Wow...

As I step out of customs to breathe in my first lungful of Asian air, I’m hit by a wave of humidity that is both suffocating and heavy, settling around my head and shoulders like an uncomfortable blanket I just can’t seem to shrug out of. Dagny’s hair instantly coils into beautiful blonde curly-q’s while mine turns into a scraggly mess of sweat-soaked frizzies. Oh well. Lesson one when traveling to Singapore: check your vanity at the terminal doors. It’s hot here. And sticky. Swap out your flattening iron for an elastic hair band and don’t bother with makeup, unless you like the melting box of crayons look. And I’m sorry to say the conditions are never going to change. Being situated so closely to the equator, there are no seasons in Singapore… only hot and—you guessed it—hotter.

The first couple of weeks in my new home were something of a blur… and not always the good kind. Navigating a baby into new eating and sleeping habits is tricky—I would liken it to having a newborn again. A very irritable newborn. As my friends and family know from past gripings, I hate the newborn phase. So, suffice it to say, I did not exactly enjoy my first week or two in Singapore.

But like all phases, there is a beginning, a middle, and thankfully an end. Around the eighth day, Dagny adapted to the 12-hour time difference, and like groggy bears emerging from hibernation, we at last stepped out of our hotel into the blinding sunlight, blinked a few times, and started looking around.

Singapore is a lot of things to a lot of people. Our hotel is located on Orchard Road, a virtual dreamland for Sex And The City addicts. It is home to a scrubbed and polished line of elitist storefronts such as Armani, Hermes, and Jimmy Choo—where Rolexes are a little more like Casios in the presence of watchmaker Philipe Patek, a company with the audacious tagline You Never Own A Philipe Patek, You Just Take Care of It For The Next Generation. Uh-huh. So here’s the thing… I’m not really the ritzy shopaholic type. Buying SmartWool running socks and Exofficio underwear for the steamy summer months is the height of indulgence for me. And another thing: I hate Sex And The City (A show about catty women who claim to be powerfully independent and yet do nothing but talk about wanting to find a man while feeding their socio-economically retarded habit of hungering for $3000 shoes? Wow, thank you Sarah Jessica Parker for confirming every man’s stereotype of an annoyingly high maintenance woman). Anyway, back to Singapore…

In addition to the couture shops I would never dare enter with a grubby-fingered 15-month old, I found myself a little disappointed in how Westernized everything was. All signage was in English, and everywhere I turned there was a McDonald’s and a Starbucks. The only things reminding me I wasn’t exploring a new city in the US were the sea of Asians surrounding me, the impeccable cleanliness of the streets and sidewalks (have I mentioned yet that chewing gum is illegal here?), and the abundance of trees that no other city back home has—at least that I’ve ever visited. Oh, and the time I was nearly flattened by a cab because I was looking the wrong direction as I headed into the street also confirmed for me I was no longer in the States.

But as it turns out, there is a vast and exciting Singapore beyond Orchard Road. There are multitudes of shops and restaurants and temples just waiting to be explored. Hawker stands are a great way to try food from Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand, and the fact that they are heavily regulated by the government means they’re (usually) a pretty safe bet.

I avoided the local food for the first few days, still feeling like I was battling a hangover with the time change and dealing with Dagny. But believe it or not, my little girl was actually the one—unbeknownst to her, I’m sure—to get me to at last take the adventurous plunge into trying authentic Asian cuisine. Since her usual selection of baby food wasn’t around, she starting mowing down on dim sum, tofu, sticky rice, pork dumplings, and fishcake. I was so proud of her, so I decided to take a page from her book (you know, the indestructible cardboard ones made specifically for tyrants like Dozer Dags) and also try new things. I wasn’t going to ask what it was I was being served, I was simply going to dive into the plate of food handed to me and hope for a pleasant experience.

This worked well, at first. I had some Thai fish, Cambodian chicken, and Chinese beef from Indochine that were all amazing. Bean sprouts, papaya, and turnips were a breeze. Then came a lunch of what I believed were fried noodles and chicken…

“These noodles must have cooked in fish oil,” I comment to Brad. He nods in agreement as he tastes them, neither one of us surprised since everything here is cooked in some form of seafood.

But then he spears a few of the noodles with his fork and holds them up for closer examination. “Actually, I think these are fish.” He holds out his fork to me, not at all disconcerted with his find as he points out, “See the little eyeballs?”

I take a big swig of lime juice to swallow what’s already in my mouth. Then I swallow again. And again. My brain screams for my stomach to keep it together, but my stomach has ideas of its own when it comes to eating baby fish with their heads still attached. I’m not proud of myself—and I hate to admit it—but I started dry heaving at the table.

The food since then has been okay, thanks in large part to our realtor who took us to some local joints that serve up dishes that are, in a word, heavenly. More on those in my apartment hunting entry to come.