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.