Lazy Sunday

The usually intrepid Messrs. S. Gabriel and A. Sheppard had been laid low by our day of silliness amongst the orchids. So Sunday morning was slow. After waking up late, we feasted (not for the first or only time) on Swedish pancakes with various combinations of jam. The goal was to see an early afternoon showing of Great Expectations, the film version of a book we had read for our Calvin class whilst studying in England.

Plans, however, go awry. We were enjoying our slow morning so much that we missed the bus we needed to make it to the desired showing. Still, we threw caution to the wind and went to the theaters anyway.

Why, with such a slow day planned, did we need a specific time?

Well, we needed time to get to Night Safari!

Photo credit: singaporeguideonline.com

Night Safari is an offshoot of the Singapore Zoo. It opens around sunset, with animal shows, trolleys tours, and walking trails for an closer look at select habitats. The whole point is to give visitors the chance to see animals when they're naturally active.  I love going to zoos, and so I was really excited for this experience.

We decided to do the animal show first, while it was still a little light out. Packing into the small arena, we fanned ourselves with our hands underneath the weight of the humidity. The emcee did a good job engaging the audience, despite the representation of at least ten countries. One of the highlights was the announcement that the staff "lost" one of the animals...only to "find" the largest python I've ever seen in the storage underneath the third row of seats.

Everyone in that row chuckled nervously after that revelation and sat down a little more gingerly than before.

My favorite, however, was the demonstration of the ingenuity and adorability of otters. Calling out three brothers, the emcee showed us how the otters had learned to recycle. They each juggled their respective target--plastic bottle, soda can, and paper cup--into the appropriate bin.

I nearly keeled over from excitement. To demonstrate my point, here's a photo of a short-clawed otter, the breed kept in the Night Safari:

Squee! Photo credit: inotternews.com

After the show was over (and I indulged my inner child by buying a small otter stuffed animal), we sweated our way through the labyrinthine line for the trolleys. As promised, the animals were up and about, not the usual lolling lumps of fur sleepy animals deserve to be during the daytime. After that, Sanna and I strolled through the habitats. We spent most of our time listening to the hungry otters chirping at us for fish and admiring the fuzziest, cutest bottom we'd ever seen, courtesy of a slow loris.

Since my camera is incapable of taking a decent night photo, I don't have any of this particular experience (hence the need to Google photos). But I have the warm fuzzies in my heart's memory.

The Great Outdoors

Ever since S. Gabriel moved to Singapore and began posting beautiful pictures, I've wanted to go to the Botanical Gardens there. On my third full day, that desire was fulfilled. Wearing my appropriate Giving Tree/Lord of the Rings mashup tee, we grabbed our cameras and took the bus to the gardens, not far from where S. Gabriel spent years of her childhood.

 The gardens were much larger than I expected, to be honest. However, they were mostly empty, with few willing to risk the midafternoon heat like us. What can I say? S. Gabriel and I like to live dangerously.

As I expected from her photos, the Gardens were photo-op central--not just of flora, though, but also of the local fauna. None of the birds stayed still for long or were close enough for my wimpy point and shoot, but I did get some shots of a familiar form:

Not as fat as Calvin's, but still fun to watch.

We also took advantage of the scenery to sneak in some pretty pictures of ourselves and each other.

 It only got more picturesque from there.

 As the flowers grew more beautiful...

 ...we grew progressively sillier.

While our fellow tourists chuckled at our antics, Others were not so amused. In fact, one in particular looked down upon us:

Bowed by the weight of the heat and humidity, we left the Orchid Garden and our childishness (mostly) behind, grabbing some cold drinks and watching the turtles. And birds. And monitor lizard. But even that became exhausting, so we left the garden for an Island.

Island Creamery, that is. Not only is the ice cream superb (fresh made daily), but the walls are covered with photos of patrons. All you have to do is snap a selfie, stick your SD card in their printer, and then stick your photo on the wall. Unfortunately, we had a table in the center, so I couldn't creep on former customers, but S. made sure to point out a photo from her previous visit.

So once we finished our double scoops (inside-out Oreo and Berry for her, inside-out Oreo and Nutella for me, in case you were wondering), we took our photo. Well, S. took it, because she's actually good at taking these kinds of pictures. I think it's her longer arm. Or maybe it's raw talent.

These lovely mugs are now decorating the walls of Island Creamery.

Refreshed by our treat but still tired (and, for my part, pretty dehydrated), we took the bus back for more Bollywood and an early night.

Oh, the Places You'll Go

Singapore is an incredibly multicultural city. Many of the signs are written in four languages: English, Malay, Mandarin, and Tamil, (hopefully) covering most of the population. And, as a huge financial center, Singapore is also home to a large expat (short for expatriate, someone who lives outside their own country) community. Growing up as a military brat, "expats" generally referred to other people--civilians who lived overseas for business or their dream retirement, rather than "us." So I always grew up with the perception that expats were rich people--which is, by the way, partly to mostly true in Singapore, but not always.

Like all countries with multiple ethnicities, cultures, and socio-economic backgrounds mixing together, there is friction. And, as per usual in major cities with large populations of immigrants or descendants of immigrants, there are clusters of homogeneity around the city, microcosms of a culture left behind (for some, generations ago). Singapore has several, one of which became our next adventure.

Back on the MRT! Destination: India Town

 The smells of the marketplace hit me like the door frames I so often walk into. Not a bad thing, to me I assure you. Strong spices have held a special place in my heart since my study abroad experience in York, England. While I enjoy good, hearty pub food as much as the next girl of Irish descent (read: a lot), four months with no flavor additives beyond salt can really wear on the tongue. When asked by our professor what we wanted for a group dinner, the unanimous answer was: spices. England was where I fell in love with Indian food, actually--unfortunately, it was late in the semester, when I actually felt that I had enough money to go out for more than take away.

I've more than made up for it since. In fact, I've joined a little tradition of my coworkers. On one-off holidays (Fourth of July, Memorial Day, etc.) when we have off work, we try to get together for lunch at India Town, a good joint in GR. Almost any excuse to treat myself to Indian--too tired to cook, sinuses a bit plugged, a simple craving--is good enough for me. For now, Singapore is the closest I've been to India, and Sanna always has fun, breezy clothes from the market there. Shopping + food + people watching? It sounded like a great day to me.

So I was very excited to go to Little India. We started off in the clothes market, where my eyes were immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of color in front of them.

This was just one of the many corridors of clothing.

From simple cotton tunics to elaborately sequined saris, it took several turns around the market before I could finally decide what I wanted. I walked out with two green tunic dresses from the same shop, which somehow caught my attention in the riot of fabric each of the four or five times I walked by. S. Gabriel was much more decisive, choosing a long, dark blue top to serve as a light coat for her upcoming trip to England. But that was just the beginning. Not only can you buy clothing there, but you can also get it made or altered two storefronts away.

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

A left turn revealed another surprise:

One of two curio shops, right next door to each other. Photo credit: S. Gabriel

With our shopping done, we went downstairs to explore the food market.

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

Photo credit: S. Gabriel

Thanks to a gregarious fruit vendor (contrasted with his brusque partner), I tried some new tropical fruit. The one with the dark red outside and bright white inside (on the right) is mangosteen, the "Queen of Fruit." (For those interested, the "King of Fruit" is the durian, which is also considered Singapore's national fruit.) It was really yummy, so S. purchased a bag to enjoy (and pacify the rude partner).

But that was only a snack. So we took to the streets to hunt down a proper lunch.

 

In Singapore, it seems that you can only lose sight of a skyscraper by closing your eyes.

We ignored pamphlets and invitations to obvious tourist traps. Two key signs: they only approach foreigners, and they're wearing the stereotypical safari outfit. In fact, the restaurant we chose seemed surprised to have us. Thankfully, their food more than made up for the bewildered service.

Before: chicken korma, butter chicken, (unfortunately butter) naan, and mango lassis.

It didn't stick around very long.

More than sated by our meal, we entered the crowded streets again, peeking into the shops and restaurants that filled the colorful buildings. 

During that time, we stopped at a crosswalk in front of a Muslim building--whether it was a mosque, school, or community center, I didn't (and still don't) know, but there were a multitude of men in taqiyahs (caps) milling about. Two of them stood behind me, also waiting for the green man to beckon us across. If there's one thing I've learned from living overseas, it's knowing when others are talking about you in a language you don't understand.

They moved ahead of me, exchanging looks. "They're talking about your tattoo," S. whispered. While Singapore is largely more liberal towards tattoos than some Asian countries (like say, Japan), they obviously disapproved. I just had to laugh. If they took issue with what little of my conservative tattoo (just two lines of text) that peeked over the back collar of my dress, I thought, what did they think of the girl standing three feet away with Michelle Pfeiffer's incarnation of Catwoman tattooed across her chest? 

After that little humorous interlude, we did a little more shopping. S. found several Bollywood films to add to her collection, and I found some things for a friend of mine with an upcoming birthday. We ended our outdoor adventure soon after, taking the bus back to her apartment so S. could introduce me to Bollywood movies.

I may or may not be hooked...

Up, Up, and Away

I got on a plane the morning of June 4. Just after midnight on June 6, I had country-hopped all the way to Singapore. It wasn't long before I ran into a familiar set of red, red bangs and a bright smile.

What a great face to be greeted by!

We took a taxi back to her apartment in Upper Bukit Timah (I quickly learned that the correct pronunciation is "bu-kee," not "bucket.") After trying to get over the surreality of my being there (it never completely went away), I washed away my travels, and we went to bed.

We never fail to find a Starbucks for conversation and a little goofing off.

We started off our week-long adventure with a bus trip to Holland Village, a part of the city where Dutch settlers used to live. After some quick errands, we found our way to a Starbucks, where we discussed life, writing, and Singapore over iced chai lattes. Since I hadn't adjusted to the heat and humidity yet, I already needed that refreshing break.

Then it was off on the MRT to Orchard Road

Orchard Road is the main shopping district of Singapore--since I haven't been to Rodeo Drive and only breezed by Fifth Avenue, I'm not sure if I can draw a familiar comparison. We strolled down the street, eating ice cream, taking photos, watching street performers, and laughing at some of the ridiculous billboards.

How is Leo supposed to win on Oscar when he can't even wear a watch correctly? (Photo source: www.ablogtowatch.com)

 

 

 

 

After a nice walk, we stopped inside one of the malls, and soon found a familiar face. As Benedict Cumberbatch apparently objects to the fangirl term "Cumberb****," Sanna and I consider ourselves members of the "Cumber-Collective."

 

We had a late lunch, talked some more about our writing, and did a bit wistful shopping. Then, with night falling, we went across the street to Peranakan Place. Peranakans are descendants of immigrants who intermarried with Malay natives, and have a distinct culture of their own. 

Many of these buildings are now bars and restaurants--while we were a little early for the busy crowd, we did decide to celebrate my birthday a little late by going inside anyway. I had my first pina colada (after getting caught in the rain on a tropical island, what else could I choose?), and Sanna bewildered the bartender by requesting a Shirley Temple. Unfortunately, he was so bewildered that he didn't actually make her a proper one. She had to content herself with a multitude of extra cherries.

After such a full day, we took ourselves back to her apartment, the first day of our adventure drawing to a late close.

My Brief Sabbatical

I'm saying hello to you, my hypothetical readers, from Singapore. On the other side of the globe from where I live out my usual day-to-day, it's been quite a change of pace for me. But when my stunning friend S. Gabriel is involved, change is always an interestingly-dressed adventure. (For non-mutual friends, check out her blog here: http://swedishimmigrant.blogspot.sg/)

S. Gabriel is a teacher in Singapore, where she spent many years as a TCK (third culture kid). We bonded in Japanese class my freshman year, and we've been traveling together ever since! Our adventures have (quite literally) criss-crossed the globe: from the U.S. to York, England to Hikone, Japan to Umea, Sweden and now to Singapore.

This was a trip long in the making. Thanks to the unbelievable generosity of a relative, I was given round trip tickets to Singapore as a graduation present. (Thanks Uncle Eric and Aunt Nancy!!!) And, even though the dates were decided a year in advance, the timing has been perfect. Life has been incredibly stressful of late, with one move down (one more to go) and friends leaving town. It was (and still is) a frustrating and emotionally draining time of transition.

This vacation has been the deep breath I've been waiting for.

And who better to spend it with than S. Gabriel?

There was little to no talk of work. At least, not the kind that pays us. No, about 80% of our conversations revolve around our various works in progress (the plural is mostly hers, since Paladin has been my sole focus for 5+ years now). Our writing sessions/discussions go down a little like this:

An open notebook for Sanna...

...and some form of caffeine for me

While she worked out scene after scene in her own novel-to-be, I continued my revision process of Paladin, working through (almost) seven chapters, more than I've done in the last month (if not the last two). With her help, I've flushed out several scenes with *shudder* description. Thanks to my general impatience, those details are one of my weaker spots, but I know the finished product will be far better for it. (Okay, I hope the finished product will be far better for it.)

I know what you're thinking: "You went to Singapore and this is what you want to talk about? Writing?"

Well, yes.

I don't write well when I'm stressed. When I get home from work and errands, I just want to crawl into bed or get sucked into funny things on the Internet or watch six episodes of Supernatural in a row. Or all of those things at once. I just don't have anything left. No energy, no creativity, no spark at all--just "meh." That's why my blog goes through such dry spells sometimes--if I can't even lift my fingers to work on my novel, how am I supposed to figure out how to make my life sound interesting?

So the chance to indulge in my not-practical passion with energy and excitement has been an amazing gift this past week. And even though my inbox is undoubtedly full and I have to move again in a few days, I feel more at peace now than I have in over a month.  

Unwilling Discernment

*Warning: this post may or may not contain spoilers regarding Oz the Great and Powerful. Read at your own risk*

Now, I don't usually write movie reviews because:
1. I have terrible taste in movies. I giggle my way through explosions and one-liners, snark my way through rom-com sentimentality, and weep through animated films (Up, The Lion King, and Tangled are particular weaknesses of mine. I won't even see Toy Story 3 for fear of irrevocably damaging my psyche). I don't trust my own taste in films.
2. Discernment. Blech. See, I go to movies to be entertained. I am the poster child for the generation of short-attention spans. I pay to be entertained, not to embroil myself in philosophical debates. If I wanted to be entertained and think at the same time, I'd read a book.
3. If I get a whiff of pretension, that's it. I'm done. I'm out of the story and wondering what I'm going to bake over the weekend instead. Or if I remembered to turn off my flatiron.
4. I tend not to pick up on things if I'm completely tuned into the story. For instance, I didn't notices the lens flares in Star Trek until everyone and their second cousin started jawing about it online. I didn't notice the blue filter in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix until my brother complained about it.

So I just proved why I'm not to be trusted as a film critic. But I'm going to do it anyways. You see, my wonderful boyfriend (who's happens to be studying film production) and I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to see Oz the Great and Powerful. He'd remembered my desire to see it, and yesterday had been a rather rough day for me. So he was sweet enough to sacrifice some of his precious sleep and cheer me up with what promised to be a light-hearted, CGI-filled celebration of movie magic.

Beautiful.

As previously stated, I'm pretty easily pleased on the movie front, so neither of us expected what happened next.

The story is that of the Wizard of Wizard of Oz fame, of how the man stepped behind the curtain and into our collective imaginations. Despite limitations placed by rights issues, (i.e. no ruby slippers or music), the movie holds a lot of promise. Stunning CGI-work. Talented cast. Beloved franchise. A Hollywood budget that could support me in a comfortable lifestyle until my inevitable death under an avalanche of hoarded books.

James Franco stars as Oz. This casting choice alone made me a little hesitant. I don't really care for his work. Whether or not it's residual sympathy for Anne Hathaway for leaving her out to dry when hosting the Oscars, I can't say. But it made me nervous for someone who seems (to me) to be an unlikable guy to be cast as an unlikable character. I already knew I was going to have a hard time believing any character growth.

He begins the movie as a charlatan and stereotypical selfish jerk--playing pretty women, insulting his loyal assistant, and generally thinking very highly of himself. His only redeeming(?) quality is his ambition: he wants to be the next Edison. (Which could speak volumes about his character, depending on where you stand in the Edison/Tesla debate.) He hops into his hot air balloon to escape a former squeeze's strongman boyfriend and promptly gets sucked into a tornado that he somehow fails to notice. Maybe sepia tones make them harder to spot.

In the tornado, he makes a deal with an unnamed Power that Is. Given lack of further evidence, I'll consider his Santa Claus-meets-genie deity to be his amorphous (and so Hollywood) idea of the Judeo-Christian God. If he survives, Oz pleads, he'll do something great with his life. He promptly lands in the technicolor, CGI splendor of the land of Oz. And into the lap of Mila Kunis.

Mila Kunis plays Theodora the Good, a witch who wears pants tight enough to have been nicked from the closet of David Bowie's Goblin King. Playboy Oz, of course, is more than ready to take advantage of a smoking hot-yet-innocent young woman. She is the perfect mark, if one doesn't take her claims to be a witch too seriously. Seduced by Oz's facial hair, (and, yes, because he seems to be the fulfillment of a rather important prophecy) she promptly waltzes with the stranger and takes him home to meet the family--her sister Evanora, dressed in a suspiciously dark and slinky wardrobe.

Long story short, Theodora and Evanora aren't who they appear to be. I'm not sure if this can count as a spoiler--I mean, you have two brunette witch sisters in Oz. If you can't guess who they are (or rather, who they become), you're even less perceptive than I am. Let's just say that, by the end, Theodora looks like she went to a St. Patrick's Day-themed tanning parlor, and Evanora is about to get creative with her sock choices.

But no worries, Oz gathers to him some inexplicably loyal companions, joins forces with Glinda, has his heel-face turn, and becomes the wise (and, according to Glinda, good) savior of Oz. Theodora and Evanora are banished from the Emerald City, and there is much rejoicing.

But wait! You ask. How did Theodora, the beautiful, innocent, GOOD witch Oz seduced in the beginning, fall from grace?

Rejection. Oz saw just another mark. But she fell in love. So when he left her (purposefully without saying goodbye) and began showering attention on her enemy, Glinda, she was heartbroken. Now, in Kansas, a jilted woman was only dangerous if she had a male protector angry enough to confront Oz. But Toto, Oz wasn't in Kansas anymore. Theodora didn't need anyone to get angry for her. With a little push in the wicked direction from Evanora, she took matters into her own hands. She became the Wicked Witch.

If that doesn't ring any alarm bells for you, let me recast the story a little: Boy meets girl. Boy flirts with girl. Girl falls in love. Boy dumps girl. Girl is heartbroken. Boy moves on. Girl turns into an ugly, psychotic b****.

Yes, the Wicked Witch of Oz the Great and Powerful is the crazy ex-girlfriend.

It's not a new stereotype. After all, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." And yes, there are crazy exes out there of both genders, so it's not entirely baseless. But this particular shade of "crazy ex," in my understanding, almost exclusively applies to women. How many rom-coms, comedies, and sit-coms (not to mention memes and YouTube videos) feauture neurotic girlfriends and stalker ex-girlfriends? (This, for the record, is one of the many reasons why I prefer action movies.)

To turn the Wicked Witch, one of the most formidable villains in pop culture, into a crazy ex is demeaning and disgusting. In the original Wizard of Oz, the Wicked Witch wants to avenge the death of her sister (and, may I add, the theft of sentimentally valuable shoes from her sister's corpse). It's a motive that works equally well for villains of both genders--the Gruber brothers, anyone? It's simple and believable. It works.

Disbelief, soon to be followed by "Oh hell no!"

Last January, my interim group got the chance to meet Gregory Maguire, the author of Wicked. While we sat in his living room (me with my jaw on the floor in true fangirl fashion), he explained how his narrative came to be. The book started as an exercise to work out the problem of evil. He wanted to know why evil people became evil. He wanted to understand why people would commit terrible crimes and inflict pain on others. He toyed with a few iconic villains, finally settling on the Wicked Witch. The result was a narrative of isolation, rejection, and depth, and that gritty, sympathetic backstory for Elphaba became a bestselling book and a ridiculously famous Broadway musical.

Credit to Playbill Vault

I know that the writers of Oz the Great and Powerful were trying to be original. I know that they didn't want to draw even more comparisons between their movie and the pop-culture juggernauts that came before. But how did they expect their narrative and their characters to hold up against The Wizard of Oz and Wicked when they turned the Wicked Witch into a demeaning cliche?

Before I stepped foot into the theater, I knew I was going to have trouble sympathizing with Oz. And I was right. He broke an innocent girl's heart. While the responsibility for Theodora's descent into darkness doesn't entirely rest on him--it took a little nudging from Evanora--some of it does. And does the newly-good Oz take any of that responsibility?

In the end, after Oz's grand plan successful expels the witches, Oz turns to Theodora. I'll try to paraphrase this as closely as possible: "I know this evil doesn't come from within you," he says. A promising start. But then: "If you ever wish to return to the Emerald City, I will welcome you." This is the perfect chance to acknowledge his fault, to apologize for his role in her downfall. But no: he lays the blame squarely on Evanora and magnanimously offers his forgiveness--yet seeking none for himself.

So when Theodora screams "NEVER!!!", who can blame her?

In discussions I've had since seeing the movie, I've faced my own flawed thinking head-on:

1. I'm biased. As a woman who has been wronged herself, I automatically sympathize with Theodora. This, combined with my previous antipathy towards James Franco, made me predisposed me to certain opinions on their relative characters. 
2. I'm hindered by my automatic choice to take the movie on its own terms. Despite promising distance from The Wizard of Oz, it's still a prequel to the iconic movie. My boyfriend (gently) pointed out that of course Oz doesn't have complete character development--he's still a selfish con man in the 1939 classic.

Those two things greatly influenced my perspective on the movie in an obviously big (and rather negative) way. Was it entertaining? Yes. Visually stunning? Yes. Were the supporting characters adorable? Yes. But what kind of message are we sending when we take an iconic, female villain--one who is often taken as an example of a woman in power in media--and turn her into a scorned woman?

It was troubling enough to take me, usually an unwilling participant in such endeavors, into the realm of discernment. 

Everyday Snapshots

You've already been introduced to my bookshelf.

A new find--a blanket of many colors.

A book lamp for my future library.

Meet Bob the hydrangea. How he's survived a month under my care is a complete mystery. Even Alice finds him as curious as a smoking caterpillar.

The kitchen adventure for the day.

Time to eat!