Sugar Daddy

“Angelo sent me an e-mail yesterday,” I said to my friend Ryd (a Singaporean version of Captain Jack Sparrow combined with Road Runner) as we boarded the bus.

“Reallllly? What did he say?” Side note: Singaporeans over emphasize the word “really” every time.

“For some reason he thought I was back in California and insinuated meeting up.”

“Reallllly?”

“Ya, can you believe that?” Meanwhile, Ryd and I were looking for a place to sit on the overly crowded bus. I continued, “He told me he might be getting a divorce in six months.”

“Realllllly?”

“Stop doing that! Yes, so I told him not to contact me again. I don’t want to be involved. If he’s getting a divorce it has to be because they can’t make it work, not about me.” Just as I was about to sit down, the bus took off. The jolt of the bus flung my head into the edge of an overhead compartment. Thump! I grabbed my head in pain.

“Don’t worry she’s all right,” Ryd exclaimed to the unaware passengers. “That was so loud! You ok lah?”

“Ya, I think so…What was I saying?”

The next morning I awoke with a migraine. I had a mild concussion. Two weeks thereafter were spent in bed. Suddenly fear started to consume me. My family and friends back home weren’t near to comfort me. I missed the familiar, love…I missed love.

I began to think, “Should I go back home? Should I e-mail Angelo? Why am I really in Singapore? What if my brain is swelling? What if I need a brain operation like my grandmother did from hitting her head in the shower?…then die right after! What if the California quake hits while I am here and a freeway overpass smothers my family in the car? What if there is no God!? What if, what if!”

So what did I do? I made a hair appointment. Bye-bye red, hello blonde...well strawberry blonde. Blonde was what I had been the majority of my life. Blonde was familiar, it was me.

Next, I logged back into my dating account on Singapore Expats. I needed to date…and date to forget.

In my inbox was a message from Henry. Profile: mid forties—hmmm, British—guaranteed wit, advertising—anything other than financing is a plus, divorced—fantastic I’m in!

We met at Villa Bali. Located in the outskirts of the skyscrapers and nestled amongst the lush green foliage. There were no walls to block out the humid air, just a roof overhead for the occasional monsoon. The sound of the wild birds, trickling water fountains, and Balinese soundtrack provided a romantic ambiance.

The host escorted me to where Henry was sitting. He wore a silk collared shirt from Thailand and khaki pants, cigar in mouth. He rose to welcome me and kissed me on the cheek. A bottle of white wine was brought to the table and the stories began. We talked about old cars, art, and travel. Things were going great. Good enough for round two: dinner at his place.

We met at Cold Storage at Takashimaya. With shopping cart in hand, we went through the grocery store as he picked out the ingredients for the evening’s dinner—seared scallops with a bunch of overly elaborate shrubbery. The sound of his cowboy boots left an echo behind his step. The pitter-patter of my heels tried to keep up with the long strides of this 6’1 bloke. I felt like a child trying to keep up with her father.

Once at Henry’s place, I was introduced to his maid, Malaya. It’s common for Singaporeans to have a live-in maid. Usually they are from the Philippines or Indonesia and work to send money back home to their families. Maids require around $800 a month and in some cases, are hired with "additional” services for the man of the household. So it wasn’t a romantic evening alone with Henry…it was an evening with Henry and Malaya.

Henry handed Malaya the groceries. She laid out the ingredients, washed the basil, and cut the onions.

“Natasha, why don’t you chop the garlic?” Henry asked. Wait a minute, he wasn’t really cooking me a meal, he was orchestrating a meal!

All I knew about chopping was to curve your fingertips inward so you don’t cut off a finger. Malaya watched me and began to giggle as I chopped. I gave her a look.

“You do all wrong see. Silly girl.” She eyed me up and down distastefully then took the knife from my hand and cut the garlic herself.

On that note, I waited in the dinning room at a long grandiose table in front of two overstuffed cherry wood bookshelves.

“Here you go my lady,” Henry said as he handed me a glass of red Cab. “Malaya? Can you light the candles?”

Henry went back into the kitchen to toss the scallops in a pan. Malaya lit the centerpiece candles and all fifteen others sporadically placed around the room. This time she did not look me in the eye. I could sense she was holding her tongue.

Presenting the finished product, Henry served me and Malaya poured us more wine. At that rate, I was sure I was going to be read a bedtime story and tucked into bed later. That’d be nice.

Breaking the awkward silence I started with, “I like this statue in the corner over there…looks very rustic.”

“That was actually made by the Ijaw people in Nigeria. We, uh—my wife at the time, came across it at one of their villages while passing through, we had to have it.”

Henry went on to talk about his life’s adventures. He had done it all. Now he wanted someone to “retire” with it seemed.

“It’s a small country here. I run into my ex all the time, aside from handing off the kids on the weekends. You can even take a trail all the way from Hort Park to Vivo City, I will show you sometime.”

Ex wife? Kids? Trail? This was serious. After dinner, he gave me a show-n-tell—more objects from around the globe and his daughters’ room. Twin beds, pink princess décor, and Barbie’s occupied the space.

“And this is my room” He plopped onto his oversized bed and motioned me to sit. “Here let me massage you.”

He placed his weathered hands on my shoulders.

Malaya popped her head into the doorway, “You need beverage?”

“No Malaya that’s all for now.”

Was I in the midst of a Sugar Daddy experience? Was Malaya listening outside the door?

“I must admit I have a weakness for strawberry blondes. What about you?” Henry inquired.

This is where my stutter kicked in. I either giggle in uncomfortable situations or stutter, especially in moments of vulnerability.

“My weakness? Well, I, ummm, I-I tend to be with men that—uh-uh, well…”

“ Mmmmhmmm? That what?”

“That, uh, well…”

Angelo crossed my mind. I felt so comfortable with him. He was so easy to talk to, why was this moment with Henry so difficult for me?

I continued, “That-that hurt me and—“

“Ohhhhh I see…”

All of a sudden, Henry dug his thumbs into my back and bit the side of my neck “True Blood” style.

“Ouch! What are you doing?”

“You like to be hurt? Tied up perhaps? I have some handcuffs…”

“What? No! I meant that I unintentionally am attracted to men that hurt me, like leave me, or aren’t available, the wrong—I better go, I’ve got work in the morning.”

After that evening Henry offered to take me out to dinner up until the day I left Singapore. But I wasn’t looking for a Sugar Daddy, S&M, or a territorial live-in maid. Although I loved being wined and dined, I didn’t want to be taken care of, or feel naive to life’s lessons being a few decades his junior. I wanted to experience life with someone who saw the world with fresh eyes as I did, someone who hadn’t done it all. Someone—who am I kidding, it was Angelo I wanted.

Like Angelo had said, “Suddenly I’m alive! The world looks different to me now. You are Chekhov’s Natalya Petrovna! With you I have that child-like excitement of not being able to wait.” That’s what I wanted, to feel alive inside.

Just Dance

When in doubt, just dance. Being an international business hub, Singapore brings in DJs from all over the world for the suits to party hard. The thing about Los Angeles is that people don’t go out to dance, they go out to stand in a club and do the Paris Hilton—just look hot.

My favorite place to dance is Zouk. On Wednesday evenings, it is Mambo night, where Asians jam to 90’s music and participate in synchronized dancing. Beware of getting slapped in the face by their robo moves. Preferably, Saturday is the night to go when their guest DJs spin, like Bennie Benassi or Bob Sinclar.

One night at Zouk, a local radio station was holding an event, “Singapore’s Top 21 Hottest Men.” Splendid, now I could see what my options were. 21 metro men stood on Zouk’s stage and showcased their talents and identical hair. One man’s talent was pouring a drink…need I say more? When the men were eliminated to the top 10, the radio host asked 10 single ladies to come up on stage. My friends pushed me into the bright lights. There I was, on stage, my red hair shimmering, and all eyes on my blue eyes. Yes, I was single, white, and now apparently a part of a circus act. In order to narrow the top 10 to the top 3, the women had to play musical chairs—with the men being the chairs. Who’d a thunk I’d be scurrying around trying to sit on an Asian man’s lap for the sake of time?

Come the third round I couldn’t find a lap. “Oh so sorry you loose!! Heheh haha,” The Anime laughter of the radio host echoed through the club as I ushered myself off stage in embarrassment.

I went outside to get a breathe of second hand smoke and was approached by “hottest man in Singapore” number 3.

“Wazz up?” Number 3 sounded like Joey from “Friends,” with limited conversation skills. The throbbing beat of the club started to begin and I excused myself.

There are three black boxes in the club you can dance-your-heart-out on. Two of the boxes are usually full with ladyboys or people who are “rollin” (yes there are those who do drugs in Singapore despite the death penalties). The third box is the Ladies Only box…real ladies. My box. Once you plant yourself and two friends on the box you must occupy the 3x3 space with your dance moves at all times in order to guarantee space as the dance floor floods with people.

Dressed down in my tennis shoes, hair up in a ponytail, I was liberated from LA vanity. The lights flickered across the smokey air to the beat and I started to get lost in the moment. A moment where time seemed non-existent, where things were peaceful and free where I felt—“Hey, Hey, HEY! Wanna dance?” yelled Number 3. He motioned to me to get off the box and join him. “No, I need room to dance”—wait was I turning down a man? He continued to stand there for twenty minutes until he finally gave up. Did I not need a male specimen? Maybe all I needed was good music to dance to to remain satisfied!

At 3AM, as I exited the club I heard, “Excuse me, miss! Miss! You forgot this!” I turned around and the Anime radio host handed me my musical chair participation gift…a blowup penis. Like I was saying…who needs a man?

Safety First

The one thing about Singapore I wish the rest of the world would incorporate is its safe environment due to its harsh punishments. Men, more likely than women here, are the ones who need to be aware of their surroundings (specifically from pick pocketing trannies). At 2AM, I can go for an early “morning” run and not worry about drive-by shootings. Freely I can walk around with cleavage up to my nose, skirt just below my tush, a shimmy in my step—all without any whistles, kissy noises or “Damn baby, let me get some of that.” This is liberation! I can be the slut I’ve always wanted without being treated like one. Although, you will be stared at as if you are an alien, but that’s only because the Singapore men are used to seeing “A” cups or implants on ladyboys. This is a country where porn is banned for heaven’s sake…yet prostitution is allowed. And, according to one of my taxi drivers, Chin Swee, Singapore men aren’t sexual.

“We are so busy going to work we don’t think about sex. Last time I had sex with my wife was three weeks ago. And I no jack-off since.” Whoa TMI buddy, TMI… “A lot of times the prostitutes come into cab and offer sex for us, but oh no no no. I no do.”

Coming to “the safest place in the world,” I was naïve to “low crime doesn’t mean no crime.”

Like the time I was trying to find the right bus stop in the scorching heat and humidity. My jeans stuck to my thighs like tar and feathers. My brain felt as fried as a churro. As I read my map, a pink car pulled up to the curb.

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the hospital is?” The Malay man shouted from his cotton candy mobile. I went up to the car and immediately felt sympathetic. The hospital? Is he in pain? Pink. Someone else he knew in pain? Pink. Someone dying? Pink. I didn’t even question the fact that since he has a car he must know his way around the country. But, then again, the taxi drivers who are required to live here their whole lives end up taking directions from passengers and don’t even know how to work their GPSs’.

I showed him my map and he looked at it blankly. Horns honked as oncoming traffic started to back up behind his. “Do you mind helping me? I can take you where you need to go?” The shimmering glitter in the pink paint must have hypnotized me because I got in that car with no hesitation. I mean come on; it’s a pink car and an Asian man. Can’t get any less threatening than that.

His dashboard was covered in white faux fur. Shiny disco balls hung from his rearview mirror and a Louis Vouton Kleenex box sat next to the gear stick.

“Gum?” He offered while he popped the cap off one of his six bottles of smuggled gum.

“Thank you…so I think if you turn up here and head straight you should be able—who’s in the hospital?”

“Oh. I don’t really need to go to the hospital. I just thought you were cute.” He said while grinning eagerly at me. My brain cells quickly regrouped and I started to look for an escape route. Locked doors, on the highway—I was doomed! I decided to play it cool and told him where to drop me off. Meanwhile, he went on and on about Twilight.

“If you want, we can watch Twilight together in my car. I have this great system and—hey I should get your number.” He pulled up to my security gate, I gave him my fake digits, and fleeted untouched. When I become a mother I will say to my child, “Never take rides from strangers, even if it’s a pink car.”

In a taxi ride, a ride that I pay for, I still can feel threatened.

“Oh you smell very nice…men must lovvvvee you….yes they love you.” Taxi man number 32 said while eyeing me through the rearview mirror. I laughed uncomfortably.

“Ayyyeeee youuu. You have boyfriend?”

“No.” Doh! Why I didn’t lie and say I’m engaged is beyond me at this point.

“You call me if you want taxi, I pick you up. But superman needs to wear trousers so he isn’t naked and not fly around. Need to give me time, more than 30 min.” Where was the kryptonite when I needed it?

“You hungry? Let me take you out. Here I take you to Hawker center right here. You want?”

Hawker center for our first date? As tempting as that was, I told him that I was in a hurry for work and remained silent the rest of the ride while clenching the door handle.

“But what’s going to happen to you? It’s Singapore, the safest place in the world!” said my roommate, Mark, in regards to leaving me at a McDonalds as I was out of my mind drunk yelling to the clerk, “Where’s my order? Ohhh you served them first? Why because they are white? Because they are a couple?!” Clearly being single in Singapore was turning me into a bitter drunk and racist towards my own race. How I got home, who knew? Since the majority believes in karma, cab drivers will generally take care of you and get you home safely if you are pissed as a sailor. They will even return your iphone if you leave it in their car. However, some will take advantage of you feeling safe.

Drenched from being thrown into a pool at a party on Sentosa, an island off an island, I hailed a cab. The free flow of wine put everything in slow motion as I got into the cab. I wrung the water out of my dress as the cab driver took off. I looked up to enjoy the scenery only to find Mr. Cabbie starring at me instead of the road. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” he moaned while eyeing my body like a vulture. One moan would have been ok, but it happened at every stoplight. Being in my state of mind I found it amusing. We reached my destination and I took out my wallet to pay, but Mr. Cabbie waved his hand that it was not necessary. Woohooo! Free taxi ride! Wait, does this make me a prostitute? Or a victim?

So much for liberation…

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.

C'est la Vie!

A month went by and I used the time for myself. Dating became stale and I was bored of trying to create chemistry. I registered for the photography class I’ve always wanted to take and tried to finish reading a book on Mae West. Maybe if she had less of a narcissistic point of view on everything it’d be an easy read. Working out, going to work, and meeting with friends became my daily life.

I started to have recurring dreams of being back home in Los Angeles and in a state of panic thinking, “Oh no! I never got to see the Singapore Bird Park!” Obviously, my subconscious was telling me to start checking off my South East Asia to-do-list before heading back to the actors grind in LaLa land. So, one evening after work, I decided to be adventurous. The Raffles Hotel, built in 1887, is the home of the Singapore Sling and was number five on my to-do-list.

I entered the Long Bar wearing a purple, pink, and yellow plaid dress–basically, I looked like an Easter egg with red hair. The room was full of fifty-year old men sporting silk Hawaiian shirts. They sat next to their plastic wives and sipped their pink slings though a straw. Young honeymooners sat in wonderment as the wicker fans swayed back and forth on the ceilings. As I approached the bar, peanut shells crunched underneath my 10- year-old wooden heels. I ordered the famous thirty-dollar drink and broke open countless peanuts. I threw the shells over my shoulder to exaggerate my “Yes I’m single, alone, and under thirty” look. My mind drifted into the 1920’s while I gazed at my reflection in the antique mirror over the bar. Thoughts of men in their tux surrounding me while I puffed out of a cigarette holder laughing and saying, “One at a time boys,” entertained me while I enjoyed the last two sips of my fruity sling.

My imagination needed to be put into play; so, I left my fantasy and moved to a different location. Just across the street was Chijmes, an outlet of restaurants and bars surrounding an old convent built in 1840 and chapel, built in 1904. I strolled around the courtyard and was intrigued by sounds of salsa music. The music to my ears lead me to a tapas bar. I gazed inside the glass doors at Spanish dancers performing to a packed house. Where to sit? My eyes wandered around the candlelit alfresco garden and suddenly I caught the eye of a 28-year-old man. He had tan skin, bedroom eyes, and was the splitting image of my Hollywood crush, Adrian Brody. I looked down at a menu to pretend I had a purpose. My heart raced as I told the waitress, “Table for one please.” I swayed my hips as I walked past him knowing his eyes were following the flow of my dress and sat at the cobalt-mosaic table.

Fifteen seconds later, “Euuuhmm excuze me, my name iz Jonathan, would you like to join our table?”

“Are you French?” I asked in hopes to bring my recent infatuation with French movies to life and my last French experience to rest.

“Oui.”

I joined him and his friend and found out that they were stuck in Singapore for the next few days because of the volcanic eruption in Iceland. God bless Mother Nature. Another friend, Alex, joined the table and they conversed in French. There I was, surround by men in a French film, minus the subtitles. They started to break into English and Alex began discussing the recent distress of his love life. “I only make luv, I do not like to fuk. I want to be in luv.” My smile grew.

The night continued with broken English, drinks, and me chiming in conversations with, “Je ne sais pas.” The early hours of the morning approached and Jonathan’s friends au revoired to bed. Jonathan and I sipped English Grey in-between stares and we lost ourselves in the moment.

The sun began to rise and my contacts were getting dry. I left my number and we parted ways. I walked down an empty Victoria Street and felt a sense of stillness. Droplets of dew glistened on the leaves of trees and the air was just crisp enough to see my breath. As I approached my bus stop, a blind man tapping the pavement with his cane headed towards me. We crossed each other’s path and he suddenly grabbed my arm.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where St. Andrews Cathedral is?”

“It’s to your right.”

“Could you take me to the front?” The blind man asked. I hesitated for a moment and then complied. He held on tightly to my forearm and I tried my best to guide him down the zigzagged path.

“Are you a Christian? Are you?” he inquired with urgency.

“Yes,” I said.

“Where do you work?” he asked.

“Well, I work on Sen—"

“Shhhh!” He clenched my arm tighter and continued, “You mustn’t talk so loud! When we get inside you have to be quiet.” Inside? I can’t go to church now, let alone with a man clenching on to me. Blind man or not, a man is a man. We got to the front of the church. Underneath the 1856 constructed arches, I handed the blind man off to two ushers. The blind man started to wail and reach for me like a little boy throwing a tantrum after separated from his mother. The ushers looked at me in shock for not joining him. I mouthed, “I don’t know him.” Understanding they then nodded and smiled to me as they tried to calm him down.

I turned my back to the angelic music and pristine white glow that flooded from the nave of the cathedral. The cries of the blind man echoed and my chest grew tight. My eyes began to swell. What was I doing? Was I turning my back on my faith? Going down the wrong path? Was this my chance to change? What does it mean? Why am I in Singapore? Je ne sais pas, Je ne sais pas...

Two days later, I was boarding Jetstar Airways for a quick getaway to Bali with my friends Carlie and Madai. I was just about to tell them my prophetic story as we sat down in our seats and there he was, Jonathan. Same plane, same row, opposite seats, same destination. We blushed at the site of one another and smiled. Our eyes full of secrets, we exchanged glances and laughter of disbelief. I leaned back, took a deep breath, and relaxed…I was right where I needed to be, the right path, the right time… C'est la Vie!

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’.