One of us! One of us!

Know what is not fun? Being labled as diseased. I can see why lepers hate that so much, what with the jeering and the name calling and all. It's a nasty business.

J and I just crossed the Straits of Johor, between Singapore and Malaysia, over the new Tuas Causeway on a bus. You leave downtown Singapore and then traverse through this strange part of city in the West, full of shops that sell tranmissions for oil dereks, gigantic flywheels, transformers, and other industrial errata that doesn't really fit in with the trim-ladies-walking-around-shopping-for-Hermes-bags part of the city we had been staying in. Ending a sentance with a preposition? Love to. For those of us who grace the Potomac with our presence, it's Singapore's PG County: used cars and grumpy men until the sun sets. I digress.

We got stamped out of Singapore with adrimable efficiency and then drove acorss the Straits, duly presenting perfectly filled out paperwork to a Malaysian official. Now, I've travelled a fair bit, and, as much as I do not like carrying a US passport (too much explaining about how you are not a huge asshole intent on killing your hosts' top officials and then taking their natural resources), the great advantage is that normally just waving it around in the air gets you thorough immigration. Holding that thin blue folio usually allows you to skip the visas, skip proving you have enough money to not die in a ditch in this new country, skip providing finger prints and police reports and dental records or whatever else is asked of people who have less privledged passports. Even paperwork has a pecking order.

But this time, all the immigration officials could see were invisible Swine Flu viruses crawling around on the pages. Because clearly Americans use their passports to clean their noses when ill. Love that paper cut feeling from the stiff card stock. We were shunted off into a separate line, everyone eyeing us, just waiting for one of us to drop dead or explode, spreading the disease all around Malaysia. This must be what the Chinese feel like, as it seems like everywhere they go people are looking at them suspiciously, as if thinking “I know you sleep with a chicken under your pillow- what fresh death are you bringing today?”. Actually, we were the only non-Chinese in the health inspection line.

But luckily, due to the diligance of the Malaysian Immigration service, we were deemed “NOT WALKING DEATH” by having a fourteen year old take our temperature with a peice of tape and a coat hanger. Maybe incubation period doesn't translate well, but still, it's nice that someone is paying attention. I'm glad to know that my temperature is a healthy 38.6 C.

7-Eleven is Awesome.

Do not argue with me on this. I love it so much. While I would rather get shot than wander into a McDonald's overseas, I love 7-Eleven. It's such a snap shot of what is important in the country that it is in. According to 7-Eleven, Singapore cares about Hello Kitty, Fashion Magazines, Maps, Mints but not Chewing Gum, and Mobile Telephones. They do not care about, for example, Hot Dogs, like the Thais seem to, or Tequila, like the Mexicans do.

Bestow upon me your air conditioned goodness, a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a reminder that all is right in the world.

Dim Sum: What God Serves for Breakfast

Yeah, so Hawker Stalls continue to be awesome. So awesome, I cannot type awesomeness of this nature: I need something bigger than ALL CAPS, like maybe those flashing fonts in various contrasting colors that used to be all the rage on the early internet. But with lazers. And a smoke machine.

Dim Sum from Jalan Besar Hawker Center.

J and I are fast eaters. Get out of the way.

Buddah of the Forest Crystal Dumpling: AKA the Reason to Keep Living

If you were on a ledge threatening to end it all, I'd bring you this dumpling with some red chili sauce and a bottle of beer. And if you didn't like it, I would push you.

Buddha of the Forest Crystal Dumpling.

It's amazing. I don't yet know exactally how this "crystal dumpling" is made. I have heard tell of an ancient chinese-woman magic that involves pouring boiling water into starch and then adding lard. Sounds logical. The dumpling had shrimp, green vegetables and a nice balance of ginger/garlic flavors. Or I think it did. I ate the tray so fast that several people plummeted to their deaths. I have no idea where the name comes from- get on this people. Google is alot harder to access when everything you own has to fit in a backpack.

Also, I don't know what forest Buddha frequented, but the forests of my times have no shrimp.

Still. So. Good.

Food, Glorious Food

It's not a secret that I like to eat. And drink. Never forget that when buying me presents and trying to get me into bed. I'll do almost anything for barbequed brisket. And a cold beer on a hot afternoon- let's not talk about something we are all going to regret.

But Singapore. Oh my god. It had me at the first bite. Also, when it decided to be tropical and hot but also have an amazing public transit system. I have weird needs. Singapore also served up something called the Hawker Center, which is more delicious than it sounds. A while back, Singapore had great street food, but people kept getting hit by busses while eating noodles (or the noodle stands were blocking the sidewalk- I wasn't paying that much attention to the explination). The government decided that street food was here-by banned, but the hawkers would be moved to purpose built centers, which ended up looking like a mall food court somehow became detached from a Sears and washed up on the corner.

The architecture of vendors surrounding a central area of dining tables is where the comparison to a mall food court ends. In place of Sbarro's and Taco Bell are tiny stands serving Dim Sum, Laksa, Roast Pork, Pad Mie Goring, Steamed Buns, Fried Noodles, Lamb Murtabak, Roti, and also the occasional hotdog stand. There is usally a few stands suppling juice and beer and dessert, and a lot of fans, as none of them are air conditioned and Singapore is actually located on the surface of the Sun and it gets a touch steamy at times.

Your correspondant, looking creepy, like a cult member, if you will, waiting for people to bring him food.

Also, I ended up eating six meals a day in Singapore. There's one hidden after breakfast, lunch is two parts, and there is a third that I call “Afternoon Breakfast”. Be sure to schedule more time at the gym.

Singapore, 6:15am

A woman in a headscarf walks by, trailed by two girls in Islamic school uniform, like black and white ducks following their more colorful mother. A kid in a square cap comes next, and a old, old, old Chinese man, who should be smoking an opium pipe, but isn't, and is smoking a cigarette instead. I'm wearing shorts and flip-flops. It's already almost 85°F/30°C, and the humidity hangs from the low sky in invisible curtains. I can't sleep any more, even though it's just six fifteen in the morning. We arrived last night, greasy and butt-sore, twelve hours off our schedule, twenty-six hours later. Numbers are confusing. That's why I am drinking a cup of too-sweet Nescafe and watching Singapore wake up, happy to already be sweating into my pants, happy to be wearing sandals and feel the heat, happy to smell that smell of rotting and spicy food frying and damp air. Happy to be here.