The South of France

We spent the last ten days of August in Collioure, a small town on the Mediterranean about twenty-five kilometers from the Spanish border. Ochre and salmon buildings walled in the old town's pedestrian streets. A stone promenade traced the shoreline, including five small beaches, a medieval chateau, a former lighthouse turned clock tower and its adjacent church.

Our hotel, half a block and across a street to the old town, had a delightful inner garden and courtyard where we ate breakfast under a magnificent magnolia tree. Then we'd head to one of the beaches on either side of the clock tower.

Sam is obsessed with bell towers. Of the half-dozen parks we regularly frequent in Paris, he prefers the ones near churches so he can hear "the guy ring the big bell." He and Pat tell stories about what the guy does when he's not ringing the bell. If it's morning, maybe he's getting a coffee, or a croissant. If it's the afternoon, maybe he's off getting a chocolate cookie or an ice cream cone. If it's happy hour, he's having a pastis, no maybe about it.

So, to sit on a beach all morning with a bell tower so close you could touch it (that is, if you were willing to swim to it), was a dream vacation for the kid. Except for the minor detail that he was afraid of the water. He wouldn't play at the water's edge, or jump over the dribbles of waves, or stand in the clear turquoise sea to look at his toes among the rocks. He would only leave land if Pat carried him, careful not to let any body part touch water.

I had talked up the vacation to Sam by telling him the beach would be like a giant sandbox, only one where he's allowed to play with water. (In Paris, I forbid him to fill his bucket at the fountain--you try cleaning that mess out of the stroller.) But Collioure's beaches, are mostly rock, so we couldn't even build sand castles. (Pat did try burying Sam in the rocks a few times, but when you're a twenty-pound skeleton, too many rocks apparently inhibit breathing.) On our third day, Pat observed that, basically, we could've taken a train ride to a gravel parking lot and it would have all been the same to Sam.

By the middle of the week, Pat was swinging and dipping Sam into the water, though he never did stand on his own. After observing other beach-goers, the two even brought some leftover baguette to feed the fish (much to my inner-environmentalist's horror, though admittedly, I delighted in Sam's enthrallment). Oddly, Sam wasn't the least bit concerned by the schools that completely encircled them, flapping out of the water. Once, he even fed a fish right out of his hand.

Finn wasn't much better. He didn't like sitting at the edge with the waves running over him. (To be fair, the water was a bit chilly.) He did tolerate and even seemed to enjoy being held in the water more than Sam. But most of the time he was content to play with the shovel, drop rocks into the bucket, or take the little dump truck when Sam wasn't looking.

We brought our own snorkeling gear, and Pat and I took turns on little jaunts skirting the clock tower wall. We saw lots of fish, and once I thought I saw a small octopus tucked under some rocks.

We'd usually bring a picnic lunch to the beach. Twice a week there was a market in the town's main square with wonderful local produce (apricots and tomatoes, oh my!), cheeses, cured meats and saucissons, olives, honeys and so on. After lunch we'd shepherd the boys back to the hotel for a quick shower and their afternoon nap, and then a second beach outing (with ice cream snack, of course), before cleaning up, again, and heading to a restaurant, preferably with outdoor seating. We ate lots of moules frites, fresh grilled fish, tapas, paella, and local rosé wine. Most restaurants didn't open for dinner until 7:30, usually the boys' bedtime. Much to our amazement, we were able to push their schedule and occasionally even go for moonlight walks. (This was one of the few times the boys have ever been awake and outside late enough to see the moon--it was a very big deal.)

Twice we took the train to neighboring towns with sandy beaches, for a change of scenery. Sam, of course, didn't understand why there was no clock tower, resulting in a minor tantrum at one beach. At the other, we grossly underestimated the distance from the train station to the beach (an otherwise gorgeous expanse) and spent most of the excursion traipsing through uninteresting and hot suburbia.

One afternoon we took le petit train, a white motorized touring "train," around Collioure, over the vineyard-covered hills to the neighboring port town and back again. The train left from the street across from our hotel's entryway, and Sam was always keen to check if it was there and if it's yellow light was flashing.

Despite the fatigue of the boys' schedules, we had an enjoyable, delicious vacation. Any gloom we may have felt about returning to Paris, to work, to starting preschool, was tempered by our impending departure for Corsica on September 19th--the last of our grand vacations during our year abroad.

Funny Things that Have Happened to Us along the Way

Finn crawled for the first time in Athens.

Also in Athens, while we were checking out of our fancy schmancy hotel, Sam ran across the lobby to a nude sculpture near the entrance, pointed and shouted, "Wiener! Wiener!" as he jumped up and down.

Wiener, and its derivative weenie, are his two favorite words.

Finn took his first steps in the Jardin d'Anne Franck and the Parc de la Villette in Paris.

At a park in the 18th, another mother once asked me if I had an extra tissue to spare. I responded that I only had a salted (salé) tissue instead of a dirty (sale) one.

All of our windows are French-door style, so that they open wide but have no screens.

A pigeon once flew into our living room window with such force it made us jump out of our seats. (We saw it fly away, a bit unsteadily.)

One early Sunday morning after we had just arrived, while looking out the same window, I saw a prostitute solicit a client by pulling up her skirt. Until then I wasn't sure if she was a transvestite or not (there are several in the neighborhood), but she was indeed a woman.

A few months later, while the boys napped, Pat noticed a bird by, again, the same window, and then he realized it was inside. He went over to open the window wider but unintentionally scared it. It took off toward the (unfortunately) closed windows across the room that lead onto our terrace. It slammed into the glass and then dropped to the floor. Pat thought it might wake up, so he scooped it up with a spatula and flung it over the side of the balcony. It landed on some netting that shields a terrace a couple floors down and is sadly still there.

One of our favorite walks is along the Canal St. Martin. The first time we strolled there this year, we came upon a number of tables set up by various environmental organizations. The French love their organizations and manifestations. In the park across the street, there were yellow plastic number signs like the kind police use at a crime scene to mark potential evidence. We wondered if it was some odd demonstration by the organizations, but no, there was a body under a tarp. It was a real investigation.

Last spring, while completing the paperwork for Sam to enter the halte-garderie, I think I wrote that he was very attached to his lawn (pelouse) bears instead of his stuffed (peluche) bears.

Whenever we would pass an ad for EuroDisney (and there were many posters around all summer), Sam would excitedly shout, "Mickey Mouse!" I have no idea where he learned who MM is, since we don't own anything Disney. Nonetheless, I decided his enthusiasm was a good excuse to visit the park, especially since two-and-a-half year olds are known for their love of 45-minute lines. The first thing we did, after waiting to buy our entry tickets, was get in line to see Mickey. Sam can be very shy, and I thought for sure he would cling to us when our turn came. Instead, he ran out with wide-open arms and gave Mickey the biggest hug I've ever seen him bestow on anyone. He even smiled for the pictures. It was the most expensive hug ever, and worth every penny.

The next day he still bubbled with excitement, pronouncing giddily, "I hugged Mickey Mouse!"

And then, "Mickey Mouse has a wiener!"

Lost Time (or, mid-year update a little late)

We're now past the midway point in our year abroad. Our sense of time has been fittingly warped. The first six months have whipped by in a blink, and yet it feels like ages since we inhabited our real home. I have to concentrate to remember all the belongings left behind.

[Sidebar: this touches on our continuing debate over what we really need to live, what superfluous objects we can purge upon our return. What didn't fall victim to my pregnant nesting instinct last summer may well get tossed out next winter. We are on a mission to simplify! (save the shoes and handbags, of course.)]

The boys, sadly, are not impervious to time. A tee-shirt we bought for Sam in Thailand in February now fits better on Finn. Sam's legs seem so long to me. He scrambles up jungle gyms that were too intimidating in the early spring, and he's started climbing in and out of his crib. His face just looks different, more like a little boy and less like a baby.

His speech advanced rapidly in the spring but now seems to be stalling as he becomes more immersed in French. He's picked up a few expressions, such as ça va pas (that's no good), ça suffit (that's enough, used mostly when Finn is crying), and faux pas (stated when he has both index fingers up his nose). Sometimes when I have no idea what he's saying, I assume it's something he learned at daycare.

This was his last week at the halte-garderie before it closes for summer vacation. In the fall, at la rentrée, he will start nursery school. While I have no doubt he will benefit from the new environment, I was a little sad for him to say good-bye to the teachers to whom he has become so attached over the last months.

.....

I wrote the above over a month ago but never got around to posting it. Summer got in the way, with a long weekend in Toulouse, lots of outings and picnics, Finn's birthday, and potty training. In a few days we leave for Collioure, a small beach town near the Spanish border, and when we come back it will be September--just four months left.

Visitors

Not just a French comedy, les visiteurs have descended on Paris! Springtime brings tulips, erratic weather, and tour groups clogging the sidewalks and bakeries.

We've had our share of guests as well, both good and bad. Last month, Pat traveled to San Francisco to a conference and then to Boston to check on his lab and our apartment. (Both are still there, whew.) While he was away, my mom and stepdad came to stay. It was Newell's first time to Paris, and my mom had only been once before with my dad almost forty years ago. I had a mission to imbue them with, if not the same love I have for this city, at least a healthy respect.

I sketched out a list of "must see's" and a secondary list of "if there's time." Given my and my mother's shared inability to get out of the house at a decent hour, we accomplished a surprising amount. Most days comprised marathon walks: for example, across the river to the Luxembourg Gardens, then a walk through the sixth and seventh arrondissements via Les Invalides to the Eiffel Tower, and then home along the river. Or, up through the ninth arrondissement to the Moulin Rouge in the 18th and then a zig zag up Montmartre to Sacre Coeur, the funicular down and back home (note to self: next time take the funicular up and push the 70 pound stroller-kid combination down the hill).

After Pat came back, we all went for a ride on the Bateaux Mouches, because I needed Pat's help handling the kids on the metro ride there. We kept Sam busy with snacks, raising and lowering the folding seats, and convincing him to yell under every bridge as if he were listening for his echo in a tunnel. (We devised this game in Singapore when walking under bridges along the river; it's called "Tunnel Voice." See video on Phanfare.)

Most of our walks turned into tours of my previous life in Paris, and even more so a tour of my early romance with Pat. (There's where we met, there's the restau where we almost broke up, and the metro station where we made up...)

By the end of their stay, my parents were comfortable enough to venture out on their own and even seemed to enjoy the Parisian rhythm.

Two weeks later, Pat left town again, this time for a conference in Bordeaux, just as my father arrived with his new girlfriend, A., who had also never been to Paris before.

Since my father is a veteran tourist in Paris--indeed, I owe my fascination with this city to him--I didn't have to worry about suggested itineraries. They developed a comfortable routine of coming over in the mornings to play with the boys (and nap on the couch) and then going sightseeing.

We all walked to the Luxembourg Gardens one day so they could watch the boys play (and nap on a bench--my dad, that is. A. always stayed wide awake). After Pat got back, we were able to get a babysitter and visit my dad's favorite brasserie in the 5th.

Let me take this opportunity to pronounce publicly that we LOVED A. We found her to be down-to-earth, thoughtful, and genuine, and we look forward to getting to know her better in the future (and to sampling some of her renowned baking).

Ten days after their departure, Pat's sister and niece came to stay with us. The girls hit the ground running. We picnicked with them in the Lux. Gardens, and we attempted to accompany them to the top of the Eiffel Tower. But the wait was too long for Sam, who melted down on the second level and compelled us to excuse ourselves.

As always with Pat's siblings, we had a great time hanging out, and the boys loved playing with their big cousin.

Our less-welcome visitors have been the microscopic variety--germs! Since Sam started attending his halte-garderie he's brought home a couple of colds, and I've gotten the worst of it. The first round occurred right before my mom's visit, a cold that, for me, dragged out into a sinus infection until my dad's visit.

This was also Finn's first real cold. He weathered it well, notwithstanding his brother's harassment. Since babies can't blow their noses, we use the standard hospital-issued aspirator--the bulb--preceded by a few drops of saline solution to clear out the nasal passages. Most babies hate this, with good reason since it sounds like you're sucking out their brains, and Finn is no exception. He squirmed, twisted, and contorted as soon as the drops hit his face. Once the bulb was inserted, he'd turn deep read and SCREAM.

This delighted Sam.

No matter what he was doing, if he heard the baby cry, Sam dropped everything and came running. He'd stick his face into Finn's (or at least, as close as we'd let him get) so that he could carefully examine the procedure. A mere glimpse of the bulb in the bathroom would prompt him to chant, "Bulb the baby! Bulb the baby! Bulb the baby!"

The next round of viruses hit at the end of my dad's visit. Pat and I came down with stomach bugs, though, again, I got the worst of it. Indeed, it wiped me out for a week. Pat had to miss a day of work to watch the boys for me, and I requested extra days at the h-g for Sam while I fumbled through the rest of the week.

That same week, Sam and Finn caught their second batch of Parisian rhinoviruses. Luckily for Finn, Sam had it worse, and so the bulb did not make an appearance.

The day I finally felt up to eating some real food, I came down with the cold and was again wiped out for a few days. We're all better now, but Pat is complaining of a sore throat...sigh. And so it goes.

We will soon be visitors, ourselves. This week we travel to Greece for ten days.

Ketchup

We've been in Paris for two months, which means we've been away for four and our year abroad is already a third over. Settling in has been completely different here compared to Singapore. We have little drive to do the typical sightseeing, having been there and done that, and thanks to French bureaucracy, we've been overwhelmed with logistics and appointments. It's been busy, to say the least; so let's catch up.

First, the hair-pulling logistics. As I previously wrote, we returned from our Thai vacation to learn that our apartment was no longer available. We spent every evening for ten days calling rental agencies, inquiring about apartments, and once we found something promising, jumping through all the hoops required to secure it (documents demonstrating we could afford the apartment; documents demonstrating how we would arrange the payments; documents justifying our existence in France and in the world in general; and then carefully reading, translating and negotiating three contracts). 

The human resources office at Institut Curie, the same office which had arranged the now unavailable apartment, assured us they would aid us in all logistics and cover all upfront payments such as deposits, agency fees, first month's rent, and so on. Friday night before our departure, the last business day, the rental agency still had not received any payment and threatened to not let us into the apartment upon our arrival 8am Monday morning. More frantic phone calls ensued, and even as we sit here tonight, not only is it unclear to us how the fees were paid (a placeholder check was issued, and then presumably a real check, with the sums eventually being deducted from Pat's paycheck), we are still parsing paperwork concerning exemption and reimbursement programs for these fees.

Our second day in Paris, we walked across the river (oh look, there's Notre Dame) for a 9am meeting to open a bank account. Everything in France requires a meeting, and sometimes a meeting to determine if a meeting is necessary.

Afterward, I took the boys up the street to the Luxembourg Gardens while Pat went to Curie to meet with HR. My stomach dropped when I saw his ashen face as he rushed to meet us, a half hour past the agreed time. It turns out, in order to secure our cartes de séjour (residency cards), we would need notarized translations of our birth certificates. But our birth certificates are in a safe deposit box in Boston to which only we have access, and our visas were scheduled to expire the end of March, before we could reasonably obtain our cartes de séjour. (Fortunately, I have good legal connections in my birth town--thanks, Dad, and Pat could order a copy of his online.)

The HR woman--the same woman who handled the original apartment arrangement--insisted she had informed us of all necessary documents. After scouring his email, Pat showed her the correspondence trail, to which she curtly replied, Oh, I guess I never did tell you; I hope this won't be too much of an inconvenience for you.

Oh, but that is not all, said the Cat in the Hat. Oh no, that is not all.

A week before our visas would expire, Pat received an email (4:30 on a Friday afternoon no less) that we would also need our marriage license officially translated and notarized and could we get it to HR by end-of-day Monday.

Throughout the month Pat had continued to ask if there were any other documents, anything else at all that we would need to do in order to secure our residency cards. The HR office had assured him that we had everything and in fact, the boys didn't need residency cards at all.

The same week as the marriage license revelation, they mentioned, oh by the way, if we intended to travel outside of France with the kids, the boys would need a short-stay travel visa, requiring another half a dozen documents, including the boys' birth certificates officially translated and notarized (at 50 euros per document), too. But, we can't apply for this visa until we've secured our cartes de séjour.

To compensate for her incompetence, the HR woman has served Pat with unparalleled acrimony, making a run-of-the-mill Parisienne's attitude seem sweet as daisies.

Pat now knows the préfecture, where one goes to file the application and obtain the documents, inside and out. We have a temporary récépissé that allows the French to save face when issuing the cartes de séjour to expired-visa holders and keeps us from being deported, and Pat has an additional document that allowed him to reenter the country after his recent trip to a conference in the U.S. (which, of course, HR woman told him he wouldn't need and then at the last minute said oh, yeah, you do).

While Pat danced the dossier tango, I spent the first few weeks researching programs for Sam. First I visited the mairie (town hall) of our arrondissement to find out what type of day care programs exist and what the differences are between them (crèche, crèche familiale, crèche associative, halte-garderie, and so on). 

I spent days calling down the list of programs the mairie had given me to find out which ones had space available, and then, of course, I had to attend the requisite meetings (four) to enroll Sam in one of the municipal halte-garderies. A halte-garderie is a part-time daycare program originally intended to aid stay-at-home parents. They are open four hours in the morning and again in the afternoon, closing for lunch in between. Because full-time daycare (crèche) spots are so difficult to obtain, more and more working parents use the halte-garderie. In fact, Sam's h-g only had afternoon slots, which has complicated his nap schedule somewhat.

No matter. Sam loves it. He goes three afternoons per week, and everyday he asks for more school. I have a folder full of drawings he's accumulated over the last four weeks, and he always comes home in a great mood. I don't know how much French he's able to understand yet. More, he is familiar with the routine, and he enjoys the activities. He used to get mad when I would try to say things in French to him ("No French!"), but he doesn't complain so much and he even repeats a few words. He knows, bon jour, au revoir, and vélo (bike--we bought him a tricycle when we first got here); he's recently started to say l'homme vert (green man) when the cross-walk light changes.

Sam will stay at the h-g until they close for summer vacation the end of July. In September, he is enrolled to begin l'école maternelle (preschool) in September. It is also municipal, and so completely free, unless he stays the full day and eats in the canteen, in which case we have to pay for lunch. (When I toured the school, the little round tables were set like a dining room, complete with baskets of sliced baguettes.) School is open four days per week, and he can come home at either 11:30 or at 4.

All of this seems wonderfully too good to be true, so here's the catch. He has to be potty-trained in order to enter school. No diapers allowed. The kid has absolutely no interest in his potty, and I don't believe in forcing the issue; when he's ready, he'll use it. When I raised this concern to the director of the school or discussed it with his teachers at the h-g, I got the same blasé response: "Oh, don't worry. When you go away for summer vacation (because everybody goes away, clearly), just let him run around without his diaper and he'll catch on." Easy for them to say. No one has answered the question if he's still in diapers, what do I do?

So, if you see a naked kid crapping on the beaches of the Mediterranean this summer, it might be Sam.

And after all the headaches, we are settled, much like anywhere else. We've spent most of our weekends exploring different parks. Playgrounds we must have once repeatedly passed by without ever noticing are now fixtures in our routine. Indeed, there are about half a dozen in walking distance, more than we have near us in Boston. 

The apartment fiasco has worked out in our favor. We have a much larger, more comfortable apartment in a neighborhood we prefer.  We can see the Centre Pompidou from our living room; there are many food stores and other shops nearby that make life on this side of the river more convenient. We're even testing out a few babysitters so we can enjoy all the restaurants.

The boys are doing great. As I mentioned, Sam loves "school" and the playgrounds. Finn is very chatty, he's getting close to crawling, and his first tooth finally just broke through (not that that's kept him from insisting on three solid meals a day).

My apologies for not updating the blog sooner. Shortly after getting our Internet set up (which took a good ten days), we happened upon a website that lets us watch our favorite American shows for free. So when I should be writing or uploading photos, in truth, I've been watching TV. 

He's a Heck of a Fellow

In case you missed the full-page ad on A11 in yesterday's New York Times, Pat has been named a Guggenheim Fellow.  This is a huge honor--they award less than 200 out of thousands of applications--and I couldn't be prouder of my very hard-working and clearly brilliant husband. We celebrated earlier this week with a decadent five-course dinner and a bottle of Pauilliac.

See the formal announcement here:

http://tiny.cc/Sgy7q

See the complete list of fellows here:

http://tiny.cc/7cctm

See the MIT press release here:

http://tiny.cc/iIEYl

Look What I Can Do, Mommy!

I was in the kitchen today preparing lunch, and I heard some grunts coming from the living room. Okay, I thought, better check diapers before we sit down to eat. 

A few minutes later I heard behind me: "Mommy." I turned around to see Sam completely naked, holding his shirt in his hand.

I rushed into the living room. His socks were on the floor, his pants and poopy diaper were on the couch. Finn was playing happily on the rug. (For better or worse, he thinks everything his big brother does is brilliant and hilarious.)

While I've heard this happens to most moms at some point, I've nonetheless decided to start drinking during the day.

Tourist or Local?

In the week that we've been in Paris, twice I have been stopped for directions. The first time was by a French tourist, the second time by an American. The American didn't even bother to ask if I spoke English, just blurted out, "Do you know where the Arc de Triomphe is?" (Um, if you look at a map, it kind of stands out, dude.) 

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. Do I look so blatantly un-French in my mom-gear that it's obvious I'm an anglophone? Or do I just look like I know my way around?

I suppose I should be satisfied that I successfully directed both inquirers in their respective languages. But the true moral is: I need to go shopping!

Our Singapore Life: the Mundane Details

I haven't written much in February, mainly because we've settled in. Just like I wouldn't blog about the day-to-day in Boston (or would I?), there hasn't been much to say.

Life in Singapore has been easy and comfortable. Living in a serviced residence, as I have described, certainly helps. Helen, who runs the breakfast café, greets us by name every morning and always comes over to tickle Finn. We've since adopted her nickname for him: "Chubby! Chubby!" Our housekeepers are warm and helpful. The more regular one, Ming Xia, even brought Sam a teddy bear, which he astutely named, "New Bear."

It is customary in Singapore to address older women as "auntie." While I wouldn't consider Ming Xia elderly, when talking to Sam she referred to herself as Auntie, and that is now what he calls her. When she comes in, he jumps up and down yelling "Auntie" and follows her all over while she cleans. They play a little game with the vacuum. He cowers on the couch while she inches closer and then makes him touch it. And after she's gone, he narrates how Auntie gave him New Bear.

We use a regular babysitter from the housekeeping staff, allowing Pat and I to enjoy Singapore's wealth of restaurants. At first Sam would cry when Patricia came to the door, but now he waves us off, thrilled that he gets to watch his Elmo DVDs until he says he's ready for bed. 

I take Sam twice a week to the kids' gym across the street. On Mondays it's open play, and on Wednesdays we take a class with D., the little boy in our building who also has a younger brother about Finn's age. I believe I've mentioned them in a previous post. Sam has become quite fond of D., and I very much enjoy my conversations with his mother. Sadly, they've moved out of Fraser Place and into their permanent Singapore residence, just as we are getting ready to move on ourselves.

We solved our initial sleep problems by putting Sam back in the crib and requesting a second one for Finn. This has worked out well, leaving us to wonder how we will manage in Paris. A friend is supposedly lending us one crib, and we'll have to somehow acquire another.

Since returning from Ko Samui, I've enrolled Sam in a Montessori-style daycare-school-type place located on the same floor as the Cold Storage and the play gym in the mall across the street. It's basically a three-hour drop-off program, and I can choose how many days I send him (two, though this week I may try three). I'm not really sure what makes it Montessori; it seems to be more structured. I think it's just a hot term in Singapore. Most daycare places I've seen around here bill themselves as Montessori, but none of them are officially registered with any formal organization, as best I can tell. 

Nonetheless, Sam loves it and asks for "more school with Teacher Vicky." (His friend, D., used to attend, as have other kids I've met in the building or at gym.) I'm kicking myself that I didn't send him when we first arrived. I think the structure would have helped his transition, and while I'd like to apply the lesson learned to Paris, I fear the situation there will be much like Boston: programs have long wait lists and big price tags.

Even with an established routine, Sam has been having tremendous, toe-curling (his), ear-splitting (mine) tantrums. For example, I offer him the choice of cheese or butter on his toast. As soon as he says, "cheese," he quickly says "butter," and he continues to reverse until I demand a final answer, warn him that once it's spread, there's no going back, I butter the bread, and then he screams, "Nooo!!!! Cheeeese!!!" And then there's no calming him down. This happens several times a day, in situations when I try to give him a choice, or when it's time to leave and I've given him fair warning to prepare for the "transition," or just because nothing will make him happy. I've heard parents of two say that the older child often reacts most strongly to the birth of a sibling six months after the fact, and I wonder if that has something to do with it, or if it's because of our new environs, or if he'd be this way no matter what just because he's two.

(Sidebar: as I write this, he has had two wonderful days with hardly a tear. While I don't want to jinx the trend, I want to be fair. When he's sweet, he's sooo sweet, but when he's sour, he could make a lemon shrivel.)

Sam also seems to be giving up his nap. I don't understand this; he seems much too young. He probably only naps one in every three or four days. He's clearly on edge the evenings he skips his nap. Then again, when he does nap, he often wakes up in a fit and takes at least a half hour, if not longer, to calm down. Given the disruption and jet lag we're about to face, I'm throwing up my hands on this one. Maybe once we're settled into a routine in Paris, it will work itself out.

Finn, on the other hand, almost always wakes up with a smile. He ooches around quite a bit when he's on his stomach, leaving us to speculate that he might skip rolling over and go straight to crawling. But he's now finally rolling over with ease and regularity. He stays in a seated position fairly well, and he usually doesn't complain too much when he tips over. He has started teething; the first tooth is now tangible under his lower gum. And, it's no surprise, he's taken readily to solid foods. Though I think half the joy for him is to be eating at the table with his brother.

With the comfort of a routine comes remorse that we are about to pick up and do it all over again. We leave for Paris in less than a week.

A Vacation from Our Sort-of Vacation

One of the attractions for us to come to Singapore was the opportunity to travel within the region. Last week we experienced how easy this could be when we hopped on an hour-and-a-half nonstop flight to Ko Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand. We chose a small resort on the southeast coast that billed itself as family-friendly, and indeed, it offered everything we wanted: a two-bedroom suite with a terrace overlooking the beach so that we wouldn't be bored in the room after the boys go to sleep at their ridiculously early bedtimes (Finn: 5:30, Sam: 7:30; try to keep them up any later and there's nothing but misery).

It was a bit odd going on vacation, since living in Singapore has been like an extended holiday, be it the tropical climate or the serviced apartment that often feels more like a hotel. Still, it wasn't a difficult transition. 

We were among the first guests at the breakfast buffet along with the other families with small children--the only ones awake so early, aside from the occasional pensioner. Sam became an instant fan of the made-to-order pancake station; I couldn't get enough of the fresh fruit shakes (not quite a smoothie, more like a slushy made of pure mango, or guava, or watermelon, or papaya, or whatever else was on hand that day). And Finn had his first taste of banana! (He's not a big fan, as it turns out.)

The pool was a few steps up from the beach, perfect for Sam's attention span, and he crossed back and forth throughout the day. Finn took unusually long morning naps, giving both Pat and me time to read on the terrace and take turns playing with Sam. Since the resort wrapped around a small cove, we could all easily see each other.

The restaurant was just up past the pool, on a small cliff overlooking the water, and we would have lunch there so Sam could play up until the food was served. While the boys napped in the afternoon, Pat would take the free kayak out to explore the neighboring coastline. I'd read on the terrace and actually finished a book for the first time since Finn was born, and probably since Sam was, too. Sometimes there'd even be enough time after Pat got back for me to go for a quick swim.

On our third day we ventured off the resort for an elephant ride. Having ridden camels and knowing how shaky it is when they stand up, I was slightly concerned about the logistics of how all four of us would do this, but the tour had a nifty platform so that you walked right onto the seat on the elephant's back. This was perhaps the most delightful half hour we spent; even Sam was captivated for the better part of it. Once you get used to the gait, the elephant provides a very calming tour through the cleared jungle. 

The elephant in front of us saw a durian (a notoriously stinky South Asian fruit) along the path and decided to stop for a snack. She then farted (to which the driver yelled, "Turbo!"), but the durian smelled worse.

A couple times the guide would take our camera and deftly slide off the elephant's head to take our picture. This prompted him to spend the rest of the ride murmuring, "Good elephant, good photo, good tip," as if he might hypnotize us into generosity. (Unfortunately for him, we had just changed money that morning and had very little Thai baht in small bills.)

After the ride we were scheduled to visit this waterfall, visible from the embarkation point. So the guide ended the tour by walking the elephant into the stream to take pictures of us with the waterfall in the background. Sam started getting antsy as we held still. After many smiles, he said in a small, plaintive voice, "Shoe." We looked down and indeed he had one bare foot. Pat and I panicked and started looking around, having no idea when his should could have come off (or, more accurately, when Sam kicked it off). But then the elephant raised his trunk, and in it she held Sam's shoe! 

(Pat doesn't quite buy my explanation that the elephant must have understood English and knew what we were discussing.)

The next day we took a taxi to Hat Chaweng, or Chaweng Beach, a stunning white sand, turquoise water beach, though sadly overdeveloped. Pat and I were eager to go swimming in the clear water, but Sam was less interested. He wanted to go back to the pool. We cajoled him into staying with snacks and mud meatballs, but we didn't get to do much swimming. We lunched at a pub in town where the clientele consisted overwhelmingly of meathead white men (tattoos, missing teeth) with Asian companions who doted over Finn. Sam enjoyed his banana milk shake and the shrimp in his fried rice.

We took advantage of the resort's babysitting service two nights. On Friday, we had a lovely Thai set dinner at one of the tables on the rocks. On Sunday, we attended the resort's weekly barbeque and Cabaret. I guess I didn't realize what Cabaret was or had little idea what to expect, because I was initially appalled by how bad it was. Then I realized it was tongue-in-cheek, particularly when an exaggerated transvestite resembling Jenny McCarthy made her way around the room kissing all the men, including Patrick (see Phanfare photos, whenever I manage to post them).

Staying at a resort for close to a week, you begin to label the varied cast of characters . There were several wedding parties. The first wedding had a groom in rolled-up white pants who smoked a cigarette all the way up the aisle. (The aisle consisted of the path from the pool, past our bungalow, to a smaller beach at the end of the cove.) The second wedding was the most striking. Thai dancers and singers accompanied the bridal party, and the groomsmen all wore kilts. There was a large party of rowdy Brits, and I mistook a loud, homely brunette for the bride. Turns out she was the bride in a separate group of loud Brits.

The larger group of Brits offered continual entertainment. There was Fishface, a brute with lips more exaggerated than Mick Jagger's. There was Skinny Prat who turned out to be the groom. The bride was blond and loud. Best of all there was Spinal Tap--a middle-aged man with a bad rocker's shoulder-length haircut--and his wife, whose leathery, overtanned skin made her look about two decades older than him. Both were chain smokers, and we swear when they went swimming, they let out a low groan and a puff of smoke. 

There was a Scandinavian family with two young daughters, older than Sam. They had a plastic tea set, with which they graciously let Sam play. One day, though, they weren't at the pool, so Pat told Sam he'd try to get a cup from the pool boy, whom Pat referred to as "the guy." Now, Sam calls everyone "the guy." For example, when we got back, our a/c filters needed to be cleaned. Sam narrated: "the guy's on the ladder;" he points to every taxi driver saying, "the guy," and so on. 

The staff was not exempt. The bar/restaurant manager looked like the Asian version of Jonah Hill, thus aptly nicknamed "Superbad." There was the pretty-boy waiter whose name tag read, "Donny," and whom we called "Donny." 

The resort was not without its flaws. Some of the service was spotty, but overall it was exactly what we wanted and we were sorry to pack our bags.

Vacation ended like a ton of bricks. The day after our return, we received an email informing us that the apartment we had arranged to rent in Paris was being sold and, therefore, no longer available. With less than three weeks until our departure, we tailspun into panic. 

We've spent the last week staying up late every night, scouring the Internet for reasonably-priced, furnished two-bedrooms in the center of Paris, calling rental agencies, and pulling our hair in exasperation. We think (hope) we have found a place, but French bureaucracy being what it is, we know not to rest easy until we have a signed lease, and even then, until we have keys in hand and have moved in. We leave in nine days...on verra.

Impressions

Two weeks ago we went out to dinner at an outdoor Thai restaurant in a convent-turned-shopping center called Chijmes with Alan (another MIT ChemE professor and good friend who was in town for the Singapore MIT Alliance 10th Anniversary Symposium--the same conference for which Pat traveled to Singapore last January) and a National University of Singapore (NUS) professor and his wife. The NUS couple are actually Indian but met during grad school at MIT (he studied in Pat's department; she's an architect and happens to work in one of the old converted shophouses in Chinatown that we walked by in our recent visit--see photos on Phanfare). They've been in Singapore for two and a half years.

They asked me how I was finding S'pore (the abbreviation used by the media), but I couldn't really say. Aside from the fact that my sightseeing is limited to the attention span of a two-year-old, I didn't feel like I had any sense of S'pore culture yet. Most people speak some form of English, and if they didn't speak English, I hadn't been able to discern what Asian language they were speaking, not even if it was the local dialect referred to as Singlish. Pat expressed it well with his impression that everyone here is an expat. Ethnically, the country is about 75% Chinese, 14% Malay, 8% Indian, and a few percent Other. There is also an ethnicity called Peranakan, which includes descendants of Chinese immigrants who married local Malay women a few centuries ago. But what does it mean to be Singaporean? I had no idea.

Here's another example. There's a family here at Fraser Place with two boys close in age to Sam and Finn. I first met the boys one afternoon by the outdoor play area and kiddie pool. They were accompanied by an Indian babysitter, Raji, who quickly chatted me up trying to drum up more business. In the course of our conversation, she more than once mentioned that she is 100% Singaporean, even though she spoke English with a Hindu accent, had an Indian name, and clearly looked Indian. I've since become friends with the boys' mother and have met Raji on a few more occasions, during which I asked her about her family history. Her family is from Madras (now Chennai, but she referred to it as Madras), but she was born here. I should've asked her more about what languages she speaks--her English was excellent--because I find it curious that she doesn't have a discernible Singaporean accent, if such a thing exists.

That night at Chijmes, after the server brought the check, standing a few feet behind us, she immediately whipped out a mini-flashlight so that Alan could read the bill in the dimly lit courtyard. The way she did this struck everyone as funny, and the NUS couple chuckled, "That is so Singaporean!"

While I agreed with the humor of the moment, I had to ask, what makes such an act Singaporean. They explained that it's in line with the service-oriented mentality. Everything is about making the experience, down to every little detail, more enjoyable, more pleasant, more courteous. Okay, I could see that (see Aggravations in Any Language). They went on to hypothesize that the Singaporeans take it to such a level that there was probably a staff meeting among all the servers to implement the flashlight policy, and indeed, as we looked around, we saw the other servers wielding their torches.

It's true that most people here are extremely courteous. People are always running to help me with a door when they see me with the stroller. Taxi drivers always try to figure out how to unfold the stroller for me rather than just plunking it on the curb. Once, while crossing the street, Sam's hat blew off, and a man ran out to grab it for me.

Okay, so there's a national characteristic I can identify. But wait--I have yet to see a single driver yield to a pedestrian (me) with a stroller. On the contrary, they practically run me down. There are no crosswalks at the intersection between Fraser Place and UE Square (where Cold Storage is located), and for a small street, it's surprisingly busy. Not only do cars not yield, but if I'm already crossing and a car begins to turn, they stop scarily close to us. All courtesy and consideration seems to end behind the wheel. (At least with regard to pedestrians. When I've been inside taxis, drivers seem to stay within the lines and obey the rules of the road quite pleasantly--nothing like Vietnam or India.)

Another trait we've observed is a national obsession with Finn. We can't go anywhere without somebody stopping to admire the chubby white baby. Our double stroller is what first catches people's eyes; they're surprised to see a second child underneath. (Despite the fact that I see Phil & Ted strollers everywhere, more often than any other western brand.) And then they see Finn and they point and smile and giggle. And then he smiles and giggles right back, and so it goes. I've caught countless people snapping pictures of him with their mobiles (so much for my desire to control who sees pictures of my kids over the Internet). If I happen to be wearing Finn in the carrier, people often reach out to pinch his cheek.  

During our last visit to Chinatown with the kids (Pat and I have since gone out to dinner there by ourselves), we stopped in the square between the Chinatown Complex (a three-story market) and a temple (again, see Phanfare photos). Sam played around with the white plastic chairs while I nursed Finn. When he was finished, I stood him on my lap to play with him, and a crowd swooped in. A good half a dozen people encircled us, taking pictures and making faces at Finn. One lady held out her arms as if I might actually let a perfect stranger hold my child. Once I put him back in the stroller, the telephoto lenses came out for close-ups, and before I knew it, the same lady stooped down to kiss him on the cheek! I politely grimaced, and, feeling like a PR handler, wheeled the stroller away after I'd decided they'd had enough opportunity to take their pictures.

Later I was kicking myself that I wasn't more defensive. Still unfamiliar with the cultural mores, and a general desire not to seem rude, I put up with a lot more than I would back home. I am convinced that next year Finn's face will be plastered all over the advertisements for canned abalone that seem to pop up everywhere for Chinese New Year. When we come back for our long stay in 2011, we'll probably be greeted by a billboard reading, "Welcome!" next to his cheeky, toothless smile.

At the same time, there seems to be a national concern with Sam's skin. Because he is so drooly and spends most of the night sucking on his bears, Sam has patches of eczema on his chin and cheeks, which were exacerbated by Boston's cold winds. It's gotten better here, but is still noticeable and people often comment on it. But not in a friendly, concerned way. No, in a nosy, accusatory way.

The first time this happened, I was standing outside with the boys in the stroller while Pat ran into a 7Eleven (they're everywhere) to get some drinks. The shopkeeper from the neighboring store started quizzing me. What's on his face? Does he have sensitive skin? Do you put anything on it? Did you take him to a doctor? Yes; yes; of course. Mind your own business, lady!

When I told Pat, he suggested that her terse, accusatory tone was probably just a translation/cultural difference and that nothing was meant by it. Sure, that was fair. I had read that Singlish can make S'poreans come across as terse. But then it happened to Pat, and continued to happen. Did you take him to a doctor? Did the doctor give you anything? Do you use it? Yes; yes; of course! Do you think we're such neglectful parents that we would not bother to use the cream prescribed by the doctor? 

One incident occurred when Pat took Sam downstairs to Robertson Walk to pick up dinner at what has otherwise become one of our favorite take-out places (it describes itself as a Japanese-style Taiwanese restaurant; we have no idea what that means). Apparently the people were pointing at Sam and commenting in such a way as to make even Sam aware of their negative attention. He self-consciously buried his head into Pat while they waited for our food.

The behavior is incongruous: courtesy to a flaw, except toward pedestrians; adoration of children, except those with flawed skin. After being here a month, we still have much to figure out.

Administrative Notice

I've been having difficulties with Phanfare, which is why I haven't uploaded any photos in a while. Their support line has been helping me troubleshoot, so hopefully I'll be able to add more pics in the next few days. Stay tuned!

Singaporean T-shirt Slogan, II

Don't be serious I'm chill now

Aggravations in Any Language

One night last week I walked into the master bathroom to find water pouring from the light fixture above. "That can't be good," I thought.

Turns out the water heater was busted. Fortunately, when you live in a serviced apartment, you simply place a call to guest services, and it is replaced within 24 hours. 

Of greater concern is what this event portends. 

You may recall Pat's water heater experience in Paris in the winter of 2000. He had been interviewing at universities across the U.S. for two and a half weeks; I had arranged to meet him at the airport and fly back with him for a visit. We returned to his apartment to find a notice from the fire department taped to the front door. Inside, the windows had been broken and the electricity was shut off since les pompiers had to break in to turn off the water. (Why no one had figured out how to contact the landlady in that time is a mystery.) The burst water heater had flooded everyone below, forcing the restaurant on the ground floor to close and exploding a large box of couscous in the apartment of Pat's dreadlocked jazz singer neighbor, known for distilling his own gin.

You may also recall our leaks from ice damage in Boston the week before our departure. It seems we have no luck with water.

I had less luck with online grocery shopping. Cold Storage offers a service much like Peapod at home. Since grocery shopping with two kids in a stroller isn't always (ever) enjoyable, I thought I'd give it a try. Even though I checked the box that said, make no substitutions and do not call me, I got a call the next day to inform me which items (about half) were not available. I agreed to some substitutions and awaited my groceries the following evening.

When they arrived in the latter part of the three-hour window, I was annoyed to see on the invoice that they substituted the items I had asked them to omit but not the ones I had requested. Stupid me did not check the actual items but waited until the delivery man left to unpack the box. In fact, they got (most of) the physical items correct, but not the bill, which meant they overcharged me by ~$20.

For some reason, it took four phone calls the next day to straighten the whole thing out. The interesting part of the exchange was the polite--deferential, even--tone that the customer service agent always maintained, despite my exasperation as she explained the impossibility of my requests (exchange the proper items, refund my money). Pat, who has had more experience with administration and bureaucracy here, explains it like this: They'll basically say to you, "We'll f*** you up the a** and charge you extra; thank you, and have a good day," but they'll say it in such a nice way that you'll say thank you right back and even ask for a receipt.

I'll be schlepping the groceries along with the kids from now on.

Excursions, II

The language section of our Lonely Planet guide book reads: "You're unlikely to spend much time in Singapore without finding yourself at some point staring dumbly at someone, trying to work out what on earth they are on about." I came pretty close to this experience when I tried to take Sam on a half-hour boat ride last week.

I walked up to the river cruise kiosk just as a boat was pulling away. "How long until the next boat?" I asked.

"You buy ticket, boat in 20 minute time." (At least, that's what I think the old man said. I'm afraid I can't do the exchange proper justice.)

Okay. But what if I leave and come back and miss the next boat, would the following boat then be 40 minutes from now? (The brochure says they run every 15 minutes.)

"You buy ticket, boat in 20 minute time."

Right. So should I wait until I get back to buy a ticket?

"You buy ticket, boat in 20 minute time."

So whenever I buy my ticket, no boat will appear for 20 minutes?

"You buy ticket, boat in 20 minute time."

Sigh.

It was late in the morning, I had errands to run, and there was no way Sam was going to hang out in the heat for 20 minutes. We left and I tried again the next day.

As we walked up to the kiosk the following morning, I had not seen any boats coming or going. I asked when is the next boat.

"You buy ticket, boat in 20 minute time."

Of course. 

It was earlier in the day and I was prepared with Sam's snacks, so we waited. Twenty minutes came and went. Finally, a boat pulled up. I collected our things and we moved toward the landing. The young assistant ran out to stop us, explaining they needed to clean the boat. We waited. I saw no cleaning happening. Another boat pulled up, unloading a Japanese tour group. Again, we were not permitted to board. (There was one other tourist waiting with us.) Sam was now jumping impatiently as his whining escalated. Then, both boats pulled away. WTF?!

I took Sam to stand outside the kiosk and let them listen to his whining, now bordering meltdown. I politely said, "You said it'd be 20 minutes..." The young assistant rushed out, Okay-okaying me, and called over one of the boats that had been tied up to the quay this entire time. Double WTF?!

The boat ride itself was pleasant enough, save for Sam declaring "All done" seven minutes into it. The driver (I wouldn't call him a captain) looked to be about as old as the refurbished bumboat and bopped along to '80's pop music. Taking both Sam and me by surprise, the assistant (I wouldn't call him a skipper) wordlessly lifted Sam on and off the boat and down and up the steps to the quay. We cruised up the river to see the famous Merlion fountain (Singapore's symbol--a lion's head on a fish's body) in the bay and then back. It's always interesting to see a city from a different perspective, especially when the river is so integral to the city's character. Sam has also decreed a "No photos please" policy. Every time we aim the camera at him, we elicit shrieks of "No no no!" which is ironic because when he sees the camera on the table, he points to it and says, "Cheeeese" with his biggest goofball smile.

On Thursday, on the recommendation of one of the front desk clerks, we took a taxi to the Jacob Ballas Children's Garden. Aimed at children 12 and under, it's operated by the Singapore Botanic Garden. Sam spent a good half hour in the sand playground, hitting the chimes and sitting on the digger. I was then able to talk him into exploring the hedge maze, which, once he grasped the concept, he enjoyed running through. We broke for snack in the outdoor café outside the park, and when we reentered, we never made it past the water section. At first, there was no one around, so we played with the old-fashioned water pumps and, after I figured out how to turn the fountains on, Sam just put his hand through them.

Then other kids started showing up, and I realized how woefully unprepared I was. The moms stripped all their kids down and outfitted them in full-body rash-guard swimwear. Big towels were pulled out. I should at least have had the sense to strip Sam down to his diaper, but I thought, "Oh, he's not really getting into the fountains. He's fine." There were some watering cans and plants laid out, and we occupied ourselves with refilling the cans at the pumps and watering (and overwatering) the plants. 

Then Finn woke up and I had to go feed him on a bench. Each time I looked up, Sam was a little bit wetter, until finally, I saw him backing into the fountain spray like you would in a shower, water pouring over his hat.

When it was time to go, I stripped him down, blotted him with the cloth diaper I carry around to burp Finn, gave him a fresh diaper, and he rode home in the cab in just his sandals.

Excursions, I

By Friday I was feeling better from my cold and antsy to explore beyond our immediate neighborhood. I was anxious about the logistics of getting a cab and collapsing the stroller, which requires removing the rear seat, while wearing the baby and keeping Sam from running into traffic, but figured I just had to do it. As with most things, the anticipation was worse than the actuality.

We headed to Jurong Bird Park, a zoo for all things avian. I expected an open reserve, like the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary I visited in India, but this layout was probably more digestible for kids. Alighting from the cab, I was unsure if the park was open yet, but it turned out we were just the first ones there. Given Sam gets excited whenever we hear the birds around Robertson Walk, I thought for sure he would've been interested in JBP--we even looked at pictures and talked about it before going--but he couldn't have cared less. The monorail and the elevator up to the platform was the highlight for him, and he spent the rest of the time asking for more choo-choo. I, of course, was enthralled. Thankfully Pat would like to see the park, so we will return and I'll get to pay closer attention to all the exhibits we raced past.

One, albeit obvious, thing I learned when I volunteered at the zoo is that birds, especially large numbers in close proximity, stink. Yet JBP smelled like brownies fresh from the oven. It was subtle at first. Only as we progressed through the park did the scent's pervasiveness, and thus artificiality, become apparent. I couldn't locate the dispensing mechanism, so perhaps there happened to be a large commercial bakery nearby. I did question the scent selection. Wouldn't something floral or herbaceous be more appropriate? At least it wasn't barbeque chicken.

Pat was attending a two-day symposium (including a 12-course tasting dinner Friday night), so Saturday the boys and I were on our own, again. I plunked them in the stroller and walked to Chinatown. The streets were bedecked for Chinese New Year, on the 26th and 27th. I was hoping to find a certain hawker center (more on that topic later), but Sam declared his hunger well before we were in range, which meant we had to find something NOW. I think I read that a local specialty was bbq meats, and one storefront had a queue half a block long. The sign read "Pork Floss." I opted for some mediocre ramen-type place a few stores down (it was one of the few establishments that wasn't completely empty by comparison).

After a speedy lunch (Sam ate three bites and pronounced he was "All done;" my arm probably looked like a cartoon in fast-forward, blurred in motion, as I shoveled to keep up), Sam held my hand as we walked up the main pedestrian street lined with the typical Chinatown shlock. We stopped to buy a few postcards and for Sam to dance outside the stall selling Chinese pop music. Then I plunked him back in the stroller and high-tailed it home in time for naps, stopping for a scoop of green tea and red bean at the Japanese ice cream stand on Clarke Quay along the way.

On Sunday, Pat and I were both eager to visit Little India. We consulted the front desk on the best path to walk there, a concept completely lost on the attendant. He offered to call us a taxi; he described a free shuttle from an MRT (subway) station. There was no explaining that for us, half the pleasure is the exploration in getting somewhere. We then experienced the epitome of Singaporean directions. We'd both observed that Singaporeans can be vague: "it's just up that way and then on the left over there." We presented our map, knowing we had to take the road that wrapped around Fort Canning Park, but we weren't sure where to branch off. He indicated a small road that would connect us to the major link up to Little India, but it was unclear on the map how to get to that small road. The attendant's solution: "Just go straight" through an area where nothing went straight; the roads all curved without intersecting. We shrugged, figuring we'd see when we got there. Of course, we completely missed the small road. We picked it up from the other end on the way back; it dead-ended into a 15-foot wall of hedges--where we were supposed to go straight.

Little India was quiet on a Sunday morning. We visited a temple that contained lots of individual shrines, incense, and men in white shrouds doling out I'm not sure what. The boys fell asleep, which allowed me to shop for beaded sandals and get suckered into a linen shirt to boot (for ~$10, so what?). We stopped for an early lunch--a banana leaf thali, naan, and fresh lassis--at which Sam ate surprisingly well. We then meandered through the streets, the highlight for Sam being some cows and goats that were part of a harvest festival (I think).

On a tip from one of Pat's colleagues, we stopped on the way back at Liang Court, the nearby mall where we changed money the first day. Although the stores in the rest of the mall compare to a cheap, cheesy mall in Jersey, there is a gourmet Japanese grocery store in the basement. The sushi case was the length of an entire dairy section in an American supermarket--this was no ordinary food-store sushi. We picked up dinner and tried to contain other impulse purchases to little avail. We went back two days later for more.

Random Observation

So then, isn't it just a restaurant?

Jet Lag and Other Follies

It's a well-known fact in the toddler sphere that small children thrive on routine. Change and transition, on the other hand, not so much. So, throw a two-year-old on the other side of the world, without his toys or crib or anything familiar, and a few problems are likely to ensue. Just a few.

We paid extra for the toddler package. We weren't exactly sure what it included, but we figured why not, and overall, it was a good idea. Fraser Place supplied us with a high chair, an umbrella stroller (seemingly worthless), kids' towels, two stuffed ducks (their kids theme: everything child-related here features the duck pair, Luc and Lucia), a portable crib/playpen with balls in it, a crib, and a bed with a rail. We could have requested two cribs, but since Sam will have to sleep in a bed in Paris, why not make the transition now when there's some protection on the side.

But was he ready for a bed? Probably not.

Most naps and nights he's been screaming himself to sleep and wakes up anywhere between two and five a.m. the same. Pat has started the unadvisable but desperate habit of getting into bed with him, while Finn sleeps royally in our king bed with me.

While each night we pray will be better than the previous, this arrangement has granted us some insight into the chatter that would come from Sam's room in Boston. Like a National Geographic documentarist, Pat has observed the tuft-headed sprout in his bedtime ritual. Apparently, Sam makes all the animals--now consisting of Big Bear, Little Bear, Spare Bear, and Lucia, a.k.a. "Duck," or more accurately, "Duh"--kiss each other goodnight, and then in turn kiss him goodnight. 

Last night Sam realized he can actually get out of bed and doesn't have to wait for us to answer his calls. We are exhausted and out of ideas. I don't think this is just jet lag anymore, but his adjustment (or lack thereof) to his new environment. He's been particularly difficult during the days, too: tantrums at the slightest infraction against his will; until yesterday eating nothing but his comfort food--Cheerios and milk. Perhaps now that he's starting to eat again, and Pat has started work, giving our days some shape of routine, he will settle.

And speaking of settling, it's been almost a full week since our disembarkation. We've purchased unlocked, pay-as-you-go cell phones that, with a switch of a SIM card, we'll also be able to use in Paris. (Sidebar: we got to pick our numbers from a list posted by the cashiers. I selected one for Pat that is remarkably similar to my parents' home phone and therefore immediately memorized.) We visited the Botanic Gardens and walked the length of Orchard Road, Singapore's Fifth Avenue. We revisited Cold Storage and finally got a better supply of tropical fruit. We've been having fresh passion fruit, guava, pineapple, watermelon, and Asian pears everyday. And we've walked the quays.

Pass through Robertson Walk and you are on Robertson Quay. All the quays on the river are connected in a lovely promenade. Many are occupied by wine bars and outdoor clubs and lounges--vacated and moist with dew by the time we pass by. New Years Day we followed the quays all the way to the financial district, closer than I had expected. Along the way we watched a Chinese dragon performance, where two men, dressed as the dancing dragon, jumped on poles to a sustained drumbeat, and we stopped for a Chinese seafood lunch with views of the tour boats puttering by. Most mornings we walk the quays in the other direction. Because Sam is up so early and is too stir-crazy to stay confined, we are out when there is still a breeze and just a few joggers.

I've had two days on my own with the boys. Monday I took Sam to the open-play hour at a kids gym, similar to My Gym at home, on the same floor as the Cold Storage across the street. About half a dozen other moms, all Australian with husbands in the same company, were in attendance with their multiple charges. It was playground mommy dating all over again, except with an international bent (how long have you been here, what serviced apartment are you staying at, how long are you here for), and, of course, they weren't really interested in flirting with me given they're already in established mom relationships.

We stayed close to home again today since I'm battling another cold. At the Fraser Place outdoor play area (equipped with one of those Little Tykes cars that captivated Sam at Ringgold and the Clarendon playgrounds) I met a couple more moms with interesting backgrounds (a Thai woman married to a half-Norse, half-Italian, and a Singaporean who just moved back here from San Francisco).  I've also had a few trials with the washer-cum-dryer--yes, one of those clothes washers that doubles as a dryer. Utterly worthless. Like giving your clothes a two-hour steam bath. My underwear now has a smoother complexion than my forehead--that is, until I had to hang it up to finish drying. Now it's like cardboard.

One nice feature at Fraser Place is the elevator. Not because there's anything special about it, but because, speaking as a five-year resident of a fourth-floor walk-up, it is an elevator. In fact, there are three elevators, and we play the elevator race game. Sam, who now lives for elevator rides, points to one, Pat claims another, and I'm left with the third. (When it's just me and the boys, I get to choose second and Finn is left with the remainder.) Given that Sam tends to switch his vote, I believe he has the winning tally. An elevator aside: I must feel quite at home here, because the other day I wore my slippers (yes, I wear slippers, even in hot climates--they're cushiony) right down the hall and onto the mirrored box. 

Another nice feature here is all the restaurants. Because of the clientele, there is a wide variety including many western, more than I had expected. High quality take-out is very easy to do here. Our room has a booklet of delivery options, which we assumed featured the restaus at Robertson Walk. On Saturday we ordered dinner and, in order to give him an outing, Pat took Sam downstairs to pick it up, only to realize he had no idea where the restaurant was. He bought something downstairs, and let's just hope we didn't garner too much bad karma leaving an unclaimed order at the mystery location.

Singaporean T-shirt Slogan

I'm not short, I'm fun size

We Could Be in Florida

That was my first impression during the drive from the airport to Fraser Place, our new domicile. Except for the fact that Singaporeans drive on the left side of road (and that everyone is Asian), at first glance Singapore looks a lot like Florida. The color of the buildings, the foliage, the temperature and breeze all reminded me of the home of the grandmothers.

The similarities ended as we plunged into settling into our temporary home. The first day's order of business: change some money and buy some groceries. Our neighborhood consists of serviced and regular apartment complexes, many with shopping centers on the bottom floors. We headed to Liang Court to change money and back to UE2, across the street from Robertson Walk, where Fraser Place is, to our new supermarket, Cold Storage.

Navigating the unfamiliar aisles at the food store made me homesick. Our weekly trip to Whole Foods was a bedrock in our routine, not unlike some families' Sunday (or Saturday) pilgrimages. The fruit selection was disappointing (apples and oranges? I can get those in Boston; we're in the tropics for heaven's sake!). The origins of the food were surprising, too. Singapore, apparently, doesn't have much by way of agriculture. Almost everything was imported, which grates my "buy local" mantra. Hardly anything was organic, and if it was, it was most likely imported from the U.S. (I was momentarily tempted by a half gallon of Organic Valley milk, until I saw that it was S$16-->US$11.) We bought Thai milk, New Zealand cheese, Chinese pears, Australian yogurt, and Skippy peanut butter (among other things).

While I certainly felt better than after any previous trip to Asia--thanks to business class--fatigue and weariness settled in. After nap that afternoon, Sam, in complete meltdown mode, repeated, "Bye-Bye," echoing my sentiment that maybe we were better off at home.

We spent the afternoon exploring Fraser Place, locating the pool and indoor and outdoor children's play areas. Sam's mood lightened as he kicked a beach ball around with Pat, while I struggled to stay awake with Finn on a nearby bench. For dinner, we ventured out to a local restaurant, and finally, I felt like I was in Asia: three-dollar chicken and rice plates while sitting on curbside plastic stools as cars and motorcycles whizzed by.

We kept the boys up as late as we could--six o'clock--and decided we'd better sleep when they sleep. We were disheartened to wake up and discover it wasn't even midnight yet. On the bright side, we got to hear the square below count down to midnight and then the subsequent fireworks. Happy New Year!

The Trip

At five o'clock on Monday, December 29th, we loaded five extra-large suitcases, four carry-ons, two children, and a stroller into a nine-passenger biodiesel-consuming van (from PlanetTran, an all-green car service fleet--if you're in Boston or SF, check it out!). Getting through security was a bit of a hassle--collapsing the stroller, unpacking all the electronics and liquids, removing all shoes and coats, keeping track of the children. A man in a wheelchair tried to cut between Pat and me when some distance got between us as we loaded all the gear. I'm not sure women and children trump the handicapped, but I was having none of it and put him in his place. 

Once we reassembled, we headed to the Virgin Atlantic lounge for a light dinner--grilled salmon, shrimp spring rolls, some salad, and cheese and crackers. Sam was too rammy to remain there, so we headed back up to the main terminal to let him exert some energy before the flight. In the process, he exerted something else, so I escorted him back to the lounge to use the fanciest public changing table I've ever encountered (sleek stainless steel).

Once boarded, it took some consideration to figure out the best seating arrangement. VA's business seats are lined up in slanted pods so that you can't see the person next to you. I sat next to Sam so that I could hang my hand over the wall and hold his; Pat sat across from us and gave me updates on what Sam was doing (continually unbuckling his seat belt, for example, until the attendant brought over a nifty band that fit over the belt and thwarted his monkeyness). Finn was on my lap with a special, bright orange infant belt that accentuated his girth and looped onto my belt. It was an odd sensation to take off sitting sideways.

It took some effort to get the boys to sleep, but once they did they remained so all the way to London. Pat was aided in his somnambulist efforts by a single malt. I had less success since I shared my bed with Finn.

We had three hours to kill in Heathrow. The Singapore Air lounge was larger, though not as outré as VA. We had some breakfast pastries and then took turns walking Sam around, mostly riding the people movers in the terminal (HUGE hit).

Sam charmed a British couple in the lounge, who thankfully occupied the seats directly behind us. (We had two rows of the double center seats, with a single window seat across from us on either side; that is, the layout was one-two-one.) He had less luck with the man across the aisle, who spent the entire flight giving us dirty looks and grumbling. Apparently he even complained to the flight attendants several times about how they shouldn't allow children on night flights, but to no avail since Sam had already endeared himself to the crew during his many, many trips to the galley. They cut up fresh fruit for him and offered Pat some cognac reserved for a guest in one of the suites on the lower level. (The aircraft was a double-decker Airbus 380; unlike the 747, the entire plane had two stories, and it had 12 of those new private suites.) Sam also got two little Singapore Airlines teddy bears and Finn got one, which means Sam got three.

The twelve-plus-hour flight passed slowly. Many times Sam repeated, "Bye-bye," his signal that he was ready to leave. The portable DVD player was a bust; the Sesame Street beanie babies were a hit. Thanks to the lay-flat beds, we all got a few hours of sleep. At one point Sam woke up yelling, "Bear!" Pat had left Little Bear in the rollerboard suitcase that the attendants stowed away somewhere, and he shrugged it off saying Sam could make do with Big Bear. "I told you so" came to mind.

As we descended, we saw a harbor full of tankers, proving Singapore's position as an international port. The airport was open and airy, with philodendron cascading down the walls. Immigration was a breeze, our luggage came out quickly, and our transportation was waiting for us. It was a bright, beautiful New Year's Eve morning in Singapore.