Diary of an Expat in Singapore Page 6

  I sometimes worry that there just aren’t enough bookshops in Singapore. That’s what’s missing. Maybe I should just open one. My imaginary bookshop would be awesome. As cosy and inviting as Hodges Figgis. Poetry readings, free coffee, comfortable armchairs. Maybe even fresh muffins. Helpful assistants with an Irish accent… too much? Would I make a lot of money? Probably not. But I knew that from the get-go. Majoring in philosophy at Vassar was kind of a clue. On the first day of class, our professor told us: “I guess you already know there’s no money in Philosophy. If you were interested in that you’d be down the hall studying Economics.”

  Think how helpful reading those books will be for writing my own book.

  All those parents stuck reading night after night bedtime stories to their children should not lose heart. There are many important life lessons to be learned from fairy tales. For example:

  a. Pick up the shoe. It’s right behind you, just pick it up (‘Cinderella’).

  b. When planning a party don’t leave anybody out (‘Sleeping Beauty’).

  c. If you don’t feel like eating an apple, by all means do not eat one (‘Snow White’).

  d. It’s okay to let your daughter’s hair grow long (‘Rapunzel’).

  e. Pebbles are better than crumbs (‘Hansel and Gretel’).

  f. Do not touch a spindle (again ‘Sleeping Beauty’).

  g. If an old witch steals your beautiful voice, just use a pen and paper (‘The Little Mermaid’).

  h. And finally, if your grandmother looks like a wolf, it’s probably time to see an optometrist (‘Little Red Riding Hood’).

  Update my blog.

  People often ask me why I keep a blog. I can think of a lot of reasons. It’s fun, it’s addictive, it beats jogging.

  But the main one is so I don’t forget these years in Singapore when the kids were little. During the rebellious teenage years, it might help to remember that years before, on the night before Christmas, five-year-old Eliot said: “You’re the best Mommy in the world.” And that Alexander, from his bed, looked up from his book to agree: “She really is.” Genuine feeling of love for their mother or the hope that she has connections with Santa Claus… who’s to say?

  In either event, better than when she asked me two years later: “Mommy, are you Santa?” At first, like all cunning parents suddenly faced with a child’s doubt about the man in red, I panicked. I guess it had to happen one day, but she was only seven. What was it that gave me away? Did she find her old Dear Santa letters stashed away at the bottom of my closet… was it something I said?

  Why do you ask?

  “Well, Mommy, it’s just that I never get what I want.”

  Now, wait a minute here. You think I’m Santa because you don’t get what you want. Seriously, who needs enemies when you have kids? This could be my lowest point as a parent (no, I’m not counting the time she got lost on an island).

  “Last summer I saw a heart locket in a store in Verona so I put it on my list to Santa but never got it. I know Santa would have just gotten it for me because he could fly there and then come back and put it under our tree here in Singapore. But you can’t just fly back and forth… so you’re Santa, right?”

  Is this a trick question? Do you have any idea how many air miles Santa has?

  Perhaps to cheer me up or because we were watching ‘101 Dalmatians’, she made the unlikely segue into: “Mommy, you’re way prettier than Cruella de Vil.”

  Wow… that’s awesome.

  Just so you know, kid, that’s not exactly the type of compliment I was aiming for.Nor is it going to help you get a new puppy. I don’t care how cute those dalmatians look.

  But maybe I’m too sensitive. To be way prettier than Cruella de Vil is really not so bad. Way better than… give me a moment.

  Change my screensaver.

  My screensaver still has the spectacular view from the Singapore Flyer – a picture I took the day before I broke my foot. There is nothing like lying down with a cast on a broken foot to make you realize how underrated the joy of getting out of bed and standing on your own two feet really is. The novelty of walking around on crutches defi-nitely wears off quickly (not that I was ever that excited to begin with).

  Whenever I hear a sudden rainstorm outside and water pouring in through the window, I get a little shiver remembering that afternoon weeks ago when I was running to close windows around the house and didn’t see the puddle of water on the marble floor. After flying high into the air, I came crashing down and heard a nice crack in my foot. I was mainly worried about being alone in the house with Eliot and when an ice bag didn’t help and I started feeling nauseous I hobbled down to the taxi with help from my friend next door. Eliot sat on my lap as I was wheeled around through the hospital corridors. Two hours later, x-rays done, visit with specialist done, I was on new crutches, with a fibreglass cast on my foot, ready to go home. The Singapore medical service was incredibly speedy and efficient. Husband was on a business trip in China, that was handy. Luckily loads of friends were on hand bearing all sorts of wonderful gifts: flowers, chocolates, and my favourite comfort food of all, books. The kids, initially sympathetic, quickly reverted to their usual requests: “Mommy, can you get us milk and cookies?” But I have a broken foot. “You can use your crutches.”

  Congratulate myself on finally sitting down and writing a book.

  Since before writing comes reading, an activity which has enriched each day of my life, it is no wonder that I nearly forfeited my liver trying to teach my son to read and helping him with his homework. On this subject, I will only say this: you may have been a Green Beret, a Navy Seal, or the CEO of a large corporation, but nothing will prepare you for helping your eight-year-old son with his reading and homework. First of all, this is help he does not want and does not appreciate. In fact, any help you give, no matter if it is in the tone of Mother Theresa handing someone a bowl of rice, will still be misconstrued as judging him. In his mind, an innocent “You might want to check the spelling of frenly, I’m pretty sure it’s spelled friendly” will warrant an extreme reaction: “I knew it. You hate me.”

  Lately things have gotten a lot better. He just tells me he doesn’t have any homework… who am I to argue? After all, life is short.

  Think maybe I should be writing a different book.

  At first, I was trying to write a book called ‘Diary of an Expat Kid’ – life in Singapore entirely seen from the point of view of an expat kid (namely my eight-year-old son). I have to admit I got the idea from the very first book he couldn’t put down: ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid’. Not that my son is wimpy.

  I intended it to be something he would enjoy reading and could relate to. That was the problem: he could relate to it too much. He was very excited when I told him about my project and even volunteered to do the illustrations. That was until he read it. I guess he thought it would be about some random boy that he could laugh about. After reading only three pages and underlining most of it with a pencil (the parts I would need to change) he claimed: “It’s terrible. You need to change almost everything.” When asked to elaborate, he yelled: “It’s my life!”

  Make more coffee.

  Signs you’re living in a condo in Singapore

  Construction work will unite you… air con setting in the gym will divide you.

  If you’re living in a condo in Singapore, chances are there is at least one condo (maybe two or three) either coming up or coming down right next to you. Either way, there will be noise (to be read in a ‘There Will Be Blood’ tone of voice). Regardless of nationality or ethnicity, the residents of the condo will stand united in their hatred for the noise caused by the construction work. There is only one thing that can divide them: the air con setting in the gym. Very high, very low, or turned off… you know who you are.

  Janitor smiles, then spits as soon as you walk by.

  Not all janitors smile and not all janitors spit, but strangely enough, the ones who smile are also the ones who spit… and never
out of earshot. It’s like they want you to hear what’s coming out of their throat… and landing who knows where. They’re aiming for the trash bin next to the mailboxes (unless they’re aiming for the mailboxes… but that would just be weird). The real question is, do they make it?

  When the Russian hottie-in-residence brings her kid out, there’s a sharp increase of dads at the playground.

  In every condo, there is at least one extremely hot resident. Say she’s teaching her toddler how to walk by leaning down and leading him around the condo. The fact that she is wearing a very low-cut blouse might not seem news worthy. But if one were to compare a condo to a freeway, there is a good chance that there would be a pile-up. Watching her jump up and down (yes, literally) with her toddler may have you wondering if it (or better she) is even legal in Singapore. I mean, if you can ban poppy seeds…

  Japanese stick together.

  Handy fact to know in case you ever contemplated moving to Tokyo. Japanese women are the most polite, sweet, and genuinely friendly residents of the condo. But do not expect to be invited to their house… ever. Do not take this personally (unless, of course, you are Japanese). If your son does by some fluke manage to make a Japanese friend (thanks to a shared love of Naruto, origami, or Pokemon) you might have a chance. One thing for sure is that if that child does come over for a play date, he will bring the most kawaii (cutest) snack ever – think pastel-coloured macarons.

  You don’t always love the feeling that you’re living in a fish bowl.

  Depending on how many blocks make up your condo, there is a fair amount of looking into each other’s windows (voluntary or involuntary). On the plus side, somebody has their eye on your apartment at all times. If your domestic helper decides to throw a rave party while you’re on holiday, your neighbour will tell you. On the negative side, if you decide to throw a rave party, you’d better remember to invite your neighbour.

  The condo barbecue is like a United Nations convention.

  The Italians bring the wine, the Spanish bring the sausages, and the Americans bring the salsa dip. May sound like a stereotype, yet it is an actual fact. I think all world conflicts should be resolved over marinated meat. Unless it’s raining. Mysteriously (and sadistically, considering the likelihood of rain in Singapore), most condo barbecue pits are not covered. So, if it’s raining, run. Forget the peace talks… it’s every man, woman, and child for himself.

  If you’re having a birthday party for your kid at the condo pool, you’d better invite everyone.

  Finally, no need to have your house trashed by a class of eight-year-old boys. There is an outside pool and a function room. Just remember to invite everyone. By everyone, I mean even the kid you haven’t seen for over a year. Otherwise, it is a mathematical certainty that that will be the kid having a swimming lesson at the same time as the party. Awkward. Expect your kid’s birthday list to grow at an alarming rate as the party date nears. You’ll be meeting neighbours you haven’t seen in years in the days leading up to the event. Suddenly ten kids has become 100. That’s not counting siblings. If it’s the weekend, there will be parents. Serve alcohol, you’ll need it.

  Stay on good terms with the condo manager.

  The manager is like a Mafia don’s close advisor. He’s the one with the power at the condo. He can find out who’s been throwing cigarette butts on your balcony (and get them to stop), he knows which apartment is for sale, how low the owners are willing to go, and most importantly he knows if the lift is ever getting fixed. You do not want to get on his bad side. And, if you’re in a real bind, emulate ‘The Godfather’ and just make him an offer he can’t refuse.

  You only see Singaporean kids by the pool if they are having a swimming lesson.

  Otherwise, they will be indoors studying. You will point this out to your kids hoping it rubs off. It won’t. Why there are so many different types of skin-whitening products at shops in Singapore is a complete mystery to me (and not just because I had never even heard of them before). No need to spend money on expensive products. They can thank their kids’ exams for their unblemished skin.

  Your Korean neighbour drops by to tell you very politely that her daughter will no longer be coming on play dates.

  She really needs to focus on her studies… now that she’s seven. However, it should be noted that when said mother drops by to make this dramatic announcement, she will also bring delicious tea and cookies, which soften the blow. Your daughter may still be sad but it will definitely cheer you up.

  Signs you’re at a nail salon in Singapore

  One of the manicurists is eating noodles behind the counter.

  There is nothing more relaxing than placing your feet in warm water, closing your eyes, and hearing the sound of slurping noodles. Personally, I have no problem with this. I just wish they would give me a bowl too.

  There is a Korean drama on the television.

  Singaporeans are addicted to Korean dramas. So forget about the latest blockbusters from the States – if you are getting your nails done at a salon in the Lion City, you will be reading subtitles.

  Nobody leaves a tip.

  When I first got here, I used to tip but then I got strange looks, so I stopped. This is especially a surprise for Americans, for whom tipping is not only encouraged but expected. If you forget to tip in the States, expect the manager to come and inquire if anything was the matter. (Okay it happened to me, but just the once…)

  They give you two oranges for good luck on Chinese New Year.

  This may be to sweeten the blow when your bill comes and you realize there’s a hefty surcharge on Chinese New Year (which confusingly is not one single day but more like three weeks). In other words, if you go weekly, you will get three surcharges.

  Some varnish colours bring more prosperity than others.

  In Singapore, it’s all about fortune, prosperity, and superstition (like Southern Italy in that regard). Especially during the Hungry Ghost Festival, it is advisable to lay out little oranges, treats, and red candles on street corners and over manholes to respect the dead. The dead can be pretty picky too; I’ve seen delicious offerings that made me hungry just to pass by them. Furthermore, during Chinese New Year, there are rules as to when one should throw out the garbage, when to clean your house, even when to cut your hair. And, you do not want to mess with your dead relatives. Maybe they know my great-aunts Josie and Milly? In that case, next to the dried fish I should put out some cannoli and have Puccini blasting in the background.

  Signs you’re not slumming it in Singapore

  You eat cheese.

  Let’s say you’re Italian and you grew up eating cheese every night. Let’s say you are now living in Singapore and you have a memory lapse and decide to indulge in your passion for cheese. Nothing will jolt you back to reality quicker than the receipt in your hand. You probably thought you were buying cheese not a Rolex. So if you’re planning on buying a lot of burrata, parmigiano-reggiano, or mozzarella di bufala (my personal favourites), you might as well book a trip to Italy… and save some money.

  You drink wine.

  There is a reason why expat brides-to-be in Singapore tell their guests coming from abroad to forget the marriage registry and just bring bubbly to the wedding. And no, it’s not because they have too many serving bowls. It’s Southeast Asia, remember? You can never have enough serving bowls.

  You buy your fruit at Isetan.

  What isn’t visible in the photo below is the word SALE, which makes the whole concept of one melon being sold for $59 Singapore dollars (that’s $47 US dollars, 35 Euros, or 30 British pounds) that much scarier. Publishers usually discourage writing specific prices in books because they will be outdated so quickly, but I have a feeling this price will still be shocking for another year or two.

  You have a car.

  In most countries, a car is a mode of transportation. Here it is an unveiled status symbol since you need to be a millionaire to own one. Elsewhere people boast villas or yachts. Not in Singa
pore. Here, to denote snobbery, one need merely claim: “We own a car. Nothing special. It’s really just to get us from here to there.” Sure. You know what they’re really thinking: “If you’d just worked a little bit harder.”

  You have a child. That child goes to school.

  Having children is a good thing, but if you’re an expat and that child goes to school… not so much. Home-schooling might suddenly become a viable option, unless of course, your child is Alexander and then you would rather shoot yourself in the foot than try home-schooling.