The Gripping Life of a Lodge

This past week was fraught with more hurdles… fortunately, having survived so many at this point, I find myself much better equipped to laugh rather than cry in the face of insanity. Or curse. Or both.

It turns out the United States is a vault. We don’t realize it when we live there, but once you are outside it’s borders, getting a view in is a lot like trying to sneak a peak at a celebrity through the tinted windows of their limo. Thank you Osama and your lovely team of 9-11 a$$holes. I’m trying to pay the last of my utility bills from Charlotte online, but am not granted access to government or utility sites. We are trying to set up bank accounts here, but in an effort to crack down not only on terrorism but the funding of terrorism, the US government has made it next to impossible to wire money from an American account to a Singaporean account (or maybe it actually is impossible, as we have yet—4 banks and over 20 phone calls later, most of which take place around midnight our time—figured out a way to achieve this seemingly simple task).

And to rub salt in our wounds, at the end of a long day and sometimes even longer night of chasing our tails, when all we want to do is collapse on a comfy couch, there is none to be found.

“That’s it!” I holler to Brad on Saturday morning. “As soon as Dagny wakes up from her nap, we’re getting the rest of our furniture!”

I head out onto our balcony/laundry area when I notice smoke curling around the edges of the trash chute door. Carefully opening it, I'm hit full in the face with a thick, choking cloud. I slam the door shut and rush inside.

"Wake up Dags!" I call to Brad as I begin frantically dialing the front office.

"Allo?" says a man on the other end. His accent is very thick.

"Uh, hi. Our, um, trash chute is on fire."

"It what? Fire in your apartment?"

"No, no! Our building's trash chute. I'm in tower C."

"Fire in kitchen?" Oh God, this is going to take a while. Brad has come out of his office and is looking back and forth between me and our laundry area—which is completely filled with smoke—with wide eyes. When at last I get the message across that it's the trash chute I'm talking about, the man says, "It could be fumigation."

"I'm sorry, what?" Now it's my turn to be the one totally lost.

"Every month we fumigate trash for bugs." Our apartment has a knack for posting completely useless information on the bulletin boards, but for some reason, this little tidbit wasn't deemed important enough to mention?

"Oh. That must be it," I reply, and notice that the apartment is now starting to smell increasingly like pesticide. "Thank you," I add, a little sheepishly.

"No problem. Okay, good, we call police for you now." And then his end of the line goes dead.

Uhhh... he's going to what? "Is everything okay?" Brad asked as I stare at my phone.

"Yup," I reply. "But let's go ahead and get Dags up now anyway." (and get the hell out of here before the police show up at our door!)

Furniture shopping for us up to this point has been interesting (not really—it’s actually been very boring) and full of hemming and hawing (which I hate). We’re here in Singapore for three years, at the end of which we will be leaving most of our purchases behind. So we don’t want to buy anything too expensive, but at the same time, three years is pretty substantial, so we don’t want to get anything too cheap or that we have to “put up with” for the sake of cost. Our answer? Ikea. So we load up our backpack with water and snacks, and strike out for the giant warehouse full of Scandinavian particleboard dorm room furniture. Sound a little like the preamble to an expedition? Well, as it turns out, it was…

The past week or two I’ve been SO proud of myself because I’ve successfully figured out the MRT. Not that it was too challenging to begin with, but for a girl who isn’t accustomed to public transportation, this was a big deal. And what’s even better—I LIKE the MRT! When it comes to trains, Asians know what they’re doing. The MRT is clean, fast, and reliable. And most importantly: it’s cheap! This is HUGE in a land where everything but rice costs a fortune (you think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not). So we decide we’re going to take the MRT to Ikea.

Two trains later, we get off at our appointed stop and wander aimlessly for close to twenty minutes, trying to find Bus Station C. We pass Bus Stations A and B, but the next two stations in the complex are D and E. What the—? I’m sure someone, somewhere, is screwing with me… someone with a video camera. Our search isn’t helped by the fact that it’s the weekend, so the crowds are thick and exceptionally pushy. Yes, Singaporeans are very kind, but it’s every man, woman and child for themselves in a crowd. There’s really no concept of personal space here, so if you leave six inches between you and the person in front of you, someone to your left or right will take that as an invitation to dart in. But unlike the US, when people here are elbowing and pushing through each other, it’s not an act of aggression or annoyance. It’s just the way it is. The same guy who cut off Dagny in her stroller sits and plays with her 30 seconds later on the train. I’m mystified.

So we finally find Bus Station C. We have to exit the MRT and hawker stand complex and cross two roads to get there (why wouldn’t a person assume, sans any signage, that this is what you have to do?). To my surprise, the next bus to arrive is the one we want, with the bus number clearly emblazoned across the front. Things are starting to look up…

This is my first time on a bus here. The local expats seem to avoid them, preferring MRTs and taxis, and now I can kind of see why. They’re crowded (everyone gives me the evil eye when I board with a stroller) and smell a little like 7^th grade gym class, where approximately half the kids don’t realize yet that it’s time they start wearing deodorant. Add to that everyone is standing with their arms raised, the bus isn’t air conditioned, and it’s 95-degrees out. Mmmmm… funky.

The bus jolts to a start and sways out into traffic. Brad, Dagny and I nearly cause a domino effect in the aisle and quickly grab onto the handrails. The metal is warm and has that combination gritty, slimy feel to it. I’m not a germaphobe, but even I’m grossed out.

Bracing himself like he’s getting ready for a football tackle while holding Dagny (who’s giggling up a storm because she thinks this ride is FABULOUS), Brad hollers to me over the clanking engine, “Where do we get off?”

I look down at the careful notes I took off Ikea’s website. “Bus stop A.”

We approach our first stop, about 150 yards down from where we got on, and I check the bus sign. Stop 162. 162?? Why are there numbers and not letters? I ask Brad, who of course has no idea (just like I tend to ask him what a character in a movie is up to at the beginning, when like me, he’s never seen it before).

“They’ll turn into letters later on,” he says, trying to sound reassuring, but I detect a question mark at the end of his statement, not a period.

So the bus barrels on, weaving through traffic and stopping every couple hundred yards in slam-on-the-brakes fashion, as if the driver was halfway past the bus stop when he realized it was there. And every stop continues to be a number, not a letter. And I’m starting to feel bus sick.

A little while later, we pull up to a stop marked 83A. “There’s an A in it, should we get off?” I ask Brad. The bus is growing increasingly crowded, and I’m hoping beyond hope he says “yes.”

Instead he says, “I don’t know.”

We deliberate whether or not to get off for too long and the bus starts moving again. “Hey, look!” Brad says the instant we pull off the curb. “Ikea!” Our view out the far window of the bus blocked by all the people wedged in around us, we missed the usually un-missable, giant blue and yellow store.

“Don’t worry,” Brad says when he sees the semi-panicked look on my face. “The bus will stop in another hundred yards and we’ll get off there.”

Only the bus doesn’t stop. Instead, it veers left, away from Ikea, and starts climbing a long, curving ramp onto a—

“Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!” I holler to Brad, my palms pressed to the window. “We’re getting on the freeway!” You would think our driver was ferrying our bus onto the River Styx. And to me, it felt that way… This bus ride was turning into a death sentence. I just wanted off!

The bus drives. And drives. And drives. And with every passing mile, Brad and I actually start to laugh harder and harder. Because only so many things can start to go wrong in an afternoon before it becomes straight-up hilarious.

Finally the bus stops and we jump off, to find ourselves in Serangoon. Anyone with a fantastic memory may recall me having been to Serangoon once before, when I visited the Crocodile Farm. I’m really not a fan of the area.

“Of all the places—in this entire county—to get dropped off,” I mutter as we load Dagny into her stroller.

We are surrounded by HDB flats (government built housing) and are getting strange looks from the locals. They know we don’t belong here. We wander for close to a half hour until we find an MRT station. Actually, it’s a kind of branch of the MRT that picks up workers and takes them to the main lines. We have to wait for a couple of trains to come and go because they are too crowded, and we get boxed out of the little space available by hurried riders who are lining up behind us. Now the pushy crowd mentality, however unintentional, is starting to get to me.

At last we shove ourselves into a train, and three transfers later find ourselves back at home. With no furniture. Never at any point on our route back from Serangoon did Brad or I even bother to ask one another if we wanted to attempt to re-find Ikea. We’d been walking or riding on public transportation for four straight hours. We were done.

We’ve given up alcohol here because it’s just too expensive, but that night we splurged on a six-pack of Singha beer. Yes, isn’t it sad that buying cheap Thai beer is now a splurge?

The next day, I wake up revitalized. Brad has to work but I want to make a go of the whole Ikea thing again, and I assure him I can do it on my own. This time I’m going to try the other Ikea, which requires more train transfers to get to, but appears to be reachable without riding any buses. I’m done with buses.

When I reach my stop and unload Dagny (who has turned into my incredible travel buddy), I realize I might have misread my map at home a little. Yes, according the Ikea website, there is a bus I’m supposed to catch from the MRT station to the store, but as I’ve already stated (with my hands planted firmly on my hips), I’m not riding the bus anymore. Plus, it seemed the store was a pretty short walk from the station.

Wellll… pretty short ended up being a little over a mile. But, an hour and fifteen minutes after leaving the apartment, Dagny and I finally alight at Ikea! (I love that people use the word 'alight' here... "Alight at the next stop" instead of "Get off at the next stop," so I've decided to try it out... How's it sound? Too snooty?)

I get what we need pretty quick. At this point, I’ve been on Ikea’s website enough to know exactly what we want. And perfect timing, I wrap up the shopping trip just about the time Dagny’s decided she’s had enough of her stroller and starts to become the dreaded toddler in the store.

Now anyone whose been in an Ikea knows how the showrooms are designed, and that they are cleverly set up so you have to go through ALL of them to get to the checkout. Well, as I’m heading out, I see the area rug we’ve been eyeing online but keep deciding is too expensive is on sale! I look all around for a cart while falsely promising Dagny we are leaving “so super soon,” but of course there are no carts or dollies to be found. Or staff, for that matter. So I’m left with a split-second decision to make… The rug department is smack in the middle of the showroom lineup, which means I: 1) forget about the rug, or 2) race to either the beginning or end of the store, grab a dolly, head back into the “Ikea city,” and then race to the finish line with a VERY unhappy little one in tow.

A few minutes later, I’m making my way toward the checkout area, and having said “screw it” to both options, am pushing a stroller with my hip, holding my initial purchases in my one hand, and hoisting a 44-lb. rug on my shoulder with the other. Once I reach the checkout line, a woman behind me says, “The things we have to do as moms, right? We’re like wonder women.” And the woman behind her says, “You could be your own circus act!”

Okay, fast forward to fifteen minutes later, I’m in a cab with Dagny on my lap and the rug wedged into the backseat beside me, one end of it propped up by my head. I’m totally beat but relieved to finally have the last of our stuff for the apartment. And at last Dagny has quieted down and seems to be enjoying the taxi ride home. Actually, she seems a little too quiet. I kiss the top of her head and say, “You all tired out, kiddo?” And she responds by promptly throwing up all over my lap.

And again my mind is saying, “Omigod, omigod, omigod!”

Now this next part may sound totally heartless, but let me preface it by saying that Dagny was fine. She wasn’t choking or freaking out. That said, I will admit that the first two things to go through my mind as I looked down at all the vomit were:
    1) Wow, Dagny didn’t chew any of the noodles she had for lunch, and
    2) If eating or drinking even water on public transportation here, including taxis, is punishable with a $1000 fine, what am I going to be slapped with for vomit?

While my left hand functions as a ladle for Dagny’s stomach contents, I use my right to fish out my cell phone and call Brad. I’m not sure my driver realizes Dagny has puked yet, so I want to keep my conversation discreet. When Brad answers, I say, “Hey, hubs, how’s it going there?” Before he can answer, I continue, “We have a code orange down here. Can you meet me by the cab drop-off in about five minutes with some paper towels and a trash bag?” Dagny glurps up another round into my lap. “Make that a code red,” I correct. “We’re going to need a lot of paper towels and a couple trash bags”—she heaves a third round, which I attempt to catch in my right hand with my phone now pinned between my ear and shoulder (how much can a 17-month old stomach hold???)—“and add to that a bucket of water and some cleaning supplies… vinyl friendly ones.”

So my cab driver ended up being incredibly kind, and when I tipped him for the ride, he kept bowing and thanking me (there isn’t usually any tipping in Singapore). I was blown away… my daughter threw up in his back seat and totally stunk up his ride and he’s thanking me???

Okay, so I’m sure anyone reading this is totally glued to the screen by now, completely blown away by the riveting life I lead. I didn’t want to let too much time slip by before posting again, so what the heck? Might as well post the truth and grant myself a little therapy in the process!

I will conclude with at least some fun photos to look at (if the description of Dagny’s dazzling digestive pyrotechnics didn’t do it for you). These are all photos taken in the immediate vicinity of our apartment, so you can get an idea of where we are in our day-to-day lives.

We live on the tip of a kind of peninsula bordered by two rivers, in an area called Kallang, just south of one of my favorite areas to eat and explore, Katong. Kallang and Katong… kind of sounds like a toddler going through the pots and pans drawer, doesn’t it?

This is the walking path around back of our apartment. On the far side of the river, you can see the Singapore Flyer, the world's largest observation wheel (or was as of two years ago). We haven't ridden this yet, but definitely will at some point.

This picture of an observation tower is taken from the peak of the walking bridge across the Geylang River. Those are our apartments on the left.

The walking bridge leading from our apartment across the Geylang River. Behind it is the soccer stadium (there is an international badminton tournament currently going on... Brad and I have been brushing up on our badminton trash talk, most of which uses the word "shuttlecock" at some point). Our grocery store and a hawker center (which we frequent for lunch) are on the other side of the stadium.

Teochew, one of my favorite lunches at the above mentioned hawker center. All this very yummy food for only $3. Most dishes (also delicious) are between $2 and $4.

The walking bridge, heading back to our apartment.

This is a dragon boat team practicing on the Geylang. These guys (and girls) are amazing. It's impressive enough that they are out in the heat of the day, but they aren't just lazing along the river... you should see them! They paddle like Jaws is after them!

A group of boys playing cricket in the park outside our building. I could watch cricket for hours—days, even—and not understand the rules of this game.

Dags playing at the park. Everyone say it with me: "Awww..."

Remember my post when I talked about the ENORMOUS snails that come out at night? This is the shell of one that didn't make it back to the bushes before the early birds went hunting. That's Brad's foot beside it.

The entrance to our complex.

More entrance.

Our swimming pool. Now I don't mean to brag, but... Well actually, yes, I am bragging. Our pool is AWESOME!!! And Dagny loves it (what kid wouldn't?)

This is the baby pool. Those colorful arms usually have water shooting out of them. In the back is the slide. Dagny is already one of those kids who rides it in a constant circle... up the stairs, down the slide, scramble out of the pool, up the stairs, down the slide, scramble out of the pool... and on and on.

Our building! Our apartment is the one on the far left, second from the top.

Our view of the Geylang River and the stadium from our dining room, Brad's office, and Dagny's room.

The view out our family room and master bedroom.

The view out our front door (that building is the Marina Bay Sands, the new and super cool hotel that is in pretty much all the tourism pictures you see of Singapore)

Our first furniture, courtesy of Ikea! I feel like there should be three bowls of hot porridge in this picture, too.

These hooks were all over the apartment when we moved in. They crack me up (for obvious reasons). I know the Chinese view the turtle as lucky, but if you ask me, frogs may have something going for themselves, too.

And now, your moment of Dagny...

"I pledge my eternal loyalty to you, Kai Lan... yes, yes, I have mom and dad believing the carefully coded messages you are sending me in Chinese actually mean 'up, down, happy, sad, and snow'..."