Singapore, Singapore

I had a blast in Singapore.

Maybe it was the bizarro mall culture.  When I found old friend Abeer at Paragon Shopping Centre, she complained, "This city is nothing but malls."  And she was right: twelve thousand miles from the midwest, Singapore reminds me of one sprawling Mall of America.  Everywhere, there were malls!  And food courts!  And shopping centres!  But while crowds stood ten-deep outside the Swensens and Andersens chains, and parents carried Starbucks as they trawled thru Guess Kids, this was still Singapore.  For every McDonald's there was a nasi lemak stand, selling mounds of rice surrounded by piles of peanuts, dried fish, fried chicken, an egg.  And stands that specialized in beef rendang, hainanese chicken, thick gorgeous laksa -- dishes I'd travel an hour to find in New York.  And for those looking for international food, it was everywhere: bulgogi and ramen and even Chippy's British Takeaway, which did brisk service in Cheesy Curry Chicken with Cheese Sauce, Original Cheese Sausage with Mash Potato Dip, and Deep Fried Mars Bars.  (I didn't join the queue only because it was way too long.)

Then, up on the top floor of the malls, hidden away from most white eyes, sat the crazy geek shops.  I felt propelled here, every time.  "Cosplay" shops stocked six-foot swords beside Sailor Moon schoolgirl outfits and Hello Kitty purses.  One focused entirely on adult-sized props from the computer game Warcraft, with armor, daggers, cloaks, and capes for sale.  It was weird.  Really weird.  Fetish weird.  I wanted to record it all, but surrounded by high school girls, I already felt like a pervert.  To whip out a camera would surely be cause for Singapura Security.  

One awesome freako shop sold USB-powered eye massagers (for the sleepy hacker), "Gun O'Clock" (for the agro-freak), Custard Egg Tart wrist rests (to stave off RSD), and bakery-scented food products made from foam rubber (I don't know what these were for, but the croissants smelled just like croissants, the doughnuts like Dunkin' Donuts.  The baguette?  Yep, like a big ol' freshly-baked loaf of French bread.)

Maybe it was the food.  I've already mentioned the nasi lemak, which could be found anywhere, but we found the best at Adam Hawker Center.  At the huge Indian buffet at Raffles Hotel's Tiffin Room, a dining room straight from Graham Greene, we dined while tiny birds soared back and forth above our heads.  Best beef rendang I've ever tried, at True Blue Peranakan -- rich, deep, salty as hell.  Insane otek (oteh?) at 328 Katong Laksa.  Roti Kaya -- a crepe filled with eggs and sugar and butter and something green and awesome.  It was so delicious, I ignored my allergies and ate and ate and ate, then found Toast Kaya -- toast smeared with the same green beauty -- in the Paragon basement just a few hours later.  And probably my favorite, Roti Prata and Tandoori Chicken at the United Mall, feet from Pete and LeeAnn's apartment.  Everything I'd ever want in my belly, within steps.

The most unique meal was at the dive, Sin Huat Eating House.  Squat plastic chairs at dirty tables on a sidewalk in the red light district.  None of the waitresses spoke English (the language of Singapore,) and scowled at us like a table of intruders.  When we asked our server for rice, she glared, stormed away, and didn't returned.  Meanwhile, gaggles of hookers paced up and down past our table, walking their stretch of dirty massage parlours and "KTV" shops.  ("KTV places in this area," Pete mused, "don't even bother buying the karaoke machine.")  Scores of shops, with names like "King of Durian," "Durian Best Shop," and "Durian Empire," competed to sell the most durian.  If you don't know, it's an ugly fruit that tastes like car exhaust and smells far, far worse.  Less of a fruit than it is a scourge.  It's specifically banned on the Singapore subway, and I understand why.

So Sin Huat was a real dive.  But a dive with such food, I've never seen!  Scallops served on their shells, drenched in a delicious thick brown goop, littered with obscene chunks of garlic.  Giant prawns, sliced down the middle and perched upright up on a plate, front-to-butt like an Oxbridge crew, but soaked in a grand butter-garlic sauce instead of The Thames.  The crab bihoon?  I don't even remember it.  I remember struggling against a claw, and drenching myself in the deliciousness that seduces both Dad and Anthony Bourdain back time and again.  But I remember little more, falling into a deep food coma.  Until the bill arrives, and shocks me up again.  The price for this dirty rude roadside-seat hooker-filled durian-flanked two-beer three-dish meal?  SG$240.  Which is US$160.  Which is insane.  I was shocked.  Outraged!  I waved my hands in the air, and made goldfish moves with my mouth.  And I let Pete and LeeAnn pay.  Heh.

But most of all, I loved hanging with the kids.  Felix kicked my ass in Mario Kart Racing twice a day.  Nora used drawer handles as a ladder, and climbed up onto the kitchen counter, grinding the coffee beans, and fixing me a perfect espresso.  She leapt down, balanced the cup, and carefully carried it to the table.  And Loulou insisted on calling me Grandaddy all week.  She tried Uncle Grandaddy on for size, but it didn't fit.  "Where's Uncle Andy's nose?," I'd ask, leadingly.  "Grandaddy nose!," she'd exclaim as she pointed.  So frickin' cute.

We toured the night zoo.  Raced luge carts down a hill.  Hid from the wild tesla coil at the science museum.  Felix and Nora posed with a chirpy dolphin, fed vicious flapping stingrays, and wore snakes as long as they were tall.  The three of us even paid for pedispa treatments, dangling our feet in aquaria for fish to feed on our dead skin.  I was the most popular entree -- masses of tiny tickling fish gobbling away at my callused post-Lao trotters, as Felix and I howled with laughter.  Loulou asked "What does it feel like, Uncle Andy?," and I couldn't even answer, my face so contorted with laughter.

I think Pete and LeeAnn were present for some of these things as well.  I think they paid for it all.  

But the best was stealing away with Felix and Nora to the Pokemon show at the mall (yes), where a sexy Singapori in short-shorts danced on stage with Pikachu, Felix's favorite, singing about the joys of math and hosting an add-off.  ("That is soo Singapore," Pete later chuckled.)  We scored the last ticket for this sweet photo-op with Pikachu and his math-buddies, Plusle and Minus.

On the last day, walking into the subway, I heard a busker.  Softly, along the tunnels, he sang with a chuckling, dry voice, something like Lee Hazelwood.  "So listen very carefully," he sang, "Closer now, and you will see, what I mean."  I heard a glorious irony, and classic Americana sound.  "The only sound that you will hear, is when I whisper in your ear..."  As I quickened my pace, I scrawled lyrics down.  It recalled Bobby Bare, or Arlo Guthrie -- someone full of California goodness.  I'd never heard a busker like this before -- it was gorgeous!  "I love you, forever and ever," he drawled, and I loved him.  Then, rounding a corner, I got my first sight of this amazing, passion-drenched busker: and he was a lank, scruffy Tamil, with bad hair and bad teeth and a cheap guitar.  He sat, squatting on a small plastic seat, shit-eating smile on his face as he sang Herman's Hermits' big hit.  And he was awesome.  I wanted to stay there forever.  Of the dozen versions I later found on iTunes, not one had his heart.  I regret not taking out my camcorder.  But now I have a mission for The Return to Singapore.