? Looked good on Facebook.

Me: It was super. And the sambal belachan was fantastic. Except it was so hot it nearly took out a chunk of my head.

Mum: How many chilis did you use?

Me: Um... 30?

Mum: Thirty?? Are you crazy? Did you de-seed them?

Me: ...Oh.

So much for that genetic culinary genius then.


Flaming Sambal Belachan of Evil Doom. Rare item: Does -50 damage to Health, -100 to Fortitude, -50 to Intelligence, guaranteed to send enemies screaming for a glass of milk.

Group Rojak Timeout: We are Sing-ah-pore, Sing-ah-poree-aaans!

August. It's that time of the year. No, not monsoon season. The only floods here are those of red, white and starry patriotism - celebrating Singapore's 45th National Day!

So the girls at ESPL togged up, ditched any lingering feelings of homesickness, and headed out to National Day parties in their new adopted towns. Food, friends, more food and loads of fun. Sounds like a genuine down-home Singapore extravaganza!

Shakeleg in Jakarta opens her vocal chords to share her rendition of NDP favorites:



In Washington DC, Una Ragazza visits the funky Newseum building on August 8, one day before Singapore's National Day. Among the daily exhibition of newspaper front pages from around the world, she finds a copy of The Straits Times!



And in New York, Cirrus Cloud teams up with Una Ragazza to pose as citizen photojournalists at the Singapore Consulate's NDP party:



Just in time for the anthem and pledge!



Spot anyone you know? Singaporeans just have a familiar look. We'd recognise them anywhere.



Of course, there's food. A lot of food. It's a Singaporean shindig, remember?



Commemorating NDP in red and white (handbag included).



Inside the goodie bag: We heart the Yeo's satay sauce and Singa the Lion!!!

Meanwhile, Horse With No Name braves an excessive heat warning in the sweltering desert to take in the ND celebrations in Arizona.



Hot so what? Hot can still eat. So just eat lah!



No party is complete without a bouncy castle! (Bouncy kids not included.)



The Singaporean young'uns get in the spirit with a super cute song and dance routine.

A big birthday group hug from us at ESPL to our fellow Sg-ers around the world. We'd love to know: How did you celebrate National Day this year?