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.

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.

British ties and other tell-tale attire

aka how to tell if a dude works for the British Government.

"Hey, who's that over there, the guy with a plate of broccoli in his hand?" I ask a fellow whom I got acquainted with five minutes ago. My acquaintance is spiffily dressed - white button down with a tailored blazer, slightly tapered pants, and a streak of white across his fringe.

He glances over and shrugs, "I've no idea." Then he does a double take and his eyes look alarmed, "Would you just look at that shitty tie! He's British!" he proclaims in an half whisper. "That's a trademark huh?" I reply, amused.

He continues to assess the gentleman's attire with a sigh, "And he's wearing a blue shirt." Our gazes linger on the man in question as he continues to pick food from the buffet line. "Shitty blue tie with a blue shirt. Definitely works for the British Government. It's a dead giveaway," he concludes with a chuckle as he returns to his wine.

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.