Singapore Revisited

When David and I found out that we’d been transferred from the UK to the US, we decided to take a quick trip back to Holland before we left that part of the world. Neither of the boys remembered Holland and they thought our sentimental good-bye to be nonsensical. Another reason for the making trip was that Holland had been the most wonderful country imaginable, so a quick visit to a place we’d enjoyed so much seemed understandable—until we found ourselves parked in a rental car outside the house where we’d once lived—an elegant three-story home on a tree-lined cobbled street.

“Why are we here again?” Curtis asked from the back seat.

“This is where we lived when you were born,” I explained once more. “We thought you’d want to see it.”

Up at the house, a second-story curtain twitched.  

“The people who live here are looking at us,” from Curtis. “They’re wondering why we’re here.”

“We’re here because our parents thought we wanted to see it,” Sam reminded his brother. “I didn’t want to see it. Did you want to see it?”

“I think the person who’s been watching is coming out.”

The door opened and a woman wearing a suspicious scowl stepped on to the porch.

Dismayed to be caught doing something outside the norm, David started the car and pulled away. Oh, the hilarity of this pointless farce! David and I lost ourselves in laughter—guffaws, tears, and gasps; snorts were involved. What had we been thinking? Flying across the North Sea for no other reason than to gawk at a house we’d moved out of five years before. Who does something like that? Even the kids, at eight and ten, had more sense. At that point we decided that we’d never again be revisitors—we’d move on and never look back.

Yet here we are—revisiting a placed we lived for three years ten years ago. Singapore is now home to our son Sam, his wife, Julia, and our granddaughter, Clementine.

As we wander through our favorite attractions, malls, and food courts, we list the differences between then and now.

The Botanic Garden: If you’re of a mind to, you can spend a full day strolling around Singapore’s Botanic Garden, where photographers, artists, and Tai Chi ancients pay homage to some of the world’s oldest and largest trees. Since we were last here, otters have appeared and Otter Crossing signs are now posted on the pathways between the water features. Also, the orchid garden has been enlarged, and new facilities and walkways have been added. If orchids are your passion, you’ll be interested to know that Singapore’s collection contains a rare tiger orchid, the blossoms of which can weigh up to two tons. It only blooms every two-four years, so arrange your pilgrimage accordingly.

Singapore is all about technology—some convenient, some not worth the effort. Tap in/tap out in the underground is nothing new, so in that area we weren’t stymied. Sadly, gone are the taxi stands. If you want a ride, use the app. We used to like stepping out of a venue and into a cab. Now we’ve got to fiddle with our phones and wait Uber-style if we need a lift.

QR menus have proven to be a problem here—for us, anyway. The restaurants are all clumped together, so it’s not unusual to scroll through fifty web addresses and not be able to find the one associated with the restaurant we’re currently dining in. This method of ordering is supposed to be expedient, but how can that be when a waiter must come and find the website for us? And then, because it’s faster and easier, he/she also taps in our order. So, no expedience for anybody.  

Ten years ago Singapore’s airport entry was a model of efficiency for the world to aspire to—and many countries have wisely followed its example. I’ve flown into four different countries in the last year-and-a-half, all of which used passport-scanning entry. I walked to a gate, inserted my passport in the scanner, a gate opened, and I was in a foreign land. Ninety seconds, tops. And this reality deserves a disgusted rant: Last year, in the US citizens’ line at JFK, we waited for two hours to get through passport control. I know, I know, you can expedite by signing up for some blah-blah pass with some bureaucratic department—but the point is that there are no such obstacles to deal with when entering those other countries, of which I’m not even a citizen. All of America should blush with embarrassment. I dread re-entering in LA.

Moving on to the reason for our visit: We’re having a great time with our adorable eighteen-month-old granddaughter, Clementine. She’s mischievous, sensitive, engaged, and curious. It’ll be interesting to see whether these are core traits that stay with her and form her in the years to come, or if they’ll fall away as she gets older.

Meanwhile, right now Clem is at play school, and Sam and Julia are working, so David and I are revisiting Chinatown, where I’ll visit the fabric floor, we’ll eat dumplings, sweat profusely, and wave back at the lucky cat statues, which originated in Japan and, confoundedly, were appropriated by the Chinese—in my opinion, an innocuous and dubious fusion of cultures.

Nothing but beautiful views in the Botanic Garden. And look how clean!

A lovely and whimsical shot of Julia, Clementine, and Sam on the way to Field Day

Isn’t she cute?

Cancun

We’re going home tomorrow. Sometimes it’s good to get away from the regular routine and look at some new views. Here are some activities that kept us entertained:

We went on an excursion, carried by bus to a huge park called Xcarret, where there were beach activities and water activities such as swimming with dolphins and sharks, though I think anybody who’d knowingly get in the water with a shark is a fool. There were a few animals to gawk at, like pumas, manatees, and sea turtles. The main attraction was a forty-five-minute swim/float in an underground river, which was indeed pleasurable. In three separate exhibitions, we inadvertently entered through the exit—the butterfly pavilion, the aviary, and the aquarium. This in no way detracted from the attractions other than us having to constantly apologize to the people coming toward us for going in the wrong direction. The huge park was efficiently run and, in a smug way, environmentally conscious. The restrooms were exceedingly clean and, while hardware isn’t usually the sort of thing someone pays attention to while peeing, I couldn’t help but notice that the hooks, locks, and hinges in the booths were remarkably substantial and expensive. So the takeaway here is that I went to a massive park and noticed bathroom fixtures.

About eating: We went to the grocery store on our first day and bought food for breakfasts and lunches; and we planned to dine out in the evenings. The concierge gave us a list of recommended restaurants that described ambience, cuisine, and dress codes. I was dismayed to find that several of the restaurants required “close-toed shoes only.” What? I’d never heard of this. Are toes offensive? Are we next supposed to pretend we don’t have them?

“I only brought sandals,” I told David as I pointed at the list. “We can’t go to this one or this one or this one.”

“Sure we can.” He’s always first in line to break a ridiculous rule. “Do you think someone’s examining feet at the door? They want our business. At any given time, the majority of women are wearing open-toed shoes.”

“We could be turned away. Going to one of them with my toes showing after I’ve been clearly told not to show my toes is inviting embarrassment.”

I felt that having an aversion to toe visibility was intolerant and autocratic and so, with David reluctantly agreeing, we withheld our patronage from those particular establishments. Even so, there were many others to choose from and we had several excellent meals.

Our visit to Isla Mujeres turned out to be a sequence of mishandled events. When we went to change money, David’s debit card was missing from his wallet. Not good, but not tragic. So we used mine only to learn that, though we received the cash, the card didn’t come out. Apparently there’s a “finished” button to push before you can get your card back, which is simply not the way we’re used to doing things. So David’s card was left in the machine until someone came along and finished the transaction, then probably threw the card away.

We bought ferry tickets at the resort, received instructions as to the location of the ferry, and got on the bus intending to get off at the designated stop; but none of the signs outside the bus coordinated with locations on the map. We ended up overshooting by miles and had to catch a cab, which meant we’d missed the ferry and had to wait an hour for the next one. Then, to our dismay, the island was unexpectedly cold and rainy. Not to be deterred, we bought sweatshirts and rented a golf card because that’s the standard way tourists get around. Were we thinking that the frame of the golf cart would keep us dry? Were we thinking that at our zippy speed we could outrun the rain? We got soaked. And what do most people do when they’re wet and cold? They get foot massages on the beach—so that’s what we did.   

Tonight is our last night in Cancun and we’re going to Ilio, a Greek restaurant, for dinner. I’m looking forward to it because moussaka is one of my favorite dishes. On the other hand, it’s one of the closed-toe shoe places, so I’m stressed. If we’re denied service because my stubby toes are showing, I’ll let you know.

David at Mayan the Mayan ruins

Flamingos, pretty but stinky

In the aviary. Colorful birds always look beautiful.

The Project

Before we signed the final papers on each of the three homes we bought over the years, the main thing David wanted to know was, “Is it alright the way it is? I don’t want to have to go in there and do a bunch of work on it.” He’s who the phrase “move-in ready” was created for.

“Oh yeah,” I told him each time. “Everything’s great.”

In the house in Houston, the Sugar Land house, and our current home, nasty carpet stains started appearing within weeks of our moving in. It’s a well-known fact that every seller shampoos the carpet before putting the house on the market, and that the stains always re-blossom. Also, there are more dogs that aren’t house trained than I ever thought possible. In all three cases, though it had been established that David wanted nothing to do with any kind of remodel, I started with a hint—“Have you noticed those dark spots coming out in the carpet?” And his answer would be, “Don’t look.” But once I mentioned them to him, he couldn’t look away.

We repainted and redid the floors in all three houses. As an aside, we never made a single change to the company-leased flats and houses in other parts of the world, though we knew many ex-pats who spent plenty on painting and retiling. Putting money into a rented home never made sense to either of us.

This house in Marble Falls is lovely, with an artsy dome in the dining room, high ceilings, tall doorways, two fireplaces, one with a molded mantle, the other with a stone hearth and hand-crafted wooden mantle. And the bar is also made of rock and topped by granite. Every guest heads there as soon as they’re through the front door.

As with most homes, the heart is the kitchen—in this case it’s literal as well as figurative. The kitchen is at the physical center of the house, with a hall going away from it in one direction and another hall leading away in the other. And the kitchen looks out over the two living areas, so there’s a wide-open feel. I loved this home-heart from the second I entered it. The storage space is phenomenal and the mottled black granite of the counter is classic. At the time, I noticed that yes, the tile and antiqued cabinets were dated; but I truly thought I could live with them. I never deceived myself about the sink, the color of which I crudely named Arian nipple. Anyway, after eight years of looking at a backsplash of so neutral a shade that it offered camouflage to every bit of grit, grease, or sauce found in a kitchen, I began to long for a color that would expose every germ-ridden speck. So when the time was right, I mentioned to David that the tile on the backsplash was dated; and that, furthermore, I was tired of looking at the antiqued cabinetry that had, in the beginning, seemed so charming. Again, once seen, he couldn’t unsee.

We got the name of a tile guy from a friend, met with him, chose a tile, and set a date. Inarguably knowledgeable about tile, Larry-the-tile-guy was our age, older than expected. He brought another man with him; a helper or partner, we weren’t sure. The two of them bickered like they’d been together for years. Once they went silent on each other for an entire day, and the house was burdened by their childish pique. On the whole, they understood that having the kitchen torn up was unsettling and they couldn’t have been more considerate. Larry was big on consulting me about my preferences, vowing that his job was to please the customer; though when he first realized my plan, he voiced an opinion—“This is going to be a really bright kitchen.” Yes, yes, I thought, give me the brightest kitchen known to man. Larry and his grumpy cohort were finished when they said they’d be and they did an excellent job. I’d recommend him to anyone in the area who needs tile work done.

Receiving three bids, David made the decision about who would do the painting. And the decision was exactly right because the price was fair and the finished product looks great. On the other hand, the crew spoke no English, which is the way of things in this part of the world, although usually there’s one worker present who can communicate. Their English-speaking boss only showed up occasionally, so if there were questions or concerns when he wasn’t around, we resorted to playing A Game of Phones—David called the boss, waited for him to call back, which he usually did within minutes; and after discussion the boss called the head man on site, then called David with answers and explanations. Expecting inefficiency, that’s what we got. The guys didn’t show up until late in the mornings. Once they showed up at eleven and went to lunch at twelve. And the job wasn’t finished when we’d been told it would be. We were both aware of what to expect before we embarked on the project; and, knowing I’d brought this on myself, I nevertheless complained. Proclivities aside, they were good men and they did good work, so them, too, I’d recommend.

Next came the sink. I went to Mahjong on Monday at noon, and when I returned the most beautiful shiny white sink had replaced the ugly gross one. It’s too beautiful to hold dishes. I rinse and polish it several times a day.

All in all, I’m thrilled with the new look. I’ll post pictures!

The Bright Kitchen. No nasties can hide from me now!

We got rid of the old-fashioned phone plug. It hasn’t been hanging like that this whole time. That was the result of the tile guy pulling it loose so he could see what he’d be dealing with behind it.

The new sink.

The old sink. It’s not dirty—it just looked like that.

People and Houses

When David started volunteering with the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity it became apparent to him that there was a disconnect between the labor, a group of retirees who found joy in being helpful, and the members of the board, people still in the workforce who were either too busy to do a proper job or not interested enough to take volunteer work seriously. For instance, when a home was nearing completion, and the crew was ready to look to the next project, it was dismaying to find that no preparation had been made. With a half-dozen future homeowners approved and on the waiting list, work came to a halt simply because no property had been selected and no permits sought. Among the ranks, grumbling ensued.

So David started attending the board meetings to see what was going on and if there was a way to move things along. What he discovered was an hour dedicated to personal discussion and a hurried fifteen minutes spent on Habitat business. Tasks like loan approvals, background checks, and property assessments were assigned; but at the next meeting it turned out that no one had done what they’d promised to do—and they weren’t even embarrassed to admit it. In our home invectives were flung—inept inefficient blatherers!

So here David is, a few years later, the new president of the Habitat board. To hear him tell it, he inherited a financial fiasco. For instance, in a couple of cases, homeowners were expected to make regular payments, but no account had been set up for them to pay into. Months went by and the homeowners, with no place to send their payments, simply never paid; and, coming to expect that payments would never be required, they spent their money elsewhere. So David, flummoxed and indignant, is now forced to be the bad guy, informing these people that not only can they not live in their homes for free, but they’re going to have to come up with the payments they should’ve been making all along.

Today he tells me that he needs to go see what’s going on at an old Habitat house in Kingsland. Interested, I invite myself along.

The situation, as he explains it, is this: The house is fourteen years old. Initially, regular payments were made, but they stopped seven years ago, with ten thousand of the debt still outstanding.

The house has no number and it looks more like a cabin than a house. Nevertheless, our phones tell us we’ve arrived. The neighborhood is made up of a combination of very old squatty ranch homes and newly built small, inexpensive homes. The habitat house looks like what it is—a twelve-hundred square foot rectangle plopped amongst trees and never maintained. Built sideways on a pleasantly shaded lot, there’re two doors and it’s impossible to tell which one is the front. On one side, in a driveway of hard dirt, there are two rundown trucks that aren’t going anywhere, and one old SUV that looks like it might still serve its purpose. Beyond them is a storage shed so old and splintery that it’s literally coming apart at the seams. The door on the opposite side of the house opens to a wooded area and is made prominent by a broad inviting porch. Old fashioned coolers hang from several windows. 

Being me, I want the human side of the story. Are the original owners still living here? If not, who is? Why did the payments stop? Any children in the original household would be grown by now; but, evidenced by bikes and toys, there are obviously children in residence.

In this part of the world, where meth labs are common and not every house has a refrigerator but you can bet they’ve got a gun, approaching someone’s property where you’re not known and haven’t been invited is risky—but David is brave. I stay in the car while he walks around the house taking pictures.

“Get one of that big truck!” I hiss from the window. He complies.

Eventually he makes his way to a door (front or back?) and knocks. Waits, knock again. I can feel someone inside, stealthily peering out, aware that a stranger knocking can only mean one thing—someone wants money.

David gives up and we drive away.

“What’re you going to do?” I ask.

“We can foreclose, or we can pay them to get out.”

“You can’t pay them after they’ve lived here for free for ten years.”

I’m indignant. Getting paid for not paying your debt is a ridiculous proposition.

“If we foreclose it goes to the bank. If the bank sells it, we’ll get the ten thousand owed, and the bank keeps the rest. But if Habitat pays them a few thousand to get out, we can go in and fix the place up, then sell it to someone who’ll pay for it and take care of it.”

“Even with remodeling, it wouldn’t be nearly as nice as the Habitat houses yall’re building now. Who wants a house without central air?”

“No one I know.”

“What’re you going to do? Who decides?”

“I’ll present it to the board. Ultimately, they’ll do what I recommend.”

“And what’ll that be?”

He sighs. Habitat is a topsy-turvy quagmire.

The hard dirt where the trucks are parked.

This is where they store their junk.

Trees, and the porch isn’t awful.