Not so Simple

Once I landed back in Singapore I turned on my magical light up Hello Kitty phone that I had shut-off before I left. “您有一则新的消息," it exclaimed, which basically translates to, "New message." It was a text from Jonathan seeing what I was up to, sent when I was in Bali. How about that? I had no idea he was trying to get a hold of me. I guess I wasn’t as desperate as I thought. It was best it worked out that way anyway. I wouldn’t be able to handle getting my heart broken again—especially in an exotic place like Bali.

Yes, I said again. “Simply Single in Singapore” was not so simple in the beginning. Three weeks after I got here, I met a man that changed me, Angelo. Our paths crossed in the MRT station at the Outram interchange. We happened to get on the same train, same time, on four different occasions. He didn’t dress like the other suits, but wore plaid shirts and khaki pants…or his fedora hat. The first time I talked to him felt as if we had talked before. Deep into his crystal blue eyes I could see loneliness and fear, along with my future. “Dear Lord, I’m going to be with this man,” I thought.

Angelo had been in Singapore for a year and missed home terribly. Being in the same state of mind we found ourselves in a “Lost in Translation” situation, although I wasn’t married to a photographer. Suddenly I had a new best friend. We understood each others odd humor and shared a similar interest in Rockabilly. Wanting to know everything about one another, we were either by each other’s side after work or talking hours on the phone...that’s right, Hello Kitty knew everything. I became inspired by our friendship and started my obsession with the ukulele….only to find out that he played as well. We prepared songs to sing to each other on our ukes. Oddly enough, we had both prepared the same song, “Sea of Love.” Our time had come when it needed to end and Angelo would leave to go back home…to my hometown in California. No surprise there, right?

From Angelo’s 20th story flat the shimmer of the skyline sparkled through the window and provided a romantic backdrop for our last evening. I sat uneasy in his Ikea love seat while he packed his bags and tried to find the right words to say. He began, “I have always felt strangely close to you. Maybe we had an awareness of a closeness that was pre-destined or something. I’m not sure how it works. I just liked you from the start.” He looked deep into my eyes, then looked away, “You deserve more than this." My lungs felt tight, my throat started to swell. He continued, "I can't promise you anything...you said that you’re used to being disappointed and I don't want to do that...but I can't promise you anything, you deserve more."

"You haven't promised me anything, it's ok," I said while turning the other way shedding a tear. "I just don't want to loose a friend."

“I don’t want to either. But I do want happiness for you, because I care about you and because I recognize who you are inside and I want you to have everything.”

“But I wont have you!” My voice cracked and my vision became blurred from the tears welling up in my eyes.

Guilt came over him and his eyes softened, “I bet you wished you never met me."

At this point, we both started to cry and held each other tightly.

5AM I walked him down to the taxi in silence and slipped a card into his luggage. “Read this when you get on the plane,” I said. He gazed out the back window of the taxi watching me turn into a tiny spec of his past as he was driven off to reality. There I was, alone, again.

“I love you,” words I have said to two men in my life. There was Marvin the retired Colombian soccer player turned student and Lance, the…retired British soccer player turned car salesman. Now those words were written in a card to Angelo, whom had no affiliation with soccer, aka football for you non American readers.

Who knew eight months would go by and I’d still feel tormented thinking about Angelo. We had occasional phone conversations, but I was always left empty. And the more we had in common, the more the universe put us in sync with thoughts of each other and emotions, the harder it was. Given the 27-mile radius of Singapore I found myself following his footprints. Everywhere I went had a memory. It didn’t help that I inherited the things he left behind. Put my head on a pillow—Angelo, wash my face with a washcloth—Angelo, eat beans in a can—Angelo (yes I took his beans).

Meeting Angelo was a blessing and a curse. He put me back in touch with my creativity. I started to draw and play music again. Hours were spent in the bomb shelter playing my ukulele and singing (yes there are bomb shelters in the condos in Singapore, also known as the maids courtiers—which provide great acoustics). Angelo also inspired me to write. Finally, I was alive again.

People come in and out of our lives to teach us a lesson. From Angelo I was reminded of my dreams. However, at the end of the day he is not here to take care of me when I’m sick, he is not here to have and to hold; he remains an unattained fantasy. Our paths crossed at the wrong time and I can only hope they will cross at the right time. Until then, I will just blog about the duds along the way.

Blue Mooned Bali

To ease the tension between Jonathan and I on the plane I asked where he was staying.

“Je ne sais pas,” he said with bedroom eyes. "Je ne peux pas le croire."

"What?"

"Je ne peux pas le croire... 'I can't believe it.' I teach you, remember?"

"And at what point in the night was this?" I asked with a seductive grin. Madai and Carlie giggled like 12 year-olds and Johnathan's face turned bright red. Johnathan and I laughed coyly while we exchanged looks. Not knowing what to say once the plane landed we went our separate ways.

When Carlie, Madai, and I entered the airport the Balinese greeted us with enthusiasm. Their internal happiness echoed with laughter and radiated off their flawless skin. No wonder I was depressed in Singapore; I was surrounded by people who were just going through the motions rather than living. One thing I’ve learned here is that what makes a place is the people.

The hotel we stayed at had an open aired lobby and fruity drinks waiting upon our arrival. I scoped out the hotel guests at the bar: average age 45, hair color, gray. Well, this trip wasn’t going to be about making-out with bar patrons.

Madai, Calie, and I went to sleep excited to wake up to the excursions we had planned for ourselves. Bike riding through the lush tropics of Bali, horseback riding alongside the South China Sea—all in gorgeous-tropical-blue-skied-paradise!

7AM the three of us gaze off our balcony in a daze. Rain. That’s ok though because in Singapore there are usually scattered showers that will come in the morning and clear up midday… so we should be fine. On with the excursions we went!

“Ohhhh this storm is so strange it has been perfect up till now,” our biking instructor, Gusti, said while we peddled off the beaten path in a light drizzle. We visited a family compound in Ubud and got a glimpse into the life of the local Balinese. Compounds are enclosed by a rectangular wall and have structures within it, significantly laid out to represent the human body. They contain livestock, a temple, and stones placed on the ground to represent how many children live there along with their placentas buried underneath—so much for a “Welcome Home” mat.

An old man sat at the edge of a wooden bed dangling his legs in a room that lacked two walls and exposed to the open air. I snap his picture. “89,” said Gusti. “He is 89.” Limber and quick on his feet I had to ask the man the secret to a long life! After downing a shot of their homemade vodka, I asked. The answer was, “Only a little bit of this because the rest is poison,” (referring to the vodka).

While biking along the rice patties in the rain I could hear the song, “For What It's Worth,” by Buffalo Springfield play in my head…yes when I think rice patties and rain, I think Forest Gump. The rain started to downpour and I decided to sit in the back of the jeep that followed us. I snapped pictures while the other girls huffed and puffed through the heavy shower on their bicicletas.

Luckily, while horseback riding, it didn’t rain, but the gloom persisted—so much for sunny paradise. As we dismounted our horses to go inside a smelly bat cave, one of the horses got startled and stood back on its hind legs. All of a sudden, we were in “The Misfits” and the stallion came charging towards us. I turned to run and fell into the sand, Madai whaled and hid behind calm-cool-and-collective-yoga-princess-Carlie. Seconds before we could hear the sound of our bones crushing, the black beauty diverged his track and calmed down. So far, this trip was not the relaxing Mi Tai experience I imagined. Trembling, we entered the foul smelling bat cave and immediately rushed out. When huddled together those rats with wings smelt like burnt hair and rubber.

Back on our horses we went. After crossing the rough current of the ocean to get to the other side of the shore, Madai got the ride of her life when her horse took off. "Ahhhhh Stop! Stop!” With every trot Madai’s bosom bounced like Bo Derek’s in “10”. The men that led us didn’t do much to help—apparently safety comes second and bouncing boobs first. It was at that moment that I decided that I wouldn’t suppor—wait a minute, why am I not talking about men? Big, strapping, testosterone-pumping-men! Have I forgotten about their existence? Did I care? Oddly enough, no—probably because I was more concerned about surviving Bali than fertilizing my eggs.

After dinner in Kuta, Madai and Carlie decided to get massages next door. I was having fun eying the man at the table next to us, so I decided to stay and listen to the live band. Back to fertilization I went. Now that I was an open target, one of the waiters approached me—and not to refill my glass of water… wink–wink-nudge-nudge. With velvet tan skin and a pearly white smile he asked the basics, where I am from, what I do for work…He expressed an interest in improving his English and asked for my e-mail.

“Please sing a song,” he begged.

“What?”

“Sing, yes, you sing, with band,” The waiter handed me over a book of songs. “Wait, I have song to dedicate for you. I have them play.”

Moments later the band plays Lionel Richie’s “Hello". Flattered, I thanked him and continued to browse the list of songs. I chose to sing “Blue Moon”. Throughout this Singapore experience I’ve felt like Joe in “Joe vs. the Volcano". You see, Joe (Tom Hanks) is on a quest to sacrifice his life for a noble cause: jumping into the volcano of Waponi Woothe, to calm the Volcano God instead of dying from his “Brain Cloud.” During this tropical journey, he endures solitude and along the way finds love. In 2009 my “Brain Cloud,” was LA. Moving to Singapore seemed to be my only cure from the self-obsessed culture and my own uncertainties of the “bizz”. So, I jumped into the volcano of the unknown…facing solitude and fears…all with the hope of being saved by love. At any rate, Joe sings “Blue Moon” in the film. And there I was, in Kuta, doing a duet version with the band…waiting for love.

I asked Carlie and Madai how their massages went and they raved about the relaxing experience. However, Madai did find the song transition from “Hello” to “Blue Moon", a bit odd. Halfway into our taxi ride from Kuta to Selminajk the driver chimed in, “You funny.” Our taxi driver spoke in a thick Indonesian accent and had the voice inflection of a slide whistle.

“Teach me a lesson,” he continued.

“Serious? Or funny?” I asked

“Ohhhh funny please.”

“Well, when you are on a plane and there is turbulence, bounce up and down in your seat and you wont know the difference between you or the turbulence.” I demonstrate.

“Ohhhhh ok, I looooooove youuuuu.”

We got to the security check-point at our hotel and as the security guard checked under my legs for bombs, drugs, and whether or not my legs were shaven, the taxi driver exclaimed, ”Don’t touch my girlfriend!”

See girls, it’s when you least expect it...and the magic happens.