I told my mum that I met someone, he starts, told her that I like this person very much. She looks at me in that concerned way only mums do and asks, well does she like you too.

Leaning against the table, he takes a measured sip of wine, and stares at the liquid's surface for a second before chuckling to himself. I said I think so. Another chuckle. She smiles and she laughs a lot when she's with me, I like to think so, mum. 

He has a bashful grin when he turns. Without waiting for a response he continues, my mum smiles and all she says is "Be careful" before promptly going off to sleep. His body starts shaking as wheezing laughter punctuates his recounting of the tale. Be careful? Mum, what do you mean "Be careful"? He exaggeratedly mimics shaking a person awake. Mum?? Mum, don't sleep! Explain yourself!! Mummm!! He is promptly dismissed with a wave of her hand.

And she's there, chortling at the anecdote but more at him - facial expressions, gestures, comicality and all. He's right, she does smile and laugh a lot when she's with him.

Level up

You know you've achieved Regular status when the cheery teh tarik uncle at the hawker centre sees you and immediately rattles off your order. Either that or I'm really the sole depleter of their masala tea mix. 

Small thrills 😊

Heterochromia

That was the word that eluded my grasp the day I properly stared you in the eye. Gold-flecked blue eyes with hints of green that darken when the sun sets. You, my charmer with a swagger and that damn accent.

You with the uncertain smile during the impromptu visit to Bar Stories. You're quiet, you murmur, I can't tell if you like this place or hate it. Quiet's good, I reply, I like it. The drinks are great and the music could do with some tweaking but who's caring. I tried to find a place I thought you'd like, you beam, looking very pleased with yourself.

You're quite my opposite.

You try to paint conversation onto the cool walls of silence. Lulls discomfort you; I see it in the way your eyes flit from drink to bartender to ceiling to me, how your leg bounces sporadically, and your fingers play an occasional staccato on the bar top. Quickly the void of quietness overwhelms you and you turn to me with an apologetic grin. I'm all out of things to say Chris, you confess. I shrug, your company speaks for itself.

You'd take the livelier bar downstairs in a heartbeat; the one with people, chatter, and music spilling into the narrow streets surrounding it.

I found a place I know you'd like, I declare two drinks later. Then we're downstairs meandering through a convoluted maze of bodies, booze, smoke, and music. You fucking loved it.

Til now it's the one street name you remember and your voice warms when you recall it.

Sub-universes

From the journals

New York doesn't sleep. One cannot go to New York and expect to sleep. The first three days were overwhelming. I dived straight into its wild beating heart and it took a while for me to comprehend which way I was going. Too much, too noisy, too chaotic. It's so vastly different from Singapore, and for the first time I understood Singapore's smallness. We read about it all the time in textbooks and newspaper articles; the cosmopolitan, odds-defying little red dot. Always an emphasis on the littleness. I never fully comprehended it until New York happened.

The subway runs 24/7 like the veins and arteries keeping the city moving, pulsing, streaming even at the oddest hour. Broadway plays whisk you away to Utah, to prohibition-era Chicago, to Africa. Grand Central with the light and shadows and constant movement hypnotises. Elsewhere, behind nondescript doors and in dirty shop houses, endorphins and alcohol run deep. It's an ironic culture of speakeasies being trendy; everyone loves a good secret even if everyone else already knows about it. Tucked in the cosy basements of Greenwich Village, renowned jazz musicians let their hair down and jam to an appreciative audience limited only by the size of the room and the generosity of the laid-back bouncer.

Everywhere you turn, there is a hive of activity. People who keep on keeping on. Food trucks setting up their fare; the smell of hotdogs and shwarma wafting in the breeze. Dog-walkers resisting the pull of five dogs , florists setting up, people queuing for coffee, Wall Streeters power-walking to salads and yoghurt, tourists obstructing the way for their photos, office workers with their arms full of goods from the place of wonder that is Trader Joe's after work.

And the subways, the subways are a world of their own. On the subways, teens slouch in their seats and chatter with little care, massive well-behaved dogs eye curious children warily, girls with amazing hairdos giggle among themselves, and a clan of Orthodox Jews in their distinctive outfits crowd into a carriage as quickly as they alight like an almost blur of black fabric and beards and Hebrew. The sartorial touch is evident in most carriages - the stark red lips, the perfectly drawn cat eye, the sleek fall coat, the blacker than black bowler hat sitting atop picture perfect coiffure, the Instagram hipster with glasses he was born to wear. And people read. They tote their books around and whip it out once the doors close. It's so easy to get lost in a book while on the subway, and even easier to fall for place so perfectly chaotic.

318/366 Validating cookies

Validation is when the Mothership praises your home-made cookies and the Dad asks where you bought them. Mixing in a dose of smugness with the dose of childish pride (i.e. hahh!). ^^

275/366 Brunch by proxy and remote joy

After realising that F was on his merry way to Paris for a brunch with V this morning, I immediately extended the brunch invite to my sister and had them meet up. Turns out, E was in town for brunch too! And so we brunched in Paris by proxy and through the wonders of video-calls. How do I even begin to describe my elation when I connect people I love with other people I love?? Amazingly, it's already been three years since meeting E, V, and F. Catching up with them for a bit today fills me with so much joy (: With some good scheduling, and accommodation options, meeting V might happen soon too!

240/366 Wisdom from perspective

Listened to Lim Siong Guan give his thoughts on Christianity in the workplace last night. Despite my initial reluctance to attend (audience was mid-40s and above; mingling with aunties and uncles require a special kind of energy), I'm glad I turned up. Reminded of how much insight experience provides and the value of learning from those who have gone before you. So easy to get caught up in trying to understand things from a narrow perspective instead of taking the optimal option that is the 'wisdom of the ancients'. Many issues are about perspective, some better than others. (Note to self: Keep that in mind). That man is a titan and one heck of a civil servant. In an hour, he touched on anthropology, a country's success, the fate of empires (John Glubb), the duty of government, honour, changes in a cultural landscape, and reframed it in the Singaporean context (SG100), along with a brief lesson on Singapore's history - all with great aplomb. For all the cynicism I have about the government, there's no doubt that this guy's heart is definitely for the country.

197/366 #Adultgoals

Several weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending a housewarming. The host was a charming, eloquent, and cultured fellow. Adorning his walls were art pieces procured from all over the world. In front of the state-of-the-art speakers, there was a varied music collection. His study had a designated corner for his music stand and instruments. He even designed the living room lights himself. There was no dinner - just a selection of cheese, chocolate, fruits, and wine.

Very enjoyable, absolutely delightful affair. What impressed me most was how conversation was the focus of the evening instead of food being the highlight and the conversation on the periphery. Rather easily overlooked distinction - 'Let's have dinner' vs 'Let's catch up'. #Adultgoals indeed; I'd love to do something similar ten years from now.

155/366 Practicing Farewells

I received an invitation for farewell drinks a couple of weeks back. What followed immediately after reading the invite was a hollowness that remained for the next hour. It's the feeling best described as free-falling with your heart lurching in your chest except that the adrenaline-fueled heart is not there but the lurching is amplified and your limbs feel curiously foreign. I later identified it as a (dramatic) physical manifestation of loss and momentary disorientation. That reaction caught this generally unsentimental person by surprise.

I remember having three emotional farewells in a span of five hours with three people I met under very different circumstances. Talk about not knowing one's limit. It was more than my heart could take. As the bus started up and pulled away from Marseille, I became that cliche staring out of the window with unfocused eyes welling up with unwilling tears while trying not to involve the unfortunate fella across the aisle in an awkward moment dance.

As much as practice makes perfect, I hope I don't get too many opportunities to do so.

95/366 Strategy vs Skill

Over a leisurely lunch of pho with a side of fresh spring rolls and a pot of lotus tea yesterday, I indulged in a spot of people-watching. Subject in point was a soft-spoken Caucasian male who arrived when I was three quarters done with the pho.

He ordered quickly, evidently famished. The spring rolls arrived first, followed by iced tea, then a piping hot bowl of chicken pho. He dug into the spring rolls, munching on them furiously as he stirred the noodles to cool it down. In between bites, he'd carefully fish out the garnishes - chopped chilli, lemon grass, bits of spring onion, and the seeds of the five pieces of lime he squeezed in.

Before I was done with my bowl of pho, he'd started on his. Then I noticed he was just armed with a spoon and wondered how he'd pick up the noodles. For a while, all he did was drink the soup and eat the chicken pieces (while looking very morose).

Finally, he picked up his chopsticks. By this time I had given up all pretence being occupied with what's left of my food and was most avidly watching out of the corner of my eye. He held the chopsticks so awkwardly that there was no chance he'd be able to pick anything up. I was very tempted to impart proper chopstick skills but y'know, social decorum and all, so I continued to observe his clumsy attempts to pick noodles up.

It was only when he stabbed the chopsticks into the now dry-ish pile of noodles, pushed it onto his spoon, and shoveled it into his mouth that I realised this whole time he had been very strategic about eating his pho. Was so amused and impressed that I couldn't stop a grin from breaking out and pretend it was due to a text I just received.

More than a driver

"I think we're the same age..." his voice trailing off at the end, as if unsure of the implicit point he wanted to make.

I studied the profile of the soft-spoken driver and wondered how to proceed past the sudden awkward bump. He was only supposed to drive me to and from the hotel while I was on the project, but had kindly offered to drive me out for lunch due to the miserable dearth of dining options within a walkable distance.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to an area full of eateries. As he killed the engines and I alighted, he merely settled back into the seat.

"Are you going elsewhere for lunch?" I enquired.

"Oh no, " he smiled with a tiny shake of his head, "I wait you here until you finish lunch."

"What. No way, you're joining me for lunch!" I insisted. No lunch? Unacceptable.

Over a simple lunch of mee mamak, noodles stir fried in ketchup with bits of egg, onion, and a chopped up drumstick, he was curious about my life trajectory.

"When did you start working? When did you leave school? What did you study? When did you take your O levels?"

And as I answered and asked in return, he seemed slightly embarrassed.

"I working for six years...I left school because I had to help support my family and my parents cannot cope." In halting English, he shared about his five other siblings, how he picked up English from a client he used to chauffeur, and his previous jobs.

What struck me most was his belief in education being critical for his progress. He plans to take the O Levels at the end of this year. "Because if I don't take, then very hard for me to find job next time." After some probing about his study plans, he revealed, with a hint of wistfulness, "I like geography. I like to know about the volcanoes and mountains...maybe visit them."

It's been a year since. I don't know how he's doing but I sure as hell hope things are working out for him.

Pocketful of sunshine

"Hey, thanks for meeting up with me on such short notice," comes the cheerful greeting. Behind him is a stuffed backpack with bits and pieces peeking out, slung in front is a well-used equally stuffed camera bag, and by his side he holds his walking cane.

"I've got a surprise for you," he grins as we settle into the wooden chairs at the chinese restaurant. He whips out the battered body of a Fujifilm camera and sticks it in my face. Rapid snaps. Then he's taking out wires and an instax printer while I grab the camera and fiddle with the many dials.  "Here, now you've got something tangible to remember." Two polaroids. He says it very matter-of-fact-ly, as if that's his way of making things count in the same way I do with postcards. It's nice being on the receiving end.

We talk about other people, about preferring to be behind the camera, about the cultural differences between the US and Singapore, about collecting fats for the winter, and enjoy bouts of comfortable silence over piping hot beef noodle soup. It's a quick lunch, and also the highlight of my day.

Mementos

Berlin, Germany, June 2013

The sun had long set but the summer heat and the accompanying humidity lingered. We'd wandered along a dusty, half-abandoned street, grabbed a beer, made friends with an international group of gays, met the prettiest boy/aspiring chef I'd ever seen, and now, we were trying to squeeze three bodies into a photoautomat meant for two tiny people.

We were caught off guard for the first two shots. Prepared for the next two, we held our breath and our poses in the cramped space and gave the camera our widest smiles. We tumbled out less than twenty seconds later, laughing, uncurling, stretching.

From the side of the booth, the machine whirred and whirred and eventually spat out a black and white strip no longer than the length of my palm. The first two were of comical wide-eyed humans with silent shrieks. In the other two, we looked like we were drunk on a happy secret and our eyes held deep amusement. The booth looked spacious - comfortable - from the shoulders up. No one would've been able to guess the collection of tensed muscles that held our position together.

Back home, we split the strip. My fellow couchsurfer and I kept one each, and the host kept the remaining two.

I slipped mine into my purse. It remained there the whole time, until recently when it fell out as I pulled a card from the same compartment. I only belatedly realised it.

Funny how a tiny black and white instaprint can hold so much memories. And how the loss of it brings those memories rushing to the fore.

Do you see that?

The sun was a brilliant luminous pink circle suspended in the sky this evening. The bus rolled to a halt at the traffic lights and I marveled at how utterly aloof and solemn the sun was against a hazy sky. It was almost poetic. I took a quick glance around, wondering if it had caught the attention of anyone else and was dismayed to see that a good majority were more preoccupied with the illuminated screen. Others were staring into space with vacant eyes and stony faces. And for the first time in a long while, I felt a bubbling urge grab the person nearest to me by the sides of his head and ask how, how, are you not seeing that?! The observation of all that...unawareness...left me feeling rather bereft and also more cognisant of my recent disinterest in a good many things.

Alas, the things that corporate life robs you of when you're not careful. I'm taking back my wonder.

What I Remember You By

I remember you by your wristbands from Thailand. A couple of years old and all that was left from your once extensive collection that spanned your forearm. A crisscrossed mixture of blue, orange and possibly green. All these I know because you asked about mine - green hearts on blue that encircled my wrist; a nine year old friendship going on to forever. At that point I wished I had an extra one for you as a souvenir; it felt like an apt thing to do.

I remember you by your gorgeous slightly sad, sometimes uncertain smile, almost like you couldn't decide if you should savour the present or sigh at the inevitable parting of ways. This is great, is gonna end way too soon, don't wanna mess up the remaining time. It might have been a projection of mine but I find that hard to believe when it was written all over you, from the light in your eyes to the complementary magnetism to the inconvenience we worked around.

I remember you by the outstretched palm you offered me on that boozy lazy afternoon. Open, unassuming, hopeful, demanding. Beer in your other hand, on the floor, on the table, in my hand. How your fingers were longer than mine by an entire section and your palm still visible after mine covered yours.

I remember you by the tremulous voice cracked with slight disbelief and realization when you said, word for word, the exact sentence I was thinking at that moment. Then it was my turn to be in complete disbelief at that freaky telepathy.

But most of all I remember you by the collective memory of the little things that enhanced the idea of you, not you. Crinkled eye corners, giggly laughs, nerdy preferences, laugh lines, chivalry, incredible perceptiveness, and passion so deep it left a crater-sized impression.

Roadtripping to Lille in strangers' cars

Hand on the clutch, cigarette between your fingers and I watched the smoke curl languidly into my friend's maroon jeans as she awkwardly tried to brush it away. You got the hint quickly. So Parisian, I remember thinking from the backseat of the car as I watched an endlessly changing scenery, your tousled head bopping to the music, and smoke trails gently dissipating into the ceiling. Your music taste was bearable at best.

Then there was you on the way back, pulling up in a mini-cooper with a checkered roof, cigarette in hand and with a head of dirty blonde curls. I could've hugged you for blasting 150km/h down the highway from Lille to Paris like a pro while I inevitably dozed off with the comfortable rocking of the car. We reached Paris in under two hours and even overtook the bus that we would've taken if not for you.

Lille was alot smaller than I expected, but it didn't make it any less lovely. The wind, though cold, made cafe-stops all the more appreciated. And two was just the right number in a group for roaming the streets. We now know the place at the back of our hands.

Mind if I sit here?

Wednesday night, I saw you sitting on a bench. Dark jeans, elbows on knees, nursing a beer and harbouring a sigh. No words were exchanged, just a silent and half anticipating steady gaze broken by a faint curl of the lips. I should have spoken to you. You looked interesting. I just wasn't sure if you spoke English.