Diary of an Expat in Singapore (11 page)

Alexander’s familiarity with chopsticks.

I love watching my son eat with chopsticks. My husband? Less so. I can’t help but feel he’s trying to show off. An Italian friend visiting us wondered why Asians still use chopsticks. “It’s not like they haven’t
seen
a fork?” Of course, he may have just been grumpy because he was starving in front of a plate of delicious chili crab unable to use his chopsticks. The crab kept slipping away, there were no tissues to blot out the red stains on his shirt, and the bread rolls were miniature buns. He felt the restaurateur was sadistically dangling delicious food in front of him which he couldn’t get up into his mouth. Feeling personally affronted and increasingly depressed, he looked hopelessly for a napkin to clean his saucy hands. Alas, none to be seen. This is not unusual. Unrequested napkins on a table are a rare sight.

Which is why, when first entering a food court in Singapore, one marvels: “How nice. There are free packets of tissues at the tables.” Not so, they belong to the customers who leave them to
chope
(save) their seats. If you want tissues, you need to pay extra for them. Other countries wanting to cut down on trash and waste should take note.

The kids’ preference for rice over pasta.

Even more worrisome for an Italian mom is that when we do cook risotto, they say: “I don’t like this type of rice. Make it the other way.” I’m all about cultural assimilation, but risotto is where I draw the line.

Their giddy anticipation of chewing gum in Verona.

I was told that chewing gum was banned in Singapore because people were sticking it inside the closing doors of the MRT (subway trains), causing the breakdown of the electronic closing doors. It’s hard to fathom who would try such a stunt since the last person who vandalized a train was deported (and it was graffiti). Bottom line, no gum. You can still buy a tasteless generic type at the pharmacy for medical purposes, but the delicious bubble-making type is like contraband.

On the plus side, if you are someone who hates hearing people pop bubbles (Hi, Dad), then this is the country for you. I think the Singapore Tourism Board is underplaying a great selling point. They should proudly boast: “There is the death penalty for hard drugs but more importantly you will never hear anybody rudely pop gum in your ear. Never. Go to Europe for the gum, come to Singapore for the pop-free atmosphere.”

Eliot’s knowledge of more words in Mandarin than in Italian.

When Eliot arrived in Singapore she was just five months old and didn’t speak any language. Gradually, she acquired words in Mandarin at a much quicker pace than words in Italian. The only problem with that is that I have no idea what she is saying. Taxi drivers are always surprised that she’s learning Chinese. But I wouldn’t advise moving here solely for the Chinese, because surprisingly there are no schools where lessons are taught exclusively in Chinese. In fact, if I worked in the government, I would look into this. Expat parents are baffled at the discovery. Their kids? Extremely grateful.

The belief that everybody has a pool.

When my kids have a play date they always bring along a bathing suit. They don’t even ask if there’s a pool. They just assume. And, because it is Singapore and most expats do live in a condo with a pool, they’re usually right. There are some expats who choose a yard over a pool (much to their real estate agent’s chagrin). “The kids can run around and play,” they reason. At 100 degrees? I don’t think so.

Eliot’s teary breakdown because she doesn’t have straight, black hair.

My kids were the only ones in their kindergarten to have light-brown, wavy hair. Good during class recitals when I had to pick them out amongst a sea of shiny, black-haired heads; less so when they complained they weren’t like everybody else.

Not to mention that saying Singapore climate is not kind to curly hair is a gross understatement. The sudden rain, the unrelenting humidity… my hair has on occasion reached new heights, and not in a good way. My hairdo once prompted my son to rush out of the school bus demanding: “What happened to your hair?” Umm, I washed it… and then waited for your bus while it dried naturally?

But sometimes I wonder. Maybe the curls are good, maybe frizzy builds character. Why is it then that I spend a good part of the morning rush hour forced by my five-year-old to blow-dry her hair straight? Is it because I still remember when I was little and had a rubber band wrapped unceremoniously by my mother around an unruly ponytail in the mornings? My hair pulled back so tightly that I spent the rest of the school day with eyes wide open like a deer caught in headlights. And, at night time, when the rubber band was taken out, I could count the many hairs still attached to it. Good times.

When they say they want to go to Disneyland, they’re referring to the one in Tokyo.

Every kid wants to go to Disneyland. A fun place with all your favourite characters and cheerful staff (unless you’re going to the one in Paris). I just always assumed it would be the one in California. They say you can never go home again. The other day, I ran into an expat friend, one who had been especially homesick when I first met her, who told me she was going home for a week. “You must be so happy!” I guessed. “Not really, I’m over
home
…” Her answer made me realize how much time had passed since we had last seen each other. Singapore really grows on you. There are friends of mine, no longer here, who refer to Singapore as paradise (true, they now live in China).

Maybe it’s the absence of seasons that makes time stand still. That’s why it’s so unsettling when a friend does move away and you realize that your time as an expat here is just transitory. One night you have a wonderful dinner out with friends: delicious food, generous hosts, and fun company. But it is a farewell party so it’s a bittersweet occasion. One of the best things about being an expat is the eclectic mix of people you get to meet. But then those people leave. One friend is leaving for Switzerland to work at a pharmaceutical company, one is leaving for Sydney, another for Shanghai, and another for Bangalore to join her husband on his start-up venture. You will miss them because you remember how, over masala dhosa breakfasts in Little India, after dropping off your little kindergarteners, they were a big part of how you went from feeling homesick to feeling like you belonged. No matter how long you stay, you will never get used to your friends moving away.