I CAN’T MAKE UP THIS STUFF

In the past few days, I feel like I have done a whole lot of nothing. In contrast, I feel that I have experienced so many crazy things, my brain hurts. To summarize: my computer crashed, leaving the hard drive “toast,” according to Paul; I broke a toe, bruised my shin and wound up with a flu-like bug; I received amazing V.I.P. treatment one day and unbelievable curb-drop service from the same company a few days later; Paul and I sat through the craziest date night dinner and I witnessed mind-blowing security features that made me get out my camera. Did I mention that all of this happened in Bali?

When Paul invited me to accompany him for a work-related long weekend in Bali, I never once considered refusing the offer. I first visited Bali last October when I finally experienced the true meaning of the word “paradise.”

Two girlfriends and I stayed on the island’s west coast in a town called Canggu (pronounced Chan-goo). We stayed in a villa where staff prepared meals, cleaned the entire villa grounds and chauffeured us around the island, showing us all of the great western tourist spots. We enjoyed massages, a yoga retreat and a couple local tours. It was a fab trip.

This time, Paul and I decided to simply relax. It was one of those vacations when we had no intention of ever leaving hotel grounds. We stayed on the southern peninsula in Nusa Dua along the east coast, just minutes from the point where an ocean greeted us on three sides.

We did not partake in tours; we did not sign up for any special classes (though I did make two attempts at cooking classes). We did, however, enjoy a lot of quality time by the pool, by the beach and in bed. Yes, that’s right, we napped. Naptime is sacred, even in Bali.

Paul left Thursday and, on Friday, flew the aircraft from Malaysia to Indonesia. I met him for dinner Friday. When I landed in Bali, I received the following text from Paul:

“A young Indonesian man named XXXX will meet you as you get off the airplane. He is our handler here and will escort you through immigration and bring you to me.”

I laughed out loud. I just kept thinking it read something like, “I am so important that I sent a local man out to fetch me a wife. He will bring you to me.”

Sure enough, when I got to a common area, a man was holding a sign with my name. I raised my arm and made eye contact. He smiled, nodded and then gave me the V.I.P. treatment. I followed him passed the long “Foreigner” lines and headed straight to baggage claim while someone else took care of my passport stamp and entrance fees. I felt so important and celebrity-like.

The man helped me with my bags and, just as Paul had stated, took me to where Paul was waiting in a café alongside the terminal. When I left Bali, I did not receive the same treatment as I was promised. Instead, a man dropped me off at the curb and then asked me for money to pay the ticket he obtained when arriving at the airport. Not cool.

When the handler and I were close to where Paul was waiting, an older local man came up to me, wide-eyed and smiling, and said, “I am Dude,” pronounced Doo-day. I extended my hand to shake his, looked confused and kept walking. When he followed and then came alongside me, again stating his name, I clutched my bag closer under my arm so there was less of a gap exposing my valuables.

Once I was inside the café and the man was introducing himself to Paul, I started to understand that this man owned the company that assisted Paul with all of his flight needs. Now it makes sense. The man was great – he even invited us to join him and his wife for dinner at a beachside seafood restaurant the following evening.

When Paul and I arrived at the hotel, we took a moment to stand on the balcony. For the first time in a long time, I looked out and saw stars. The next two days were pretty similar – we had a lazy morning, ate a breakfast consisting of eggs and breads, read poolside and explored the local beach clubs and shopping center.

I guided us to a beach that Paul initially thought was private, nervous that we would not be allowed to enter. We quickly surmised that this, instead, must be the local beach. I was surprised at how many people were in the water fully clothed. As I was focusing my attention on these people, I was quickly stunned as a boy within feet from my face bent straight over and pulled off his pants, exposing his underwear in my direct sight line.

We took a few great photos (not of the boy with his pants down):

To the right, we noticed an area where water was crashing up against the rocks, sometimes shooting well above the tree lines. “Thunder Hole!” I shouted and pointed, remembering our days in Bar Harbor, Maine’s Acadia National Park. We decided to get a closer look and came across “Water Blow,” a place that apparently discouraged visitors, though no one seemed phased by the attempt to block the entrance.

High-energy tourists walked out onto the long, windy decks to stand in the kill zone. Some kids also gathered on the grass nearby in another wave hot spot. When we attempted to get some action photos, even we were surprised by the waves crashing in and spraying us all over. Needless to say, we needed another shower before dinner.

We enjoyed the dinner with Dude and his wife, along with another expat couple consisting of a pilot husband and dula wife living in Hong Kong. The atmosphere was pretty great – tables lined the beach, allowing us to bury our feet in the sand all night long. The seafood was grilled in a tiny building on the road that blew the smoke out onto the beach. Imagine this one event times 50 restaurants lined from one end of the shoreline to the other.

Since we could not obtain dinner reservations anywhere else Sunday evening, Trip Advisor and the hotel staff suggested another beachside restaurant called Menega located on the same strip as the evening before. Paul and I arranged for a taxi and headed off for our 6 p.m. reservation. The taxi driver, however, has other plans.

He literally drives into a restaurant and parks in an area I would think is for pedestrians only. Two people greet us under a large, colorful sign that reads, “Matahari.” Paul and I look at each other. I get out and ask the man where Menega is. He looks confused and acts like he has never heard of the place. “But we have a reservation at Menega,” I hear Paul say.

“This place has the same food,” the taxi driver replies.

“But we have a reservation at the other place.”

Paul and I consider getting another taxi when this guy concedes and agrees to take us to the original location. We have to help him get there.

When we arrive, no one asks our name, a man just tells us that there are no tables available outside. The only place we can sit is inside an open-air room filled with smoke from the barbeque area. Why these people don’t grill outside instead of in an enclosed area where the smoke fills the windows, I will never know.

After 10 minutes of being ignored, we are offered two seats at a table for six where three other people are sitting. We are told we can wait there until another table is available but someone took our order and brought us our drinks.

About 40 minutes into the time, before any food has arrived, we are offered the option to move. I probably rolled my eyes when the guy made the offer but Paul wanted to get as far away from the smoke as possible so we move further down the beach. We land at a small table on the edge of the beach – front row seats lit only by candle light.

While we are waiting and waiting and waiting for our food, we spot people carrying something that we first think is an ice cream cone, then maybe something like a corn dog and finally believe to be corn on the cob. When we move, we spot the vendor, grilling sweet and spicy versions of cob corn over hot coals – right in front of the restaurants. Since we were at the restaurant for about two hours, had to ask about our food twice and beg for water on more than two occasions, we each purchased a cob and credited the man’s genius.

More than 30 minutes after we received our plates of nasi goreng sans sambal, Paul hunted down a member of the wait staff to check on the status of our food. We were missing a calamari appetizer, a jumbo prawn main and a grouper. We never got the grouper.  We decided we would only come back for the sweet corn. 

One of the craziest things I observed during our stay was the security at the hotel. Paul had told me that Marriotts were targets for terrorists because of the number of western visitors; a Marriott in Thailand was bombed a few years ago. I just shrugged it off until we pulled into the hotel grounds.

When any vehicle approaches the entrance, one large gate is lifted and then closed behind the vehicle, entrapping it between two gates. At least three security guards approach the car, use mirrors to look under the car, open each and every door including the trunk and inspect for anything shady. There is also a man with a special sniffing dog that walks the perimeter.

This guy was too quick for my camera but he opened Paul's door and flashed a light to check for any bad stuff.

Once the vehicle is cleared, passengers may be driven up a hill to the hotel entrance, where more security guards will greet you alongside a metal detector and an X-ray machine. If one sets off the metal detector, there is a person with a wand to welcome you from your head to your toes. I did not realize I had opted to stay with the TSA. Every time Paul and I walked into the hotel, we had to place our belongings on the conveyer belt and walk through the machine. Security in Asian airports isn’t as tight as this hotel’s security. I suppose I should be happy about this but, I have to be honest, over-security is a big reason I don’t like being in the U.S.

As much as I was amazed by my surroundings, I have to say, we were able to really relax. I intended to complete a few book chapters over the weekend but, upon arrival, my hard drive crashed so that didn’t happen. I did, however, get to spend a lot of quality time with Paul and I did have an opportunity to read a book that has me convinced that I should move to France.

TIME

How does one define time? Paul and I don’t like to get super technical, so here is how we break down our time:

1.      Sleepy Time

Paul thinks sleeping is the best part of life, so sleep time is paramount in this house. Naptime is sacred. It even has a song.

“Nap-time, nap-time

Everybody everywhere.

Nap-time, nap-time...”

We tend to make up various lines that sometimes rhyme.

It is never too early or too late for a nap according to Paul. If we wake up at 6:30 and are tired at 8:30 – early nap. If we have been out most of the day and return home at 4:30 – late nap. While napping with a sleep buddy is always preferred, napping solo is acceptable. Napping twice in one day is a great accomplishment.

Then there’s bedtime. Bedtime is so special, there is a dance to indicate it is bedtime. Paul gets a giddy look on his face, smiles, bends his knees, which are shoulder-width apart, bends his arms, hands at face level with the pointer fingers pointed to the sky. Then one hand raises as the opposite hip points outward and the motion begins.

Whether it is naptime or bedtime, I have to remember to turn on the air conditioner and the fan (because the fan has to blow the cold air from the ceiling in the direction of our bed), close the bathroom door (because the air from the air con machine blows at the bathroom door) and close the blinds (because Paul is a vampire who hates light). I kid, but he does like the room as dark as possible. He gets annoyed if light passes through.

2. Together Time

When I wake up in the mornings, I don’t like to start my day right away. I like to take my time, waking up, opening my eyes, getting my body moving again. I like to lie in bed and welcome the sun. I like to roll up next to Paul or, sometimes, roll on top of him so that he can also enjoy the morning and welcome the sun with me.

We also have a fun time we call “touch time.” Touch time started when Paul and I read a book about love languages written by a Christian minister who focuses on marriage and family matters. The book features five ways that people can show love and feel loved and how realizing the characteristics associated with these categories can strengthen relationships.

Paul and I have one of the best relationships I have witnessed so it made sense that our love languages mirror. My top love language is “physical touch,” meaning I show love and feel love through touch – hugs, arm in arm, holding hands or even just linking fingers, etc. My second language is “quality time,” which basically means that I like being around people. We don’t have to do anything crazy – we can just sit and talk over coffee or a meal or just hang out and laugh.

Paul’s top love language is “quality time” and his second is “physical touch.” Perfect – we get each other. With us, if we are in the same room, both on our computers or watching television, we just need our toes to touch and we know it’s all good. When walking, even from point A to point B, we link a finger or wrap an arm around each other and we know we are good. If we do argue, one of us will pull the touch card and go for a hug, an arm wrap or a hand hold to just confirm that everything is O.K.

3. Food Time

If you know anything about me, you know that my entire life revolves around food. I love food. I love to cook food, I love to eat food, I love to think about food. So food time in our house is just as sacred as naptime. When I can, I make breakfast, lunch and dinner.

We have breakfast time, lunch time and dinner time at the table, sitting across from one another. Usually, breakfast is pretty silent; we might chat a bit but there is no distraction. More often than not, we choose to have a bowl of cereal separately – Paul by his computer in his office (usually while I am still enjoying the morning in bed) and then I will have mine at the table once I decide life is worth living.

Lunch time is usually something simple and we do eat at the table and have a chat. Dinner is typically at the table, talking, working and listening to the television. Sometimes we have a friend or a few over and then it gets fun. Michael Buble is heard melting my heart, the table is set, a feast is prepared, drinks are poured and the conversation goes on for hours. So great.

4. TV Time

Paul and I have a few days when we spend our “quality time” on the couch, hanging out with a few of our favorite shows. BBT (a.k.a. The Big Bang Theory) is a must see anytime the show is on the air. HIMYM (How I Met Your Mother) is also a frequent pick. At 7 p.m. weeknights, Paul must watch Alton Brown on the Food Network, and I get to enjoy an episode of FRIENDS at 7:30. Then it’s time for BBT.

I think we watch fewer shows here than we did in the U.S. – mostly because we don’t have a DVR. We have other things to do but we do enjoy a little chill time in TV land – it’s a nice way to relax.

5. Church Time

We have church time once a week, on Sundays of course. Our church has four services beginning at 8:30, 11:30, 2:30 and 5:30. We typically make our service selection Sunday morning; naptime and food time are two contributing factors. In order to make Paul happy, because I tend to make us miss a bus or two, Paul recently ordered me to be ready to leave the house an hour before church begins. This means we typically have 25 minutes between church arrival and service commencement. Meh.

Work Time, Girl Time, Date Day, Coffee Day and Date Night are also time fillers but I feel like I’ve written enough already.

P.S. In the time between writing and publishing this post, I received the following text from my husband who is stuck tonight in Malaysia:

“You can’t see but I’m doing the bedtime dance.” See? I can’t make up this stuff!

IF YOU LIKE…

Fresh flowers, piles of vegetables not in plastic packages and the freshest seafood in town, all for negotiable rates, I have somewhere to take you. Today I had a nearly perfect Saturday.

After lying in bed with my husband until I was ready to face the day, I arose, immediately got dressed in some black leggings and a couple layered tank tops, tossed my unwashed hair into a ponytail and slapped some powder on my face. Then, I headed into the kitchen and sliced myself a chunk of banana bread. So good.

After I brushed my teeth (FYI, Arm & Hammer toothpaste does not pair well with banana bread), I organized my grocery bags, took what I needed from my purse and put on my wellies.

With my tote bag over my shoulder and my Oakleys protecting my eyes, I headed out under the blue, sunny sky that is almost always over Singapore and I made my way to my neighborhood Starbucks.

Though the outdoor tables and chairs were filled, to my surprise, there was no line awaiting me inside. I ordered a frappucino and, winner, my refillable gift card plan scored me a free drink, which I happily accepted.

Drink in hand, I walked a few blocks to a bus stop and waited for my ride to Little India where I finally found that place about which people are always talking. I finally found the largest market in Singapore, where all of the videos and photos were taken.

Travel shows always show the hot spots but they don’t always say where the hot spots are located. Though Tekka Market has been featured on many shows, I, until today, had yet to discover the largest wet market on the island.

This is Little India

I have only been to a wet market once before – the one with the pork bills. Though it was somewhat close to my house, there were only 10 to 12 stalls and not a lot of selection. My nutritionist friend, Shalyn, recently recommended Tekka Market due to its size and operating hours, which are a bit later than most Singaporean wet markets.

To be honest, I was expecting a warehouse-type structure with lots of vendors in low stands like the vendors I typically see lining the streets.

Just a couple street vendors outside the shops

When I walked into the open-air market, I immediately found myself in a maze of tiny buildings, lined up in blocks with aisles only slightly larger than those in the grocery store. Flower and vegetable stall workers, however, did their part to crowd the aisles with fresh goods.

My first look at Tekka Market

These blue crabs ended up in a pot for dinner :)

Wet markets got their name from the wet floors, which are often grimy as well. Seafood is displayed on ice beds, flowers are sprayed with water to stay fresh and many stalls are hosed down throughout the day in order to keep them clean – all of which adds to the floor’s appearance. 

Luckily, I came prepared.

I had some Skullcandy headphones in my ears, listening to my favorite New Jersey radio station via Internet radio, and began taking photos from the moment I arrived. I seemed to be a big hit as many of the locals noticed my pale skin, lightish hair, my camera and, of course, my stylish boots.

“Whe you from?” is hands down the most popular question I receive and today was no different than any other day. For a half a second, I debated whether it would be easier to say, “U.S.” or “East Coast,” meaning “down the road.” I did what I usually do and, smiling, replied with a combination of the two: “U.S. but I live on the East Coast here.”

One woman who I believed to be of Indian descent talked with me for several minutes, inquiring about America and the similarities and differences between our two countries. I explained that they are quite similar and that I did not have a feeling of severe change. When she asked how long I would be here, I stated that my husband and I plan to apply for permanent residency but that job placement is now always a relocation possibility.

She was surprised that I had not yet been to Tekka and shared my sadness for the lack of wet markets in my neighborhood. I promised her that I would not forget her or her vegetable stall, which was such a bargain. I bought two giant carrots, a few handfuls of large beans and two lemons and it only cost me $3.

I was teased a bit for taking pictures. Most of the stall owners joked around with me about not getting them in any of my shots. They also had great joy in commenting on my boots. The locals loved that I came prepared and excitedly commented on the style. At one point, while I was waiting on my crabs, a group of seven locals, stall workers and passers by, talked with me for a few minutes on my boot style and where I got them.

I heard one person make a comment about Mustafa’s, the largest multi-purpose store I have ever seen in my life that also happens to be in Little India, I said, laughing, “No, I tried Mustafa’s. They didn’t have my size!”

This is a true story. All of the Indian construction workers wear yellow rain boots and I assumed I could get some similar boots at Mustafa’s so I went looking. I found them but they were nowhere near my size. I had to order them from the States and have them shipped. Thank you, Ralph Lauren.

I met some fantastic people, found some great stalls and even received recommendations from stall owners who knew what I would like. Just like at Sam’s Club, I even got to sample some of the merchandise. Stall owners know one is more likely to buy if one first enjoys the product. Too bad it didn’t work on me today.

I found some great produce: carrots, salad greens, beans, broccoli, lemons, tomatoes (for under $2 a kg), spring onions, apples, oranges and grapes. I also bought some jumbo prawns with extra-long whiskers and a couple of blue crabs that Paul and I ate for dinner. I paid $40 for everything and, though I haven’t yet decided if that is a good deal or slightly pricey, I do know that I plan to revisit Tekka Market time and time again.

The line of vehicles waiting to make the cross-traffic turn into Tekka Centre

PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE LEARNED

Friday night I had the pleasure of attending an event created to raise money for and awareness of breast cancer. Pink Friday brought together 30 women for an evening of storytelling, socializing, drinking, eating and game playing that resulted in more than $3,400 donated to the cause.

Until this event, I had never heard of Pink Friday, a concept created in the U.K. In America, October is breast cancer month so there are lots of public service announcements, cancer walks and galas in the fall. I think that holding a Pink Friday event over Mother’s Day weekend was an excellent choice.

My friend, Avril, hosted the evening and advised that four of her friends under the age of 50 have been hit with the disease; three were able to write letters in support of our evening. I am sure that everyone in the room had some sort of connection to the disease and one woman shared her encounter. We are all thrilled that she was there with us.

I was 22 when I had my first tumor removed. I was at home on a fall break my senior year of college. I remember that I was lying on the couch and something prompted me to do a self exam, though I don’t remember what. Maybe I saw a commercial about breast exams, maybe Oprah had a show, maybe I just had a thought to check myself.

So, with my right hand pressed against my left boob, I started feeling around. To be honest, I had no idea what I was trying to find, but the doctor on Oprah at one point or another did say that a lump should feel like a frozen pea. I just felt a lot of bulges – some big, some small – but no frozen peas. I did, however, feel something small, squishy and out on its own.

I wasn’t worried at all but I knew I should likely get myself checked, so I called my family doctor and made an appointment. The day before my appointment, I very matter-of-factly told my mom that I made a doctor’s appointment because I felt a lump in my boob. I stated that I was not concerned so she should not be either, and that was the end of the conversation.

My doctor recommended that I get a better exam when I was back at school so I had an ultrasound to see just what was in there. At that time, the U.S. insurance companies would not allow anyone under the age of 40 to have a mammogram – which is STUPID – so I had to get all jellyed up and watch the technician play hide and seek with various forms of tissue and other stuff.

That day they removed three cysts and biopsied the confirmed tumor. From the time that I first felt the mystery object, through the doctor’s appointments and exams, I was never nervous. I did not have any concerns until I arrived back at the women’s center to receive my results. The woman in the room asked if I had anyone with me. I replied, “No, should I?”

“Well,” she continued. “We prefer that there be someone with you so that you have support and someone else hearing the information that is presented.” At that point, my heart sank and I proceeded to freak out. It was all for nothing because she told me that the biopsy showed the tumor was benign. Thanks, lady.

Over Christmas break, I had the tumor removed by a doctor who told me that I had very lumpy breasts. Again, thanks, doc. That’s exactly what every 22-year-old wants to hear.

Last fall during a routine checkup, my Singaporean doctor recommended that I have another ultrasound since it had been years since my last one. Another larger tumor was hiding deep in the tissue so it was no surprise, my doctor said, that I did not feel this one.

My boobs are tiny. I am hereby proclaiming to the world that I have Victoria’s Secret-defined A cups and I had a tumor that I could not feel. This is why every woman should get checked by some sort of boob-checking device every year – you won’t always feel it yourself.

Again, by the grace of God, I came through my surgery well and a few days following was advised that this tumor was again benign. I have been blessed so far to have only a couple scars to remind me to get checked. My friends, however, aren’t always so lucky.

I am sure most of you can name a few people in your life who have been affected by breast cancer, so it surprises me how many people still are not getting checked. They know they should but something is holding them back. Maybe it’s fear of something bad; maybe it’s fear of the unknown. Maybe they think that as long as they don’t notice anything different, there is nothing to worry about.

Quit making excuses. Get checked, get your friends to get checked – heck, make a group appointment and then go out to lunch or drinks after! With technology as advanced as it is today – and only getting more advanced by the day – there is no reason that we cannot find these things early.

The truth is that breast cancer can hit anyone, not just women over 40, so whether you are 20 or 80, whether your boobs are just starting to pop out or they are falling to your belt, get yourself checked. If you like your boobs, do your part to keep them.

MORE BANG FOR MY BUCK

Living in a place to which one is not instinctively accustomed can lead to frustrations. One of my biggest frustrations with life in Singapore is the unbelievable customer service.

When Paul and I first moved here, we had a lot of trial and error endeavors. We needed outlet adapters and electronic cords; we needed clothes and kitchen items. At times, we bought the wrong thing. In America, most places will accept returns with no hassles other than the outrageous customer service area lines. In Singapore, people looked at us like we were crazy when we approached the representative at the register asking for a refund.

We found one electronics store that would honor our returns when our items were in their original cases and were accompanied by a receipt, but most stores would not accept returns.

Restaurants are the prime example of truly appalling customer service. If one finds an example of good or exceptional customer service, everyone on the island needs to know because that place becomes a keeper. One example of fantastic service is our favorite family-run Italian restaurant.

When I call the restaurant’s phone number, someone actually answers. If for some reason, someone is able to answer the phone, I am able to leave a message and someone returns my call the same day. The fact that someone answers is a rarity but the option to leave a message is even more surprising since almost no one in Singapore has any type of answering service.

A man greets us from the time our cab doors open, outside the restaurant and either offers to take us to our table or offers us a drink while we wait. The wait staff actually knows all of the items on the menu and all of the ways the items are prepared – no questions asked. They have the enormous list of the daily specials in their heads and, again, are able to answer any questions without leaving the table to return in no less than five minutes.

They fill the drink glasses without asking, they provide free bread and they check on the customers throughout the meal to ensure that the evening is going as planned. This is how a restaurant is supposed to be run.

More often than not, however, restaurants here do just the opposite. No one answers the phone when it rings and no answering message is available either. No one greets customers as they enter. If customers have a question about anything, the wait staff leaves the table in the middle of the conversation, even if that person is in the middle of taking orders.

Waters are usually not provided as a courtesy; they are never filled either. Waiters do not check on customers; they show up three times only after they are flagged – once to take an order, once to provide the bill (most of the time the waiters do not bring the food) and once to close the bill, returning either cards or change.

Paul and I experienced a classic example last weekend when we visited one of the biggest expat neighborhoods, Holland Village. We had not been to the area since our first week in Singapore so it was great to see how the area had changed within the year.

The idea I presented was to try one of two Mexican restaurants on the strip since Saturday was Cinco de Mayo. Getting to Holland Village was an adventure – it was just one of those days when public transportation was not our forte.

When we arrived it was after 7 so the streets and the food venues were pretty packed. The main street was blocked with barricades so that the people could freely walk in the streets. The food courts and restaurants emitted sounds of laughter and conversation as well as smells of fried food and spices.

The neighborhood was lit with lights from the venues and from the spectacular Super Moon that looked down on the street party.

We hiked up the hill, taking in the sights and smells, and found our way to El Patio. I was excited for the Mexican food and the anticipated margarita but my mood was quickly altered. My plan to arrive before the dinner crowd backfired so I anticipated a wait. When we arrived, we stood for a minute or two before a girl noticed us.

I pointed “two” and she just looked at me and said, “We have no tables. We are full.”

I think my jaw dropped. I looked at her, eyes wide and asked, “How long for two people?” She gave me a look that indicated she just made up a number, replied, “15 or 20 minutes,” and then babbled something about a couple to her left and not knowing how long.

Paul walked away and I soon followed. Lorong Mambong Road is lined with open-air restaurants climbing a curvy hill. The street is one block behind a major roadway so it truly became a street party out of traffic’s way. The people ruled the streets – and by “people” I mean kids on scooters and kids running around and climbing on things while their parents were drinking at a table down the street.

We decided to sit on a big open porch and order some food at some unknown place. Our waiter brought us our requested waters with lemon – a bonus because I have only twice received the lemon I requested – and took our order.

I stated that we wanted to start with an order of the fried calamari and then I wanted a burger. I asked if the burger had sauce because places here almost always put some sort of schmere on sandwiches. The waiter told me that there was barbeque sauce on the burger. Intrigued, I repeated, “Barbeque sauce?” And he confirmed. I said O.K. and advised that I wanted the burger medium well when asked. Paul ordered a fish dinner with a side of fries.

In a minute, the waiter came back to the table. He told me that there was no such thing as medium well. I started at him dumbfounded. I said, “Actually, there is,” and then Paul and I deliberated. Fearing the medium would be too underdone, I took a risk and ordered a well-done burger, hoping it would not be dry and crusty.

The waiter left. And then he came back. “Just to let you know, well done means the burger will be pink in the center.”

“Um, it shouldn’t,” were my exact words. Paul shooed him off so he left again.

Then he came back. Before he could even take a breath to start whatever he had to say, I seriously considered telling him that I did not care and asking him to walk away but I did not. Instead, I let him tell me about my burger. Again.

This time I was told that the burger did not have any barbeque sauce. Fine. He confirmed again that there was no sauce. Great. Leave.

I think after that he was scared to come back to our table. We had the hardest time trying to find him.

A woman came to our table and announced a plate of fries. Confused, I looked at her and said, “We ordered fried calamari.” Paul accepted the fries since he knew he ordered them with his meal and we began to snack.

When the fries were finished, the calamari arrived and, later, so did Paul’s fish with roasted potatoes. My brain questioned why there were potatoes on the plate when he ordered fries with his meal but I did not say anything. After another couple of minutes, my burger arrived boasting a couple tablespoons of mayonnaise.

We got another waiter to bring a fresh bun with fresh greens so that I could eat my burger sans sauce as intended. It wasn’t bad but the service we received was enough to make me only want to come back for a beer if I was seated at the bar. Paul went to the bar twice to get water because no one came around to fill our empty glasses. At one point, Paul returned from the bar and then, seconds later, the waiter rushed over to fill his already full glass because he had seen Paul’s sly move.

All of this does not compare, however, to the utterly unacceptable service that my friend, Van, received last night.

It's hard to believe that anyone can consider our nation's capital one of the more racist areas in the U.S., but my friend, Van, is constantly amazed at the amount of abuse he receives. You may remember Van, the master and creator of the Bourbon Trail. He is a married man in his 30s. He graduated from two Virginia Universities and currently works in the technology industry. He is confident, the life of the party wherever he goes and, as he puts it, “stunningly handsome,” and yesterday, at a restaurant on Pennsylvania Ave., he was yet again reminded that some people never learn.

When he received his bill, he noticed the Check ID read, "Van Rai Chino." Van, who has neither a Rai nor a Chino in his name, is of Asian descent, was, of course, offended by this identifier. 

When he asked the bartender why the bill was marked in such a way, he was simply advised that there were a lot of people in the establishment so the bartenders need to have a way of identifying their customers. He wondered how many other people in the restaurant also had code names and he requested to speak with a manager. The bartender called to another man behind the bar. When Van asked if this guy was the manager, the man simply replied, "I can be."

No one at the restaurant saw anything wrong with the way they name checks and no one apologized for offending Van. My friend was offered a voucher for the amount on his bill yesterday but he has no intent to return. It's quite a statement for Aria Pizzeria & Bar to condone these actions just minutes from the White House. But, most of all, it’s amazing to me how racism is still an issue today, when I feel like people should have learned the lessons from decades past. 

GOING BACK

“So you sailed away

Into a grey sky morning

Now I’m here to stay

Love can be so boring”

Why, yes, I did sing those lyrics as loudly as possible, and so did a couple hundred Singaporeans at the Hard Rock Coliseum Sunday evening. The super moon was a cool sight to see but the Vertical Horizon spotting was also pretty amazing.

I have seen a ballet in the park, a Broadway musical on the big stage and a ballet in the theatre – apparently on Bring Your Ungrateful, Unyielding and Uninterested Child to the Ballet Day – but, until last weekend, I had yet to see a concert at any venue.

Singapore does bring in some pretty big names – Lady Gaga and Maroon 5 are two of the biggest hitting the island in the next few months. I, personally, would like to see Natalie Grant and Carrie Underwood out here…I’m just sayin’.

While many people are likely unfamiliar with the band until they hear a few lines from their hits – “You’re a god and I am not and I just thought that you should know…,” “He’s everything you want, he’s everything you need, he’s everything inside of you that you wish you could be…,” and “Take these roses off of me, Let me live, let me be” – when a friend asked me if I was interested in joining her for a night out with Vertical Horizon, I immediately exclaimed, “What? 90’s band? Yes, please. I love the 90’s!”

A few days before the concert I did the math and found out that the band’s first hits were 20 years ago so I feel that I have entered into that category of my parents listening to “Oldies” music. Meh.

We were fortunate enough to gain VIP access so, after our fantastically fried appetizer and first round of beers at the Hard Rock Café, we headed into the Coliseum. I was surprised to see no chairs anywhere. I was slightly nervous because I wore heels but I did have flip flops in my bag as backup.

Our neon green paper bracelets acted as a Line Cutter 3000 and granted us access to the blocked off section right in front of the stage. We were so excited to be within an arm’s reach. Only the media had better seats – and actual seats.

We looked around, enjoyed our position and took a photo of us in front of everyone else trapped behind the barricades so that someone could post a Facebook brag status.

I glanced at the Asian teens and 20-somethings and I instantly started a “Spot the White People” game. I found three or four before the concert started and was up to 10 by the time it was over.

This concert was different from any other that I have attended. First, there were no openers – there were just some really bad tracks playing while someone tested the lights and the fog machines that should have been tested hours earlier. The concert started almost a half hour late, our vouchers did not provide the value that was originally communicated, the band made a predictable anecdote about chicken rice, they played for an hour and then they exited the stage. I looked at my watch, looked at my friends and yelled, “That can’t be it!”

It was a good concert but it was very short. Once the band left the stage, they traditionally paused for 30 seconds while a portion of the crowd chanted, “We want more. We want more.” And then they came back on stage to perform four or five more hits. And then that was it. No more. No closing. No meet and greet opportunities. People just immediately poured out of the concert area.

I was glad that I went. I certainly enjoyed the music and I was truly surprised to learn that many people in the audience really did know the songs. It was a fun night but I hope my next concert provides more bang for my buck!

ALL THAT

This morning I was back on my weekly hike schedule, except that the hike was on Thursday instead of Tuesday due to the holiday. Today it was a small group – just three ladies with backpacks and water bottles walking around places like Ang Mo Kio and Bishan.

Bishan Park is beautiful, though quite small when compared to other island parks. Much of the park looks underdeveloped; natural birds, including a heron, kept us company along the way. We walked one trail that was on higher ground than the other as we headed west toward MacRitchie and walked right passed a Lotus Garden, almost hidden below us behind some trees. As we headed back east, we walked beside the glorious pond, bordered by trees and covered in lotus flowers. A few seating areas bordered the pond. We stopped for a moment to take in the view.

After our walk, we ate soups, salads and savory crepes at a tiny French shop inside of Junction 8. The real adventure of the day, though, was yet to come.

We visited someone known to our little group as the Joss Stick Man. 

Mr. Tay, the Joss Stick Man, with his most loyal customer, Mary Ann

Hidden away among aisles of automotive and tire shops in a neighborhood called Ang Mo Kio is a shop boasting some incredible wooden sculptures. Yes, sculptures, not carvings.

Here’s how it works:

Tree Powder

The bark from cinnamon tree branches grown in Southeast Asia with an Indonesian name that literally translates to “sweet wood” is processed into a powder. There are varieties; some powder is very fine while others may be more coarse.

Just Add Water

When water is added to the powder at a ratio of two parts powder to one part water, measured more meticulously than any baking recipe, a fibrous paste forms. The paste has a texture similar to a crumpled paper bag, yet it is soft and squishy at the same time. The paste can be pulled and fibers can be seen as the paste breaks.

Ball It Up & Roll It Out

It’s amazing how much the joss paste resembles dough. The other craftsmen worked as Mr. Tay explained to us the process. They use their hands to pull sections of the joss paste and then used wine bottles to roll out the paste before either sculpting it or placing it over a mold.

Snip Snip

The pieces can be draped over a figure base, placed into a mold or hand carved with a variety of tools. Mr. Tay demonstrated his techniques using his hands, a plastic knife, scissors and a paint brush the size of the one I use to line my eyes. He explained that the sculpting paste is very forgiving. If a piece dries or breaks or gets carved in a non-pleasing way, one simply needs to add a drop of water and begin the process again.

Wait For It

Once complete, the sculptures must dry, either in front of some fans or out in the Singapore sun. Once dried the sculptures may or may not receive a varnish.

Here are some completed sculptures:

Joss sticks are made through the same process and are used to burn incense on various religious occasions. The joss sticks are also available here, which is why my friend calls this guy the Joss Stick Man.

Fascinating, right? Mr. Tay has in his shop pre-made items for sale including Christmas ornaments and patio decorations. He also takes orders for custom projects. In addition, shop visitors can try their hand at this craft that has been passed down through generations. Bags of the joss powder are available. Just remember to measure everything methodically - Mr. Tay advises that once the mixture is altered to the wrong consistency, there is no going back.