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!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
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’.
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’.
Friday, May 7, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Kiss'n Tell
They say you shouldn't kiss and tell. But someone has to break the rules, right? So far it's been 5.5 months of living in Singapore. Back when I was living in LA and striving to be an actress my love life was pretty consistent. Chances of getting asked out at a coffee shop, grocery store, or at parties were high. Did I always say yes? No. But sometimes knowing that you are wanted keeps you going...always looking for the next best thing. So what could be better than getting a job across the world and the chance of finding true love? Fantasies of dating a man with his own personal driver, who could drive me to work everyday, and fly to local hot spots like Bali and the Maldives flooded my mind. He is out there!
Upon landing in Singapore I found my redheaded self in a sea of Asians and Indians. Where have all the familiar faces gone? I started to panic. I felt alone. "Excuse me," "pardon me," were omitted from the vocabulary of strangers and I was pushed and shoved into the arms of solitude. Friendly smiles and winks that brought a spring to my step in LA were replaced with blank stares. Stares so invasive I wanted to hide. At least the Mexicans back in LA know how to express what they feel with a simple whistle. A blank stare here can mean anything from "I want to attack you with my sausage," to "What is wrong with your face?"
Allow me to summarize my dating options for you. 90% of my coworkers were in relationships when I met them; 89% of them are still in relationships. The expats that come to live out in Singapore usually enjoy having Asian girlfriends or are married to wives that live overseas. Or, best of all, there are the men that frequent Orchard Towers, a prostitution hub known for "Four floors of whores." What's most unfortunate, is that I'm not attracted to Asian men, or perhaps I just haven't met the one whom I am attracted to.
All of this leads me to the fear of being alone. So I turn to internet dating. One of the most lazy approaches to getting into someone's pants. Meeting up with countless expat men, I look for connection, for chemistry, for someone to share life with! Then I realize, what am I doing? Why am I letting my fear drive my desire for love? What is it about being alone that I'm afraid of?
After indulging in countlees chocolate bunnies and eggs, I find my replacement for men. As I bite into a raspberry truffle, I think back to the taxi drive I had this morning on the way to work.
"Oh you have such stunning eyes and so smiley and cheerful," the Chinese driver says to me in the rear-view mirror.
"Well it's better than frowning," I say with my American sarcasm.
"Oh and you have red hair...(yes there are more than one Captain Obvious out here) You must be crazy, ya?"
"Yup I am crazy, " I say as I smile and sing along to, "Walking on Sunshine," on the radio. He turns the volume up full blast and enjoys watching me dance like a 5 year old in the backseat.
"You have husband? "
"Goodness no."
"Boyfriend?"
I tell him my rant on dating in Singapore.
"I can be your boyfriend. I pick you up in my taxi and take you to work. And pick up when you done and I take you to club. See I have muscles, I am strong man." He flexes for me. Impressive actually, for a forearm. I laugh off his comments and stare out the window eying an expat in a red car next to us. Typical white man in Asia, receding hairline, dark circles under the eyes, and pale patchy skin from computer gamma rays. I become silent and "Walking on Sunshine," fades.
Then the driver starts to moan, "Ohhhhh so much pain...I work from 6AM to 11PM I need massage...right here." He leans to the side and points to his left shoulder blade. "Massage it."
"What?"
"Punch it."
"Excuse me?"
"Punch! Pow, my back please."
"I'm sorry, I have to save my energy for work."
"Punch it!"
"Ok!" I give two light punches and refrain from talking to my new boyfriend.
Well kiddies, no matter what race you are, attitude is what makes you attractive. So although I feel alone, I smile, just in case someone might smile back. And who knows, you might even get to punch them...
Upon landing in Singapore I found my redheaded self in a sea of Asians and Indians. Where have all the familiar faces gone? I started to panic. I felt alone. "Excuse me," "pardon me," were omitted from the vocabulary of strangers and I was pushed and shoved into the arms of solitude. Friendly smiles and winks that brought a spring to my step in LA were replaced with blank stares. Stares so invasive I wanted to hide. At least the Mexicans back in LA know how to express what they feel with a simple whistle. A blank stare here can mean anything from "I want to attack you with my sausage," to "What is wrong with your face?"
Allow me to summarize my dating options for you. 90% of my coworkers were in relationships when I met them; 89% of them are still in relationships. The expats that come to live out in Singapore usually enjoy having Asian girlfriends or are married to wives that live overseas. Or, best of all, there are the men that frequent Orchard Towers, a prostitution hub known for "Four floors of whores." What's most unfortunate, is that I'm not attracted to Asian men, or perhaps I just haven't met the one whom I am attracted to.
All of this leads me to the fear of being alone. So I turn to internet dating. One of the most lazy approaches to getting into someone's pants. Meeting up with countless expat men, I look for connection, for chemistry, for someone to share life with! Then I realize, what am I doing? Why am I letting my fear drive my desire for love? What is it about being alone that I'm afraid of?
After indulging in countlees chocolate bunnies and eggs, I find my replacement for men. As I bite into a raspberry truffle, I think back to the taxi drive I had this morning on the way to work.
"Oh you have such stunning eyes and so smiley and cheerful," the Chinese driver says to me in the rear-view mirror.
"Well it's better than frowning," I say with my American sarcasm.
"Oh and you have red hair...(yes there are more than one Captain Obvious out here) You must be crazy, ya?"
"Yup I am crazy, " I say as I smile and sing along to, "Walking on Sunshine," on the radio. He turns the volume up full blast and enjoys watching me dance like a 5 year old in the backseat.
"You have husband? "
"Goodness no."
"Boyfriend?"
I tell him my rant on dating in Singapore.
"I can be your boyfriend. I pick you up in my taxi and take you to work. And pick up when you done and I take you to club. See I have muscles, I am strong man." He flexes for me. Impressive actually, for a forearm. I laugh off his comments and stare out the window eying an expat in a red car next to us. Typical white man in Asia, receding hairline, dark circles under the eyes, and pale patchy skin from computer gamma rays. I become silent and "Walking on Sunshine," fades.
Then the driver starts to moan, "Ohhhhh so much pain...I work from 6AM to 11PM I need massage...right here." He leans to the side and points to his left shoulder blade. "Massage it."
"What?"
"Punch it."
"Excuse me?"
"Punch! Pow, my back please."
"I'm sorry, I have to save my energy for work."
"Punch it!"
"Ok!" I give two light punches and refrain from talking to my new boyfriend.
Well kiddies, no matter what race you are, attitude is what makes you attractive. So although I feel alone, I smile, just in case someone might smile back. And who knows, you might even get to punch them...
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