So, one of my NYE resolutions this year (yes, I actually unintentionally made some) is to only eat at places I've never been to before. There is just too much good food in this country, life is short, must stop going back to Spize over and over again, etc etc

And I've recently been properly, quite greedily, going through the Chubby Hubby archives, simultaneously making a short-list of restaurants he recommends. I wrote it all out on an email, armed with telephone numbers, opening hours and addresses, sent it to my phone — and wala! I am a fat girl waiting to happen. (I am also slightly in love with the slightly porky chinese man behind this blog....not usually a romantic nor much of a proponent of yellow fever, his references to his wife make me go 'aww' inside, followed by frantic looking around the room to check if anyone heard me).

And today, I ticked something off the list! Chicken rice from Alexandra village. I'm not going to bother 'reviewing' the chicken rice, ChubbyHubby does a good enough job — and I didn't bother with photos. We all know what chicken rice looks like.

All I have to say is, Joyi and I ordered a plate each (drumstick side, of course). Before we finished that first plate, we ordered another 2 plates. People stared. They waited for the boyfriends to turn up. They didn't. By the time we waddled out of the hawker centre, well.....you get the picture.

The thing is, I have no idea if I would say this is the best chicken rice I've ever tasted. It was perfect. And yet, I also think the chicken rice at NUH and the VivoCity halal foodcourt are pretty damn top-notch too. It's hard to compare perfection with perfection unless they're next to one another. What I need to do is have a chicken rice-off. If anybody would like to do this with me, drop me a note. You're welcome to bring in your own contenders.


Hainanese Boneless Chicken Rice
Alexandra Village, Blk 120
Bukit Merah Lane 1, #01-15
Singapore 150120

temporary muse?

Tomorrow, I go to India for the first time ever (well, technically my left foot has been in India....stuck it across the border from Bangladesh once). I have read so so so much on this country, this country that is literally a heartbeat away from my own, yet so completely different. India has been present in so much literature I have read, from novels about love and arranged marriages to books describing the socio-political effects of Partition and Hindu nationalism. My favourite course in university was South Asian Politics, yet I had only ever visited one country in South Asia (Bangladesh). Now that I am back living in Singapore....I plan to change that. I hope to explore India and Pakistan from top to bottom over the indefinite period that I will remain in Asia and that this trip will be the first of many to come.

I also feel this strange urge to start blogging again. I need to write. I don't know how long this enthusiasm will last — maybe it's reared its head only because I am super thrilled and excited about my impending trip.....but even so, even if i write only about my trip, so be it. I've realised traveling feels alot more 'fleeting' to me when I don't pen my experiences down. Partially because I've been doing a lot of solo traveling, and writing about my journeys is the only way to share my experiences with my loved ones. Writing also helps me to really contemplate on my journey....it helps me to focus, on the significant bits, on the memories that change my perspective forever. It helps me to remember fleeting moments that made impact.

I've realised, since i stopped blogging having left Egypt......I've become less articulate and and less able to gather my thoughts. Writing has always served as a form of book keeping of my life...and last few months without it, my mind has expanded in chaotic meandering. (See what I mean? I'm not sure that last sentence even makes sense!) Time has passed by so quickly, without me taking any account of it.

I need to write.

Should this enthusiasm last beyond my holiday, and should I actually find something to write about from time to time........SHOULD I EVER start writing about (singsong) 'what i did today' and updating you guys on where I see my 'life' is going, please for the love of God, shoot me.

India, here I come!

'Burka' Formula 1

Yeah okay I was too cheap to buy F1 tickets but I had to watch this history-making event SOMEhow... so a little peeking over (and through) a clothed up fence did the job. I didn't pay $500, but I still got to smell the burnin' rubber, go slightly deaf in one ear, and feel the ground trembling beneath me.

And for all those who didn't know, if you stand above that smelly drain on the sloped side of Meritus Mandarin, you can even see the top half of all the cars when they go by. Quality. On top of that, after 15 mins of watching the same cars shooting past you over and over again, the novelty quickly wears off. So I got to leave early without feeling guilty :)

ps. this is also my first ever video upload on YouTube. Yay me! *applause*

muse

I've stopped blogging, mainly because I felt I wasn’t leading a blog-worthy life any longer. Life in Egypt was totally blog worthy. I was seeing, doing, consuming a life I liked to write about, which I thought people would find mildly interesting enough to read because it wasn't a typical existence. Egypt was my muse, it inspired me.

Singapore, unfortunately, is not much of a muse. When is 'home', the country you grew up in, ever much of one? Nothing is new, nothing is breathtakingly fresh (although to be honest, the Singapore i left behind 8 years ago is loooong gone). And as much as I love love love my job, and as much ‘fun’ as I'm having here in Singapore, and whiling the hours and days away with whatever comes in my way, its all very … normal. I go to work. I look forward to the weekend. I see my friends, we plan fun things to do. I plan holidays and look forward to them......

And so it goes.

I only realised much later, this wasn't boredom. This is life....for most people.

And who would want to read about my very normal life? And why would I want to document it? I hate those blogs where the writer thinks I actually care about where she went clubbing, and how they’re upset with their boss. Like unless, he or she is in the Mauritanian desert working as a goat herder and doesn’t like how his boss makes him get too friendly with the mammals. Then, for sure, a little office politics becomes fascinating.

And up till now, I thought you know what, its ok. I have had my fair share of extraordinary, more than most people in the world ever get. Perhaps, at some point, we must all slow down, for the sake of doing the things we need to do (read: family, career) and its just okay to be normal for awhile.

It just doesn’t feel right though.

Sometimes I wonder what I'd be doing if I lived a life where I truly didn’t have to think of ANYBODY else other than myself…….I like to imagine myself freelancing in Jerusalem (in fact THAT offer from THAT guy still stands). But sometimes, other things, other people are more important than adventure. I’m not sure how long we can keep this free spirit locked in a box though.

standing still

"About the harsher side of living a glamorous, globetrotting life of adventure. About what happens once you stand still for a few minutes. About the "Um, now what" moment, where the easiest answer is to just keep moving, to fill every waking hour to avoid the harder questions about identity and displacement. If I'm busy, I won't notice that I'm glossing over the tough issues. Nothing hurts if you hurry. Questions aren't answered, much less asked when there's no time to dwell or wallow."

-- Extract from MarieJavins.blogspot.com

A book I definitely want to read when it's out.

tubelight

My friends call me a tube-light (you know, the fluorescent lights that take a few seconds to flicker on). I'm the girl who wakes up the following morning and finally gets the joke. I like to call it a delayed reaction.

This is all the more acute when I'm molested (yes, unfortunately it has occurred enough times in my life to describe it as a regular event). The shock kicks in and my physical and mental recoiling occurs a solid 60 seconds after I've gotten over what just happened.

That time we were walking through a crowded fair in Dhaka, Bangladesh (now that I think about it, why in God's name were we walking through said-crowd? That's the equivalent of walking into pervert-zone suicide.) Somebody grabbed my ass, and before I could register what had happened followed by turning around to confront the menace, he was loooong gone. In fact, I think I remember him scampering away watching me with a delighted grin. I shall refrain from swearing in a highly unlady-like manner on this blog. I have a job now.

That other time, (age 12?) some guy slapped my ass as I was entering a shopping mall. Now this one's a classic. I literally froze in shock — my sister, walking ahead of me, looked back to find me rooted on the spot. Soon as I pointed out the guy, she charged — literally charged towards the guy and grabbed him by the collar, "You touched my sister, you little son of a *****, you touched my sister!" Obviously the dude, very smooth, denied it. So then I was summoned — at this point, still, by the way, rooted to aforementioned 'spot'. I walked over, to the slowly forming crowd surrounding my sister and this shameless perpretator. I was horrified. I wasn't expecting such valiance on the part of my sis. "Tell him, go on, tell him he touched your ass," she urged me. And all I, ladies and gentlemen, could muster?

"Yes!" I fixed him with the steeliest look I could put up, followed by a VERY threatening finger wagging, much like a cross teacher afflicts on a tardy student.

Can't remember much of what happened next, but I vaguely recall a lot of anti-climax and collar-releasing.....

Then recently, in Cairo, Megan got pawed and before I had registered what had happened, she was half a mile away, chasing after the guy. That had me in awe. I couldn't stop going on about Megan's successfully catching her molestor and kah-POWING him with sweet revenge. SCORE for the hundreds of girls molested on Cairo's streets and trains. The little bastard would think twice before he ever touched another petite blond foreign chick.

Why am I telling you all this now? Why? Because today I was once again given the privilege of getting 'tapped' on the ass on the bus home. The bus was full — it was a Sunday and all the construction workers were going home from their weekend partying at Serangoon apparently. I thought twice before getting on the bus, but did so anyway, figuring we could squeeze past the 600 men crowding the door. And whaddya know! As I'm squeezing past them, rather than them moving away and giving me space to get past, I feel a tap on my ass, amidst illegible foreign gabbeldy-gook and much laughter. Vimal later said she could smell the beer emanating from their pores.

I don't know what did it. Maybe it was because I had just watched Sex & The City — The Movie and felt renewed I'm-50-and-I-don't-need-a-boyfriend empowerment? Who knows. But the formerly-finger-wagger-Nancy swiftly turned around and threw a tight slap on his face. The drastic change on his face — from that gleeful leer, laughing along with his friends to that of shock, mouth wide open, eyes startled — was satisfaction enough. I didn't wait to give him an earful or cause more of a scene.

But the whole thing has left a unpleasant taste in my mouth. I still cringe thinking of the contact my hand made with his slightly damp, open mouthed, moustached face. The first thing I did upon getting home was scrub my hand with soap. Mixed in with the disgust, was my elitist guilt. Did I slap the right guy? I honestly don't know. When I turned around he was the closest face laughing at me. Was it an innocent tap on the ass? Could I have misread innocent movement around a crowded bus entrance just because my paranoia and senses were at a peak because of the clear bias and prejudice I hold against these workers? Had I just betrayed people, who quite possibly could have been from my country, Bangladesh? People who come to work and earn hard earned money, most of which is sent back home month after month to feed a family they don't even get to see at the end of the work day?

It didn't feel like I'd scored any points today.

But hey, I suppose the tube-light situation is improving.

(Only my dad.......

"There! See? Cheshire Road is written in Bengali!" Driving down Bricklane in London, my dad was (a little too enthusiastically) trying to point out the Bengali nature of this infamous street to my little sister, Sam.

"And then here....Bacon Street! B-A-K-O-N. " We silently contemplated the irony of this one.

After the first 2-3 signs, I think most of us in the car tuned my dad out.....until he excitedly yelped:

"Now look HERE! Hot Bengali's ALL NIGHT!"

That definitely didn't sound right. Four heads immediately swiveled around to look at what he was pointing at:

"Hot Bagels — All Night"




Continuation from post title:
................manages to turn a 24-hour Jewish eaterie into a disturbing South Asian porn joint)