Wits End

Two words, online dating. You know things have gotten really bad when you sign-up for a dating site; even worse is when you take out the credit card. Upon arriving in Singapore I was put up in a hotel in Chinatown called, Hotel Re!—notice the exclamation. Exploring Chinatown and the faces that passed me by ignited a fear in me. Where were all the men? Would I grow to be attracted to the Chinese? Will I ever date in Singapore? Do nunneries exist in South East Asia? Little did I know that the horizon of Expat men was just over the hill.

However, being a naïve American I frantically signed up with all the dating sites possible to see what my options were. An hour after creating profiles and ads, I was flooded with e-mails. It felt like I was taking in hundreds of job applications and narrowing it down to perspective business partners. I first met up with an Aussie man, Dan. Note to self: Aussies drink like a fish. Things went well until I introduced him to my friend at a nightclub. I went to use the restroom and I came back to find his tongue down her throat.

Next, I met up with a British bloke, Eddie, he was pretty cute. We drank a few drinks at The Clinic, a bar where you can drink out of iv’s and sit in wheelchairs (liver transplants aren’t included). We had good conversation, shared laughs—it was going well. Then while waiting for a taxi I noticed a gorgeous Thai woman eying him. With a vengeful glare, she approached Eddie, said his name and sashayed her way back giggling to her ladyboy friends. There was an awkward silence between Eddie and I. He laughed uncomfortably and said, “ Ummm...I'll be honest with you, I met her at Orchard Towers.” Pause. He continued, “Ummm... she's been calling me, but I haven't been returning her calls.” Translation: uummmmm...I f*$#ed a prostitute.

After that, I interviewed a handful of accountants, bankers—men who lived their lives in suits. My eyes usually glazed over in conversation and I’d watch the sweat roll off their face from the humidity. For some reason, when I would tell them I hosted a Donkey show they became very interested. Seconds later they would say things like, “Oh yes…well in Thailand there’s this great place I know of…we’ll go there.” Or “Oh you haven’t been to the bar with the movie screen that’s on the rooftop that plays house music with the drinks with the umbrellas? I’ll take you there.” Or how about, “Oh you play the ukulele? I’ll introduce you to my friend who is a part of the Singapore Ukulele Underground.” Woah, woah—promises on a first date? Actually, make that “meeting.“

I was at my wits end with online dating and trying to create chemistry and then… I found him. A French man, Jean, full of passion, zest and life! He had gorgeous tan skin with long sandy blonde hair and blue eyes that’d make you melt like butter. Not to mention, he knew every line in the book.

“Euhhh Natasha, I must say, you are dze second actrease I’ve met in my life.”

“Oh really? Who was the first?” I asked.

“Julia Roberts.”

Jean was so stereotypically French I’d giggle till my cheeks were red.

“Euhhh Natasha, you know, you have a light in you. No, no, don’t look away. You do, not many have. I can see these things yes…yes.”

I must admit, the times we met up, my ego left full. One evening we were at a bar called “Home,” that overlooked a miniature jungle. “Euhhhh, Natasha, would you like to go for an evening stroll?”

“Why not,” I thought, so we held hands and he led me down a path less taken. There amongst the froggies and enchanted forest we laid down and gazed at the stars. Before I knew it I could hear the sound of a zipper and I sprouted up faster than Warner Bros's Tasmanian Devil.

“Euhh Natasha, don’t go please, it’s so romantick –the moon, the stars...”
“And not to mention the side of the road!” I said as I stormed off.

One thing is certain, no matter where you are in the world men will always try to get into your pants...and if not yours, your friends’.

Hungry for Love

One of the most common phrases one hears in Singapore is, “Have you eaten yet?” When everyone is concerned about you having eaten, you can forget about dieting. Food here is abundant and not only in quantity, but taste. You are sure to pack on the pounds in just a few months; the expats call it, “The Singapore Spread.” Sometimes I find myself eating while walking, eating while waiting for the bus, eating before getting onto stage, eating my feelings. I take pleasure in not being acknowledged by the sea of black haired strangers at times because I can eat anything my heart desires without being questioned.

For some reason, the times I get hit on in Singapore are the times I eat—maybe because that’s all I do, or all to do. It started with, “Chicken Rice”, Singapore’s signature dish. At the Ayer Rajah Market hawker center, I ordered my black pepper chicken for a midnight snack. The pot bellied Indian man behind the register served me my chicken rice as if it was fine Peking duck on a silver platter. “Oh your hair is so red,” (common opening line). Typical stranger banter took place and then it came… “Can I have your number?" There it was, the line I used to be so accustomed to hear.

Now for exhibit B, which took place at Marche. Marche is one of the best places to eat fresh food cooked right in front of you. Salads, pastas, grilled vegetables, fresh coconuts, ginger beer, tasty deserts, and flavorful bread color the restaurant in it’s glory. The cloud shaped dough called my name and as I approached, the baker man exclaimed, “You came for my bread!” I knew I shouldn’t be eating refined sugars, but the smile in the baker man’s eyes lead me to believe it was going to be alright. Then the words came as I picked out a cheese-mushroom-bread-melody, “You are very beautiful,” the baker man said. Did I just choose the holy grail of breads to receive such praise? I managed to smile the rest of the day...and so did my love handles.

Later in the week, I made my way to a familiar American eatery, Subway. While picking out my toppings, the sandwich maker said to me, “Your eyes are trouble. Very beautiful.” Trouble? The only trouble about these eyes is that they are too big for my stomach.

With all of these experiences, I began positive eating reinforcement. I subconsciously started to eat increasingly more until I would hear those magical words, “You’re beautiful” again. Then the day came when I saw a Mexican food stall at a hawker center. My eyes lit up; a taste of home was only a few bites away! After scarfing down my comida, eating came to a halt. I realized there is a reason why Mexican food isn’t common in Asia.

What was happening? Food has always been my go-to “man.” After a long day’s work it was there for me, after a long cry it gave me warmth, after feeling homesick it reminded me of home—food, glorious food! The one thing I became so attached to, the one thing that provided me comfort and love finally turned on me! That’s right folks, food poisoning. I never knew white porcelain would be my rebound, but it was...and for hours…hours.

For weeks after the betrayal, I had to eat the dull things in life, like soup and crackers. Was this all there was? Will my tummy ever be the same? Will I ever be able to look at a hawker center again and not be afraid? I have hope. I will eat again. And he is out there…one bite at a time.