Little Pixy Boots on Love: A Fairytale Story... or so I Think

Sometimes I wonder if my life is already predestined, right before my birth. I ride a Delorean time machine in my dreams to the future. Yes, I’m the weird girl who has dreamt about people and places she will meet and go in the years to come. Back to the Future, anyone?

I remember telling my classmates that I dreamt of people I didn’t know but I knew they were my friends. I suffered sudden spells of deja vu when I got hit in real life with a scene from a past dream. My friends treated me with awe and tentativeness every time I told them that, as if I was on the brink of going to Woodbridge, Singapore's best known mental hospital.

Somehow the dreams in my childhood must have fed my imagination. Norway had subconsciously become a setting for fairytales when I was young.

As a kid I loved drawing (I still do!) and I was raised in a very Chinese-orientated family, meaning we didn’t watch Western movies or have English newspapers. My mum’s radio blasted 95.8FM 城市频道 24/7 and I could memorize their DJs' names at the age of six.

So when my mum told me one day that some people have blue eyes and blond hair, my imagination went into overdrive and started producing red-blue-purple eyes and blond hair with pink streaks on my girly sketches. My head was buried in many Enid Blyton books and fairytale picture books to know more about the multi-coloured-haired-and-eyed-people and their lives. I developed a fetish for falling snow (something you can't get in tropical Singapore). I had a lust to see pine trees, little huts with sloping roofs, trolls and snow-capped mountains. I drew them on Christmas cards for friends, despite not celebrating Christmas in my family.

And voilà! I have now come to the one place on earth that I’ve been drawing and dreaming about -- Norway! See the resemblance between what I've drawn and the actual landscape in Kongsberg, Norway?

Compare and contrast :)

When I first arrived in Norway, everything screamed "fairytale" to me. My senses were bombarded by fresh air, colourful wooden huts, and my first taste of the Eurovision Song Contest where Norway won with its entry of “Fairytale” by Alexander Rybak, whom I consequently hugged and from whom I got an autograph. Yes, I know -- you don’t have to tell me I’m too old for this.

But I’m still a little girl inside who believes in fairytales. A practical girl at that. I know how to make my dreams into reality, literally.

Alexander Rybak in Eurovision 2009

Foto: Sara Johannessen / SCANPIX

By the way, for those of you who are not in the know, here are some facts about Norway. Of course, I understand that Norway is not a famous country but Norway is:

1. The country that brought the world the Nobel Peace Prize
2. The country with Northern Lights only in the north
3. The country which gave birth to a-ha (in the 80s), Edvard Grieg (composer, 1843-1907) and Edvard Munch (Expressionist artist (1863-1944) who painted The Scream)
4. The second largest exporter of oil after Saudi Arabia
5. The country that invented the cheese slicer, and some say the paper clip

A Norwegian cheese slicer

Photo: Jonas Bergsten/Wikimedia Commons

Not forgetting that back in Singapore, my friends and I used to salivate over the Norwegian salmon, which is reputed to be the best salmon in the world.

Right this moment as I type, the cats are creating little paw sounds on the roof above me. They love running after the magpies in the trees.

Wait, I'm digressing. Back to the tale.

So after many months of Skype calls and travelling back and forth the UK, Norway and Singapore, Viking Man conceived of a plan to end all long-distance calls forever after I mentioned I was going back to a new job in Singapore. I didn't foresee any sneaky ideas until he sprang me with a surprise.

It was autumn 2009. Viking Man wanted to take me mountain-climbing on our six-month anniversary of dating. For a Singaporean city girl like me, driving three hours before dawn and toughing it out on a mountain slope isn't exactly my idea of a romantic holiday. Then again, only a Norwegian could think of climbing great heights for his love! Viking descendants sure have great sporty DNA in their blood.

Taken on Hardangervidda plataeu in Geilo, Norway

Climbing the steep eastern slope of the 1,100 m (3,500 ft) Hardangervidda mountain plataeu in Geilo with heavy boots, wasn't exactly a piece of kake ("kah-keh" or cake in Norwegian) for an ex-volleyball player like me *emphasis on "EX-"*. But VM made sure I was prepared with his new presents for me - winter sports jacket, thick thermal underwear and new white mountain/winter boots.

I was about to give up mid-slope but got distracted from my pain by munchable wild blueberries and the beautiful colours of fall (høst in Norwegian). Like any starry-eyed urban tourist who has never seen the wild vegetation of Scandinavia, I was snapping away at the gorgeous colourful trees and shrubs.

While I was caught up in the autumn spell of nature, Viking Man had other plans in his head when we were on top of the mountain:

Viking Man: Come here! (gesturing to the edge of the mountain, with the view of a waterfall)

Pixy: Wait! I’m busy taking pictures of the berries and shrubs!

Viking Man (impatient): Come on!

Pixy (snapping pictures while edging towards the edge): Ok, what’s up?

Viking Man knelt down on the edge of the 1,100m high cliff.

Pixy (shocked and afraid for VM’s life): WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Viking Man: Will you marry me?

Pixy: (still in shock) Are you sure?

VM: Yes.

Pixy takes a deep breath and looks at the water plunging to its depths in the waterfall behind VM.

Pixy: Ok, you jump, I jump.

VM: Huh?

Pixy: Er... I mean .... yes.

Note: Words in bold were not paraphrased. It did take more than a few minutes for his life-changing proposal on a potentially fatal location, to sink into my head.

That was September last year, and one year later we tied the knot on the same day!

So I finally married the blond-haired and blue-eyed man of my dreams. Will we live happily ever after in this fairytale country? I don’t know. All I know is that I am living happily in the present, and that is all that matters. Hopefully this would be the one and only long-distance relationship we both will ever have.

Till next time from the cold north,

Little Pixy Boots

Tianni on Love: When does a home stop being a home?

My daughter has lived in Beijing since she was a teensy two-month-old baby. That’s not saying much, if you consider she’s only three. But if you take into account that these three years have also been her whole life thus far, it’s pretty significant, especially when the little one actually thinks of China as her home and speaks Mandarin Chinese as mellifluously as any other native preschooler.

In fact, the girl feels such affection for her home city, she refers to her little compact world -- literally the one square kilometer ringing our apartment that includes her kindergarten, favorite mall, park and comfort restaurants -- as “My Beijing”, a term always said with an undisguised hint of patriotic pride as if her tiny sliver of this vast chaotic capital city is the equivalent of a sovereign nation. To her it is. Infallibly, at the end of a day’s outing outside of this little fiefdom she presides over, or on the annual trips back to Singapore to see family, little K would begin missing the home that she has adopted (and which has adopted her in kind) and ask to be back in “My Beijing”.

Who could blame her for thinking she belongs to a different country from her parents? All the memories she’s formed in her young life –- her pioneering steps, the little friends in preschool, her beloved ayi, the first snowman, the tiny playground she gazes longingly down on from her window each morning –- all the big and little things that makes up one’s life, for her they have all been largely formulated here. And my heart aches thinking of the eventuality of tearing her away from all these memories she’s formed in her host country, from the only life she’s ever known, back to a country that I still consider as my home but which she’s a complete stranger to.

Yes, we’ve been recently thinking of moving back to our country of origin, for a variety of reasons I shall not expound on. And the excitement over the new chapter in our lives such a move could potentially open up has been countered by a host of complex emotions. Not least over the worry if little K would adopt her new home country with the same devotion she’s done with China. Yes, I’ve heard that little kids adapt easily, that they’ve short memories, that even perhaps that they’re too young at this point to have their feelings taken seriously. But I fear the little gal could, like her mum, be that tad too sensitive and sentimental. Complicating it all is, if I were to be honest, I don’t really want her to adapt completely to a new home and in the process forget all about My Beijing. For it’s also been both Our Beijing.

It’s been here that I first found my footing as a mother and where we gradually established our mother-daughter relationship, from the early antagonistic sleepless months of my fuzzy postnatal memory, to the breakthrough end of the first year during which I’d become to her, the indispensable “Mummeeeee!!!”, and she’d grown into this 1 meter tall chili padi (a tiny, very spicy chili pepper) who’s also quickly cementing her position as my youngest best bud.

Some evenings after putting her to sleep and with the significant other away on one of his perennial work trips, I sit in the silent hall of our rented apartment, trying to take in with my senses as much as I can of the space that both of us have become so familiar with, and that I know will one day be inhabited by others, perhaps even another family with its own loud-voiced little wonder. I gaze at K’s first tricycle in its usual corner of the room, likely abandoned by the distractible one in mid-pedal, and imagine how different this space will be when both vehicle and person no longer making their noisy loops on the parquet flooring. I take in the view of the floral sun hats we conveniently toss atop the wooden carving of the couple frozen in a kiss, and wonder over how naked they’ll look without the adornments, how much the hats now look to me a part of the sculpture that had come along with the furnishings. And I peer into the girl’s darkened bedroom where she sleeps sprawled on the bed in her usual haphazard fashion, and attempt to imprint onto my permanent memory the scene I’ve looked upon night after night that will no longer be once we go, because the bed won’t be the same, the room won’t be the same, and the little girl will eventually not fit under her favorite “whale blanket”.

Making a mountain out of mould(hills)? Perhaps. But memories are something I’ve never been good with, because they haunt me even when covered with the dust and cobwebs of the passing of time. Change, I’m good with, but not nostalgia. Take my home country to which I feel an umbilical connection to. Every time I visit and chance upon roads or places I’ve once routinely frequented, I get assaulted by a volley of flashbacks from an expired period in my life that resembles nothing of my present life, and which thus makes the emotions that well up in me all the more bittersweet. I figure the attachment I feel is because the sum total of the years I’ve spent in Singapore still exceeds those I’ve spent outside of it, and the outdated memories are the result of not having made any fresh memories of much significance there.

While I resolve to update the memory bank with the unfolding of the next phase of our lives there, for little K though it’ll be different, at least until the inevitable moment when her memories in Singapore outweighs the ones made in Beijing. I really don’t know if that will be a good or bad thing, oh the ambivalence. How can one actually file out of sight memories that make up a period of one’s life without being utterly disrespectful to the people and relationships in it?

But perhaps that’s just the problem I have, thinking we’ve to prioritize memories along a linear progression of time. Perhaps if we think of them as existing all at once in parallel universes, and just us who happen to be inhabiting a different space at the moment, then we don’t really have any need for the sadness of letting go.

And little K can remain rooted to My Beijing and all that she loves in it, even while she finds new people and places to love in her newly adopted home.

Cirrus Cloud on Play: Moved

Three Mexican men surround me. Juan who speaks perfect English, Luis who speaks some and Fernando who speaks nada.

They are in my house decorating our new apartment. Yes, we moved again. This is our fifth move in three years (including two international moves). I loathe moving; it is like a virus which always succeeds in breaking down my immune system.

This move is technically the simplest as we moved four floors above where we used to live and we have a private elevator which opens up into the apartment.

However, a move is a move. I still needed to pack, unpack and repack (not necessarily in that order). The big items like sofas and tables are always the easiest: bulky but not difficult. The worst are the small things: paper clips, paperwork, pending bills, small cosmetic bits and bobs.

The most annoying category, in my opinion, is "miscellaneous." The items float suspended in the air, in limbo, in no man’s land. It reminds me of the stretch of road between Singapore's Tuas causeway and Malaysia. That particular stretch of road seems to belong to neither country, its jurisdiction appears to be in question. If anything happened to you on that piece of land, you better pray that someone will take care of you.

“Miscellaneous” is a category that we classify for the things that do not fit well anywhere else. That’s me. I always found that I was a “miscellaneous” item in Singapore. I fit in awkwardly. I do not really belong and yet I do. I think the saving grace is family and close friends. Still, I bear the burden of not sharing the same thoughts as many. I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from saying something too controversial. My dry humour offends people. I have been accused of being too bitchy when my sole intention was to amuse.

And so I am sipping my morning coffee, listening to Cuban music, speaking to my newfound acquaintances, explaining what needs to be done in Spanglish. I could not have done that in Hong Kong or Singapore where we moved from the last two times. This is by far the most stressful move as I have no help at all, but at the same time, it is the most liberating.

I love my solitude. I fear that I might be a hermit soon. It reminds me of singlehood when I used to hang out with the trio – me, myself and I. We hung like best buddies, inseparable. We watched movies together, sipped copious amounts of coffee, and sat at bars listening to live music. I missed them and they missed me too.

I needed to tear myself away from Singapore to find myself once again. I also found God again and thereby found my inner peace as well. All these great moments are happening but I still cannot escape from intermittent bouts of acute loneliness attacks at times. I have no one to hang on to in this country, except a busy traveling man.

Last night, I had a terrifying dream. I am sure it is caused by the fresh coat of paint, which made me hallucinate. I did not sleep well, am knackered, dark circles and all, but still trying to cope with silly adulthood responsibilities with no one to delegate!

“Fernando, no no. Mi esposo lo quiere aquí, no allí. Sí, pinta aquí por favor.” Juan runs to help with the position of the bed and instructs Fernando to paint behind the bed. Duty calls. I have to run along now but I have a few last words before I pen off.

I love you, New York City. I will always be grateful, Lady Liberty, for the experience and opportunities. You will always be special in my heart.

I am moved.

Duck's Nuts on Play: Mozzies At The Barbie With Our Rellies This Arvo In Freo

There are plenty of stereotypes about Australians and the Aussie way of speaking. I remember one of my neighbours, who had visited Australia before me, saying: "Let's put a shrimp on the barbie." I later realised she had heard the phrase from a Tourism Australia ad featuring none other than Crocodile Dundee himself, Paul Hogan.

Photo: Screengrab of 1984 tourism ad featuring Paul Hogan

What I didn't notice that time, but have become pretty aware of since I start living here, is the shortened word "barbie", which was used in place for barbecue.

Australians have a habit of shortening words - all words. The headline of this blog post should read "Mosquitoes at the barbecue with our relatives this afternoon in Fremantle" but as you can see, mosquitoes = mozzies, barbecue = barbie, relatives = rellies, afternoon = arvo and Fremantle = Freo.

In my line of work, I often have to get in contact with emergency services officers and all their job titles are shortened. So a firefighter is a "firie", an ambulance officer is an "ambo" and a police officer is a "coppa". The same goes for people working in the trades or other blue-collar jobs. A tradesman is a "tradie", a garbage collector is a "garbo" (one well-known example in NSW is politician or "pollie" Nathan Rees, the former premier), a truck driver is a "truckie", a postman is a "postie" and so on.

Caption: Nathan Rees, garbo turned pollie
Photo: Local Government and Shires Associations of NSW via Flickr, Creative commons

Interestingly, this doesn't seem to happen with professional jobs. So there's no short versions of banker, accountant, lawyer or dentist for example, or at least none that I know of. A doctor can be called a "doc", but that's hardly unique to "Oz" (Australia). Journalists are called "journos", but I suppose it wasn't considered a professional job in the old days but more like a trade. (Just a note about banker, there is another word that is sometimes used in place of it or with it - w--ker - but that's another blog post!)

I've found that since I've started living here, I've started to use these shortened words so regularly that I'm not conscious of my use of them anymore. So if I was heading to the shops, I could say I'm going to Woolies (Woolworths) to buy a brollie (umbrella), some sunnies (sunglasses), veges (vegetables) and lollies (short for lollipops, it's a general term used for sweets), before heading to the bottlo (short for a bottle shop, where alcohol is sold) to get some Cab Sav (Cabernet Sauvignon) and then to Macca's (McDonald's) for a quick bite.

Caption: Fancy some Maccas? Photo: Yusuke Kawasaki via Flickr, Creative commons

Even place names or people's names are not sacred. So Brisbane is "Brissy", Tasmania is "Tassie", the Brisbane cricket ground, located in suburb of Woolloongabba, is called "The Gabba", the Sydney suburbs of Sutherland Shire, Parramatta, Darlinghurst and Paddington are called "The Shire", "Parra", "Darlo" and "Paddo", and the Queensland city of Bundaberg is called "Bundy". Personal names are shortened as much as possible. My name has gone from Madeline* to Maddy to Mads to M.

Caption: Watching cricket at The Gabba in Brissy
Photo: Talisen via Flickr, Creative commons

The big question is - why? And why bother? Is it about saying less? Saving time? Being lazy? Or being inventive? A "uni" (university) lecturer, Nenagh Kemp from the University of Tasmania, who is studying these Aussie terms, reckons it might be about "a feeling of companionship or casualness and friendliness".

"You might use that to say, 'hey, I'm on the same level as you. I'm not being too pretentious."

Dr Kemp hasn't finished her study yet, so it'll be interesting to see what she does eventually discover, but it's fair to say that this form of Aussie slang does reflect the image of the laid-back local who likes nothing better than some "snags" (sausages) and a "bevy" (beverage) - preferably a "coldie" (cold beer) - on a warm summer's day while the cricket's on "telly" (television).

Now, whether that image of the laid-back Aussie is accurate or not is also a topic for another time ...

Here are some other examples:
Australian soldier = digger
beautiful = beaut
breakfast = breakie
chicken = chook
compensation = compo
Englishman = pom, pommie
football = footy
kangaroo = roo
lipstick = lippie
pick-up or utility truck = ute
poker machines = pokies
present = pressie
Salvation Army = Salvos
service station (or petrol station) = servo
sick day = sickie
smoke break = smoko
thanks = ta
tracksuit = trackie
vegetarian = vego

*Not my actual name, but the example still stands

Horse With No Name on Shop: The crumbling of the great wall of HWNN

Just months after the birth of my second child, I decided to take on a life-changing challenge. (Because y'know, having kids was old-hat by this time. And sleep is for the weak.)

For too long, I had been a consumer, buying things on impulse. With news flowing in about an impending recession and a rash of toxic toys invading the market, I felt compelled to do something.

Something that would help save money, protect my kids from the Big Toy Companies with no quality control, and free me from the shackles of wanton consumerism.

I was going to teach myself to sew, on a sewing machine.

I was going to make all my kid's toys. Yes. All of them. And maybe a handbag or three.

Well, hello dolly! Ok, she may look like a crazy mistake but she's not. Seriously. Nettlie here, one of the first toys I made, was inspired by my daughter's computer game character. The fuzziness comes from all the love she gets!

I've always loved making stuff with my hands. It's therapy for the frazzled brain. For my junior-college theatre project, I taught myself to work power tools, designing and building an entire convertible stage set with nary more than a couple of theatre-craft books and a lot of foolhardiness to guide me. And I LOVED every insane minute of it.

Hammers? Power saws? Pshaw.

But sewing? Dude, that's just dangerous. You could impale your fingers on fast-moving needles. Lose your hair from ripping it out in frustration. Smash furniture because you cut your last yard of cloth the wrong way.

Despite this inherent threat to life and limb, there I was, the very visage of crazy determination, losing precious nap time wrangling a bub and kid in the day, and losing beauty sleep wrangling my mum's persnickety old Singer machine at night.

But I persevered. All the while, I chanted my mantra: this will help me to live more and consume less.

And before I knew it, I was in complete love with my new hobby. But you know the problem with puppy love...

It's so, so naive.

Look! Soft blocks for baby! Started circa 1911. Will finish them in maybe another 100 years.

Sew long, and thanks for something swish!

The thing about starting a new hobby is that you inevitably end up needing to purchase things - kits, accessories - that would enable said hobby to come to fruition.

I don't have to spell it out for you, but I will: That meant shopping.

Now before you think I'm some sort of raging shopaholic tai-tai, I'm not. I've never bought an article of designer anything ever. I only buy clothes on sale and I still own clothes from when I was 18, which I still wear. I recycle or give away what I don't because it's a total waste to buy what you don't wear and hoard what you don't need. So, not a big shopper, am I.

But hobby shopping... that's a whole new ball game, buddy.

How not to pass the buck – use a credit card instead.

When we moved to America, I discovered The Ultimate, Super, Dee-Duper, Craft Store Of My Dreams, That Also Sells Fabric! That's not what it's called, but it should be.

The best part is, there are two other somewhat Super Dee-Duper competitor stores, all within a quick drive from my home. It was like finding out Willy Wonka opened ten candy stores on my doorstep, and included a winning lotto ticket in every pack of sweets.

And the bester than best part is? The salespeople at above-mentioned understand craft speak and Can. Actually. Help. You. What a concept. (Yes, I'm talking to you, grumpy sales-aunties from Spotlight.)

There are days when I find excuses to visit these craft/fabric havens, like when Sweetpea has after-school classes nearby.

Despite my strict consumer diet, I find myself haplessly immersed in the delicious world of fat-quarters and jelly-rolls. (Curse you, evil fabric-naming people!)

And the toys you can cut these up with! Talk about appealing to my inner Inspector Gadget!

Rusty old scissors from your home-ec days? Gaze, my friends, upon the rotary cutter. It has a blade which protrudes at your command, and glides up and down your cloth, slicing as if by magic! Scratch up your table with that blade? Never again! Behold! Cutting mats that mysteriously heal themselves!

They sound like power tools to me!

Thus, I regularly sail the fabric/craft aisles with the air of a love-struck teenager, my inner monologue practically berserk from fighting the wanton consumerism.

“Oh, I mustn't. I know I mustn't. But it's so pretty! And it'll come in handy if I ever need to sew an invisible zipper into that custom-made diaper bag/make-up pouch/sparkly party clutch. What, it's on clearance? You don't say!”

Next thing I know, I'm at the register, card at the ready, pen in hand, willpower in the toilet.

Yes, it's pink. With flowers. I know. Shut up. It's still a power tool.

And the bester than besterest part? Everything here is heaps cheaper than back home. Which means... I get to stock up on things I don't need and hoard things I will never use! Kidding. I totally use everything I buy. Or I will. Someday.

But for now, I try very hard to ignore my husband's pained looks as my closet steadily fills with box after box of “scissors that cuts pretty patterns!” or “cloth I picked up on sale!” or “ten thousand yards of cotton batting for when I learn to make quilts for our grand kids!”.

Could I be addicted? Well, sewing enthusiasts don't call it a “stash” without reason. And I have American craft stores to thank for enabling, I mean, assisting me in keeping my brain frazzle-free.

Ooo... lookit all the purty colours...

The upside? At least Mr HWNN, darling breadwinner of the family, can sleep easy knowing that his super low-maintenance wife isn't spending that money on a new designer handbag.

I'll just make it myself! Once I master sewing on a curve! Without losing my thumbs!

Rojak Timeout Reprisal: A Singaporean Take on Singapore

Not so long ago, Una Ragazza posted a note letting readers know about a guest blog posting she contributed to a travel writer and friend's website. Unfortunately, due to some technical problems, that site is temporarily under service.

For those who are curious about that posting, the original text is reproduced below. Feel free to agree, disagree or add to her list of Singaporean takes on Singapore.



A common question that overseas Singaporeans receive from their foreign friends and acquaintances is, "What do you recommend I do when I visit Singapore?"

Following many interesting exchanges over the years, Una Ragazza was recently invited by a travel website to blog about a Singaporean's perspective to favorite things for a first-time visitor to the island to consider.

Her friend George -- a travel writer for OneTravel that offers cheap tickets to travelers who are tight on money -- doesn't travel much anymore but loves to share wonderful stories he has accumulated through the years and network with travelers.

Fellow Singaporeans and travelers who had previously set foot on the Lion City, feel free to share your must-sees, must-dos and importantly, your must-eats.

Un Ragazzo, who will make his virgin visit in the winter, thanks you in advance.

TRAVEL NOTES FROM A SINGAPORE GIRL

Today’s Guest Blogger Una Ragazza lives in New York. Together with a group of female Asian expatriates spread across three continents, she manages www.eatshopplaylove.com, a blog that tells tales about eating, shopping, playing and loving well. A native of Singapore, she shares her list of 10 things to do for a first-time visitor to the Asian island.

10. Ride the MRT to get from the country’s east end to its west end
Singapore subway or metro system is aptly called the Mass Rapid Transit (MRT) as it efficiently transports about two million people around the country on a daily basis. For an affordable US$2, one can embark on a one-hour tourist ride that conveniently whisks you off from the airport on the eastern end of the diamond-shaped island to the western coast, gliding smoothly past highways, public housing estates, food markets and shopping complexes. The scene on the MRT is also a real cultural treat: hear the local accent (Singlish), check out the local hipster fashion and observe kiddie behavior in a very crowded space. You’d be amazed how similar and different things are from back home.



9. Eat the very good hawker fare in Newton Circus
If I could somehow transport myself back home to Singapore for a meal and have only time to visit one place, it will likely be Newton Circus. From delectable sambal stingray and oyster omelette to prawn noodles and fish ball soup, this place can inflict a food orgy on an adventurous seafood lover. Bring plenty of napkins.



8. Walk the underground mall in Orchard Road
With year-round temperatures of 80-95 degrees fahrenheit and humidity rates in the 90s, ducking into the never-ending row of air-conditioned Orchard Road shopping malls is a respite. A great experience is to walk, shop and eat your way through the subterranean malls linking Orchard Road MRT to Somerset MRT and then Dhoby Ghaut MRT. Emerge at the other end in your fresh and dry clothes, ready to conquer the cluster of museums within easy walking distance.



7. Crash a beach wedding in Sentosa
Sentosa, the island-playground that is a hop, skip and a jump from the city, is a great way to get away from the hustle and bustle of the mainland. On a weekend evening, make your way to the beaches close to the resort hotels and get in the action with the locals celebrating wedding nuptials on the toasty beach.



6. Drink plenty of coffee and stay up for the Night Safari
The award-winning Night Safari is a one-of-a-kind experience. As a country which has pulled itself from third-world to first-world status within two generations, Singapore is known for creating plenty of firsts and other superlatives: the world’s best seaport, the world’s best airport, the world’s best airline, the world’s largest artificial waterfall... The action at the world’s first wildlife park for nocturnal animals starts late, so load up on the Starbucks to enjoy a ride into Africa on the equator.

Welcome to the car park: A glimpse of what's inside

5. Ride a bike in Pulau Ubin
When I was growing up, Pulau Ubin was seen as the backwaters of Singapore, with nary to offer beyond mosquitoes. The only people I knew who visited the island were foolhardy adventure seekers: boy scouts! Nowadays, Ubin’s image has received a face lift: people see it as a cool alternative to Sentosa -- more rustic, less crowded. Bring lots of deet because the mosquito problem has not gone away.



4. Catch a morning assembly at a primary school
Whenever I ask my friends in America if they sing the national anthem other than during sports games, I usually get blank stares. I often respond with my own look of surprise, since singing the national anthem and reciting the pledge is part and parcel of every school-going kid between the ages of 5 and 18 in Singapore: we do it every morning before the start of the first lesson. The sight of several hundred little tikes singing in earnest and in unison should be quite an eye-opener for those who are not used to such discipline and linguistic capabilities (the Singapore anthem is in the Malay language, which makes up about 15 percent of the population; the other main races include Chinese and Indian).



3. Buy a sari in Little India
About one in ten Singaporeans is Indian, so it is only apt that there is a thriving Little India that feels authentic enough for me to have outfitted myself with two saris here. For those who are less familiar with the Indian costume, the sari comes with a choli -- a tiny shirt that is meant to squeeze every bit of fat out onto your belly. It is considered sexy to have a belly when wearing the sari. Nasi biryani before a visit to the tailor, anyone?



2. Visit the brewery of one of Asia’s best beers, Tiger Beer
For a young country of under 200 years old, Singapore has a rather respectable beer. So much so that when I visited Cambodia and Vietnam recently, tourist vendors were selling T-shirts with the logo of the Singapore beer all over town. Beer drinks would appreciate this beer trivia: decades before the popular US beer slogan, “It’s Miller Time” was known, the “It’s Time for a Tiger” slogan inspired a book by the British author of A Clockwork Orange.



1. Get to Changi Airport 5 hours before departure!
You heard it right -- check in with a few hours of spare time at the airport that provides arguably the world’s best retail experience. With more than 300 shopping and dining establishments spread over three terminals, as well as a full-size tourist information center, beauty salon, music bar and lounge, spa, nature trail and hotel, there is frankly plenty for Tom Hanks to do if he ever were to get stuck here for a while.



So there you go -- try the above when you make it down to the Lion City. Don’t forget to leave the chewing gum at home.

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Denim on Play: How to be beachy

Singapura, oh Singapura. Sunny island, set in the sea... How I used to love that song which was frequently practiced during my years in school for Singapore's National Day. But ironically, it is a description I least like to use when asked about the country I come from.

This is what an aerial view of a real island should look like I think!

Telling someone you grew up on an island conjures up the idyllic image of lovely palm trees, sand and sparkling cool waters. Perhaps if my neighborhood were in the East side, I could somewhat justify the generalization but alas, I grew up in the North. I was hidden thick in the concrete blocks of government housing and my favorite getaway was escaping into the artificially-cooled air of the shopping centers at Orchard Road (another misleading name for yet another concrete jungle). So despite growing up on an island, I was a city girl.

However, upon migrating to the intense Tokyo metropolis, I find myself gradually loving the city life less. Just walking through the streets of Shibuya at night tires me out. It is as if the bright shops, the dense volume of people, the roaring vehicles, the dusty pavements are all draining me of my energy. And it is in this madness, I find myself seeking a quiet vacation and dreaming of a beach holiday.

To the Japanese, the beach is something that defines summer here so no matter how scorching hot and humid it is, even the dirtiest beach is crowded and busy in the peak season. The Japanese are professionals at getting in order so no matter how crowded it can get, there is still a sense of calm at the scene. Something I find comfortable yet unsettling at the same time.

methinks our humble East Coast beats this dark littered sand at Kamakura

I can still recall my most bizarre scene encountered at the beach in Shirahama. From afar, one can spot neatly planted parasols one the sandy shores and in the sparkling water, huge colorful ring floats lined up and bobbing in rhythm to dull soft beats. It was a picture that presented life and a robotic tone at the same time. I was then told that the highlight of the day would be to go rent a float and get into the water to bob up and down with the rest of the crowd. Playing in a silent orchestra with a missing conductor. I was skeptical but I shrugged off my doubts and kept up with the Tanakas and went in.

Love the neat parasols -

perhaps we can rent them out at East Coast?!

To my surprise, after a few minutes of bobbing, I started to enjoy the motions. Every wave that took me up and down was like a gentle massage, rhythmically rubbing away the stress of the city, a numbing effect to ease the tensions. Gradually, it became fun, anticipating when the next wave would take me on another bob. Like how the Japanese hot spring is a simple yet therapeutic soak for the soul, the Japanese summer beach bob is the cooler version.

See in the background how not many people are really swimming?

Bob away bobbers!

For the curious, there aren't many beaches accessible to the Tokyo dwellers. Those closer to Tokyo are scenic beaches like the ones in Kamakura or Onjuku i.e. nice to look out and sit on the beach mat but not clean or safe enough to really get into the waters. However, they are good for surfers and you get the odd eye candy of lean, tanned, glistening bodies.

Takashi Sorimachi is who I dream of bumping into on the beach

but the local crop is usually a lot skinnier…

Another thing I've grown to love about the beach is the endless view of the water horizon. It makes me feel like I am at the edge of the world and gives a sense of how minute we are in the grand scheme of life. My husband once pointed out to me how one could see the very soft curve of the horizon if one observes closely. Just how often do we remember that the world is not flat?

Oh, how a subtle curve could be so beautiful

and yet, so hard to capture..

My other favorite discovery here was the beauty of the Okinawan islands. The clear turquoise waters are gems themselves but what I had enjoyed the most was the wonderful hospitality and culture of the islanders. They have such a kind and friendly demeanor about them and even their songs have such a happy lilt to it that I can easily envision retiring comfortably there someday.

Wouldn’t you like to lie here all day?

Or I should start learning to play the sanshin (like a banjo)

if I need a skill to retire with in Okinawa..

So consider me a reformed islander as I now try to play catch up on the time wasted in the concrete jungle. As for my next vacation? The artful island of Naoshima!