Singapore Day Two: Infinity Pools, Decadent Capitalism, Malay Food, and Drunk Chinese People

I woke up with achey feet. No surprise there. I was one of the first up - my tendency to arise at 7:00 AM is a bit uncommon among my age group - and made an attempt to tip-toe quietly out. Of course, I failed. I am not so good at the whole quiet thing. (Friendly people who lived below me in New Orleans asked one day, out of genuine curiosity, what was making all the thumping sounds up there, did I have a really tall gentleman friend or something? I had to reply that, no, yeah, it was just me, making all the thumping sounds, you know, flat footed walker. Will try to work on it. I went out and got a really tall gentleman friend two days later. Then they stopped talking to me.)



I made tracks for the Suntec center for breakfast. Boil n' go noodles with fish balls and vegetables, you are my Perfect Breakfast. I had the whole thing down, now. I want one of these outlets in my kitchen.

In lieu of any cultural learning experiences (enh), I had intended to visit a Chinese food court that Chowhound had whole-heartedly suggested located in the heart of Chinatown. This involved an extremely long trek through the Financial District. The Singapore Financial District is, however, nothing if not one of the more profound paeans to the power of capitalism I have ever wondered through. Money is in the air, on the street, and on the faces of everyone passing by, everyone's in a power suit or Power Heels, everyone is out to kick some ass and destroy the universe in the process.

I can't say this is a critique of such. Singapore and its people have busted their asses in the past fifty years to transform their city from a seedy little fishing island into one of the planet's biggest profit centers, and they have managed to do it all in a surprisingly pleasant fashion. I cut through the crowds like a fish among sharks (aching feet) but have at least a sense that with the proper acumen and effort, I could join their ranks, if I wanted. (I lack acumen and effort, but, well). It was overcast and a bit sticky outside, like most days in Singapore: I did not want to give in and take the subway but it looked more and more appealing. I went over the same escalator at least four or five times in the same shopping center - this is like passing the same date palm over and over in the sahara, I guess.


The Fullerton Hotel. Have some colonial decadence.

I looked up at one point and saw what appeared to be a sparkly patch on one of the buildings: squinted, deduced it was a pool, a clear one, sort of like a fish tank on the side of a huge building. I had to check this out: I walked into the building. It was a private residential apartment, but I decided to walk forcefully to the lifts, and was not stopped. A man swiped his card and looked at me: "You going up?" I nodded.

I pressed the button for the highest floor. Success: The Pool. And it was, no lie, a pool, a mid-sized one that sloshed inordinately and was clear like a fish tank, according an impressive view of the city below. An Israeli looking guy in a speedo was getting out: he looked at me curiously, and I looked back. Time to leave. I fell in behind an Indian real-estate lady showing the place to a Chinese guy dressed like a middle aged hipster, which he was. "But this place is too old," he whined to her, as we got into the lift.

I finally made it to Chinatown, and found myself wandering down endless corriders of the same Chinese shopping center, which was full of knock-off shoe emporiums and places to buy medicinal antelope horn. It was definitely Beijing deja-vu: the scent of dried ginseng and ungents in the air, five spice somewhere or another, someone cooking something in grease and chili sauce, a lot of poorly-articulated shouting from down the hall. My feet hurt more. The cats down here: also missing their tails.

The food court failed to materialize and I ended up breaking down and eating at a Vietnamese place. Vietnamese food, for me, is the equivalent of total breakdown, total security, like giving up and going to McDonalds. Northern California, in case you were not aware, is at least a quarter fueled by pho and spring rolls and bun bowls. I reasoned that I was unlikely to get anything approximating a salad in India (truth) and sat down. Sadly, disappointing: overpriced, mediocre, and tiny portions. You win some, etc etc. Sitting next to Americans. It's strange how I am filled with a powerful urge to Befriend and Assist fellow Americans I meet overseas, and the same goes for Brits and Canadians. We share the same language, the same cultural norms, and the same base origins: we should probably stick up for one another. I managed to avoid starting a conversation, and shoved off.

I went back to the hostel and struck up a conversation with the front-porch crowd, whose makeup had not altered signifgantly from the day before. One guy, Fernando, was in the US Navy and was heading home that night, and was efficiently befriending everyone before he got back on the ship. "I don't want to leave," he kept on repeating, "man, you guys are the best." (How many times have we all said those words, in various incidences and in various groups of people? Sometimes I think that is half of why I travel: I travel so I can put it in context. That someday perhaps I will authentically say You Guys are the Best Ever.)

Fernando got us all posed in photographs, and I went along. I always find it very weird to be asked to be in the photos of people I have just met five minutes before. I imagine them getting home, going through their photos on their computer or whatever, and looking at me and going, "Now who the fuck was that, again? Was I drunk when I took that?" This is one of the many reasons I usually beg off photos of myself: I like to explain that I am in fact a Bedouin desert animist, and am convinced that photos will leach away my soul. That shuts people right up.

I made friends with a couple of Germans. Befriending Germans is almost always a rainy day solution in foreign countries. Any place you go to, any obscure region you reach or outback town you stumble across, there will be a German there, and he or she will be wearing functional flip-flops and a fanny pack and a sunburn. They will be incredibly friendly and will speak embarrassingly perfect English. How these people went from Nazis to hippies in two generations, give or take, is one of the wonders of modern sociology. We made plans to meet up and go do something or another, after dinner.



I decided to hunt down another Malay rice plate, and headed for a place fairly close to the one from the night before, out a bit past Little India. The night was beautifully lit and there were people in white robes and skull-caps everywhere: waiting out the sun light, waiting until it was time to eat and drink. I made for Minang on Kandahar Street and was not disappointed. I love the system. A big smorgasboard of food: they lump a plate with rice, you point to what looks good (with verbal commentary by your server), none of it costs a damn thing relative to the USA. I pretty much pointed at everything. "Okaayy, enough!" the server said, eventually. I paid up and sat outside. I couldn't figure out what the immense meat knuckle like things on the tables around me were. Next time.


All sorts of sambal ridden veg. Squeaky green beans with coconut and some sort of dried seafood. Chicken breast braised with chili oil and soy. That's not all.



The fish in black soy sauce was divine. It's a stinky ass fish - some sort of mackerel - but I happen to love my stinky ass little fish with lots of little bones. I dismembered it and stared back at the locals staring at me doing the dismembering, everyone in a good mood.The street beside me was lined with folks selling special Ramadan foods out of stalls - parathas and dates and onion cakes and falooda and god knows what else - and conducting raffles animatedly and loudly from microphones. I walked back past what seemed to be Singapore's largest dried seafood emporium, and the smell was like a solid and unyielding object, emanating from bin after bin of dried shrimps (all sizes) and fish and scallops and squid bits. But at least it is a smell of something I like.



We decided to visit the immense and all-consuming Marina Bay Sands Casino. The Sands dominates the Singapore skyline and is so funny looking that it is impossible not to pause and stare at, at least a few times a day. It is composed of three immense towers and it is crowned with a goddamn cruise ship. It cost 8 billion to build, which is doubtless more then the GDP of many shithole countries, and it was built by the Las Vegas based Sands group, in case you're curious about the effects of globalism at its finest. There is a 2,560 room hotel, a gigantic infinity pool (which costs 100 bucks to swim in), a giant casino, a convention center, art and science museums, celebrity chef restaurants all sorts, and every kind of boutique and designer retail outlet known to modern man.

The beast is curiously hard to get to by subway: you have to walk about a quarter of a mile over some of Singapore's grodier sidewalks before you hit it. I'm presuming they are feverishly building a subway stop out here. How could they not? It was only opened in June 2010: sucker is brand new. You approach it for seemingly miles before you actually reach the entrance. Going inside is also striking: there's a gigantic articulated metal structure above, the ceiling goes for miles, there are thousands of people in nice outfits milling around and looking overawed, and there are ambiently lighted and superlatively expensive things everywhere. We had originally tried to enter via the casino, but were stopped by the eminently polite guy-in-a-suit up front. "I am sorry, sir, but no sandals for men, he said, pointing to one of the Germans, who was wearing regulation flip flops.

"What if we switch?" he asked, pointing at my size five-and-a-half sparkly sandals.

"I don't think that's going to work, physics wise, but we can try," I said. We didn't actually make the experiment. We went around the casino.


Somehow I doubt most pool patrons are this attractive.

We had intended to go up to the Sky Park and look at the pool. Everyone goes and just looks at this incredibly large and majestic infinity pool, apparently, since swimming in it costs 100 dollars for non-guests, and that seems a bit decadent for the privilege of splashing around some with a nice view. As one of my companions observed, "Isn't that kind of weird? Going for a swim, and having all these tourists standing around and looking interestedly at you. It must be quite awkward." (Am imagining dimply high rollers in their Lycra dipping their feet in the pool, feeling self conscious and horrible about themselves for the first time in a few years. Am amused).

Unfortunately, there had been a spot of rain in Singapore so the Sky Park was closed to the public. The elevators were carefully guarded by friendly people in suits, and we were skunked - the guys were not brave enough to attempt my usual strategy of pretending to be part of a group and ambling nonchalantly into the elevator with them (their loss). So we purchased a surprisingly reasonably priced cookie from the sparkly bakery on the first floor, and went back outside to the dock. There was an Indonesian rock band playing a concert at the huge auditorium nearby, and it was being projected onto a Jumbotron nearby at ear-splitting volume levels. The band was awful, comically so: a big sweaty guy in sunglasses rapping poorly poorly written lyrics about poorly articulated love affairs, and a big sweaty lady doing approximately the same. The guitarist at least was passable. "Ah, let's sit and enjoy," one of the guys said, so we did, though enjoy was not the word I would have used for it. Maybe "endured" or "survived." Someone need to airlift some soul into the Indonesian nu-metal scene. Get the NGO's on it.

We ended up back in Chinatown to get a late-night snack. To my shock and horror, the Chinatown food stands were almost all shut by 11:30 PM. What kind of half assed Chinese food shillers are these? They NEVER stopped selling food in Beijing last time I was there, city was an eternal smorgasbord, dumpling at 3:30 AM from various convenient locales on the street and otherwise, never a drunk and hungry specimen. What gives, Singapore? The Germans got noodles and I got a Coke from an obviously drunk lady. I sat back down, opened it. "They're all drunk, at this time of night," one of the guys said. Little clusters of people sat around the wreckage of their food, with whiskey and wine bottles slowly floating to the surface of ice-buckets: people were slapping each other on the back and horse-laughing and lying face down and delighted looking on the table.

"You know, you're right," I said.
One of the boys went up to get a drink, came back with a morbidly uncomfortable expression.
"I bought a drink from that lady over there," he said, the same one I had. "She touches my mouth, she says, "Ah, you have a spot there!" And then she says, "I only touch my boyfriend like that. But he say, he only like to look at my pussy." Then I got away."

The woman waved cheerily at us when we all looked in her direction.

"Bless Singapore," I said. An animated discussion about German and American sex tourists followed. I will learn all about that in Cambodia, I bet!

We went back to the hostel, and I headed to bed. More thumping and rummaging, more Bollywood music from next door. I hope that my thumping and rummaging was somehow drowned out by the Bollywood music for my room-mates but I doubt it. At least none of them smothered me in my sleep.

Singapore Day One: Chili Crab, Malay Food, Too Much Walking, Hostel Culture

When I go to a new place I walk, and I walk with serious commitment. Walking is, I think, the best way to quickly and viscerally get a sense of a new location: you figure out where things are, you learn how to cross the street, you cross through neighborhoods, buroughs, and districts, you begin to become an inhabitant. I feel quite a bit of this is lost when you take public transportation (metros, buses) instead - there isn't the physical connection, there isn't the sense of Point A to Point B. This is a convoluted way of saying I walked my ass off in Singapore.

I got into the expectedly sparkly-clean airport at around 6:00 in the morning, and went through the equally painless customs area. Hopped into a cab and was conveyed to my hostel in Little India quickly and easily. I had a long discussion with the cabbie about everyone's favorite topic, food. We got into the standard good-natured pissing match dance of weird things we eat, and he finally ceded defeat when I mentioned that I adore kimchi and that my dad makes excellent chili crabs. "Goodness, you're too Asian for me," he said, in a low whistle. I suppose that is flattering.

The hostel was clean enough and decorated in that hippie-chic way of hostels everywhere. "It's too early for check-in, but you're welcome to crash here," the attendant said, gesturing to a stand of bean-bags. I took his advice. I crashed.

I woke up about two hours later to an entry-way full of backpackers, most of them spreading butter on toast and ambling around bleary-eyed and hang overed. The hostel offered free internet services, which I availed msyelf of, doing some quick and dirty research on good stuff to eat and things to do. I had, incredibly, failed to do this before-hand in Australia. Maybe I got distracted in Kalbarri.



I finally got myself in order and jumped onto the street. Little India, I was chuffed to discover, really is Little India. It's like a chunk of Bangalore transmuted into Singapore, down to Bollywood dance-clubs, Ramadan celebrating mosques, guys with a habit of staring too much and chai wallahs dispensing idlis, appams, and dosai to hordes of guys wearing linen clothing and chappals. I grabbed a little plastic cup of masala tea (in classic Indian style) and proceeded to point myself in the general direction of the water. It was a bit far, but I knew that. The Raffles was conveniently located along the way.


I took a lot of photos of the Raffles. This is due to a lifelong and indisputably bourgeios love of ultra fancy hotels. I'm going to hell. An ancedote: I walked through one of Singapore's countless high brow hotels - maybe it was the Conrad - and found myself missing my parents a lot. I could not initially figure this out, until I realized that I had spent all our family vacations in fancy international chain hotels with concierge desks and tasteful but decadent decorations and fountains that were just shy of tacky and so on and so forth. This may be indicative of a deep internal sickness or simply part and parcel of how I live and how my family lives (for a couple generations, now). We have conducted our largely very happy lives in international hotels with concierge desks and bellhops in stupid outfits. Chocolate on the pillow (if you're lucky) and the Concierge Floor for our Very Special Guests. I like staying in hostels or homestays but sometimes I just want sterile and vast efficiency (unironically).

And the Raffles is colonialism personified, encapsulated, even. It was built in a style meant to approximate some sort of paradise-like Balinese rest house and it achieves its goal quite brilliantly. It's a very open air hotel with a lot of catwalks and courtyards and hidden fountains, and staff everywhere padding around and trying to look inobtrusive. The doormen are, naturally, large and scary looking Sikh's. How did the Sikh's get a monopoly on body guard and door man status all across Asia, again? I considered coming back later in the evening so that I might write and try to look degenerate and strung out, but decided it was in fact not worth paying 20 bucks for a Singapore Sling for the privelege. I fucking hope you get to keep the glass!



The Youth Olympics were going on in Singapore, and the city was appropiately kitted out with giant movie-screens, sports paraphenlia, and cartoons of adorable mascots to celebrate. It looks to me like all this kerfuffle over the youth Olympics is Singapore's way of making a play for the real Olympics - which, judging by this go-round, they'd do a bang up job of.


These mascots are kinda emotionally distressing.

Certainly there were endless crowds of school kids en route to the events (and probably to compete), and a lot of grown up representatives of the teams stalking the streets and looking lost. I had never run across a pack of dramatically hirsute Azer-Baijani guys in track suits before, but this would be my first oppurtunity.



I stopped in at the enormous Suntec Convention Center - which was hosting quite a few of the youth olympic events - and found myself in the middle of an incredibly delightful food court. You can imagine my delight when I found I could get noodle soup with fish balls and lots of green vegetables for breakfast here. You pick out your items from baskets and then they boil it all for you in incredibly hot water right before your eyes, whang it in a bowl with some dipping sauce, and off you go. Delicious.


The mysterious Fish Spa.

Singapore, much like Hong Kong, is actually a gigantic and interconnected mall. I figured this out soon enough, primarily because it's by far the easiest and coolest way to get where you want to go on foot. I managed to make it to the Esplanade, and came out within sight of the harbor and the iconic Mer Lion statue. It's a hell of a sight.

I made tracks for the Asian Civilizations Museum, which I had heard was fantastic. This was entirely the truth.



I adored these pop-art cartoons of famous Asian "heroes". This is Mouse Deer (an Indonesian favorite), Hanuman, and I believe Vishnu. Don't quote me, though. The exhibit was obviously pitched for kids but I enjoyed it entirely too much.

I spent the most time in the Southeast Asia gallery, primarily because I don't know much at all about the art of the region and would rather like to learn. I know exactly jack about Indonesia and Malaysia and was happy to have the museum step in to help. There was plenty of Khmer art on offer which was even better. I need to make myself an expert on Cambodian art, oh, you know, yesterday.


Contemplative Hindu guy. Con Cobra. Apparently multiples cobras are a popular vehicle for Vishnu when vehicles are displayed.


The Javanese are extremely attached to their keris knives, which are ascribed with an almost spiritual import. Have a sign.


A sign. As important as wives/flutes/et all. You know.


Indonesian throne for royals. Absolutely gorgeous.


Some more ritual knives. I find these a bit appealing.



The Makara, a mythological Hindu creature. This particular wooden statue was just awesome. I want twelve in my backyard.



This lion, created out of Islamic calligraphy, was particularly striking. Probably signifies Ali, who was, after all, known as the Lion of God.


Have a sign.


A lovely embroidered Chinese coat.


As explained.


I guess I failed Filial Piety.


Fantastic Chinese scroll painting, by....


One Zhang Guolao and Lan Caihe. You know.


I believe this is a Sumatran statue. I was shushed by the guard after taking the photo. Apparently it is okay in some rooms and not others. Okay.


Knives of the Deccan plateau. There may be a knife theme here.


They shall be explained.


A vehicle of Garuda, trotted out for major religious festivals. I don't know how I've managed to miss these throughout my entire time in India. It's a little embarrassing.


And a vehicle of a lion.


Tamil Nadu? They love this bidness.


Doomed aquarium fish.

Lunch was Singapore Chili Crab. Anyone who knows me and my proclivities may guess at my thing for Singapore chili crab. My father makes a fantastic version. I went off a Chowhound tip off and selected Palm Beach seafood, which happened to be located conveniently closely to the Fullerton Hotel, the Asian Civilizations Museum, and the Mer Lion (always covered in hordes of eager looking Japanese tourists). The restaurant was typical Chinese seafood joint "chic", with gigantic aquariums as the focal point of pretty much everything. I was seated next to a businessman, who delicately and systematically took apart a lobster. Not me. Oh, no, not me. I don't know why they use white table clothes in these places, you know? Seems like a bad idea. Bad idea when I'm in evidence anyway. I commune with crab, I get close to it, I get up in it's shit (as the saying goes). This is a tactile, semi-erotic, embarassing-when-viewed-in-public but oh so good experience for me. Poor businessman at the next table, having to witness the horror.


They give you a lovely appetizer of dried fish with sweet chili sauce pre-crab, which I deeply appreciated. i love dried fish.



I had spicy morning glory, which came out first. Excellent. Some sort of dried fish material in here. I am always down for dried fish. Hooray!



I took photographs of this crab with pretty much the same ambition and passion as a porn photographer. Can't say I'm embarrassed. Look at this beast. Just look at it. Good lord. It's like an erotic dream I've had, the sort of dream you carry with you throughout the day and that sort of enraptures you but is way too embarrassing to share with anyone. You get my drift? Or, you know, there is the alternate possibility that most people do not in fact have erotic dreams about crabs doused in chili sauce and in fact I am alone in the world, which is a sad and tragic thought. Well, look at this fucker. Just look at it. Didn't cost TOO much as these things go, either. The memories last forever. Forever.



Good lord, I took a lot of photos of this crab. The waitstaff obviously thought I was insane. Such is the lot of a food blogger.

So, the Merlion. Symbol of Singapore. It's quite new, actually - thought up by the tourism board in 1966 and conceptualized soon afterwards. The fish body represents the city's origins as a humble fishing port, and the head represents the city's original name of "Singapura" - city of the lion. (Apparently the city's Malay founder had an encounter with a funny-looking lion on the island and named it as such). There are five Merlion statues in the city - only five official ones - and the tourism board carefully controls how the image is used. The primary statue originally was placed at the mouth of the Singapore river, but was moved to its current Official Viewing Platform near the Fullerton Hotel in 2002. It is now crawling with Japanese tourists. Getting a picture of it is difficult.



I walked back past the modern art museum, but couldn't summon up the energy to go inside. I did take pictures of this fantastic Ming Wong sign.....\


And these emotionally distressing statues.

So there's this thing called hostel culture, or at least I call it that. I am often gripped by flights of superiority and other repellant personality traits: I do not like or approve of hostel culture, and herein I will explain why. Hostel Culture seems to revolve around a bunch of people from the same (or pretty much country) who speak (pretty much) the same language and look (pretty much) the same, sitting around the hostel and getting sloshed together and feeling they have had a profound cultural experience. Look, it's fun to get drunk with new people, god knows I'm the last person to deny that, but it's the insular, lurking nature of Hostel People that pisses me off.

Why bother traveling to an exotic city if you're going to spend the entire vacation in the general vicinity of the hostel or on the front porch of said hostel, drinking can after can of cheap beer and discussing one's own country in great detail? What's the damn point? Not to mention that such a situation inevitably leads to quick-onset and vicious drama - someone hooks up with someone, someone accuses another someone of stealing someone's stuff out of their bunk or whatever, someone flips out and wants to go home but can't, and on and on and on. Staying at hostels is fine, there's no harm in that, meeting people at hostels is fine, but dear God get out of Dodge and check out the city instead of hanging out out front. I have succumbed to this same impulse before and now I try to avoid it. It is not inevitable. I like to think this is the truth.

I chatted with a few folks in the interest of solidarity, figured out (per usual) that no one was interested in going to eat weird-ass food with me, and shoved off in the direction of supper. Which was conveniently nearby. The mosque was beginning to fill up with worshippers, and rice and dates were beginning to be dispensed out of enormous and steaming vats to the faithful. All the cats in this neighborhood are missing bits of their tails. The men walk by a little too closely, just like in India, and just like in India I put up mental angler-fish spines and they mostly leave me alone. I like to think I am clever and fierce and urbane. This is also probably a fallacy.



Chowhound commanded that I sample some Malay Muslim food, and not being one to deny the hive mind, I made tracks for such. Hjh Maimunah was located quite close to Little India in what appeared to be the Muslim sector of town, and it was rocking after midnight. Ramadan was in full swing and packs of families were chowing down after a long day's fast.



The second discovery I made was that Malay Muslim food is 1. delicious, 2. cheap and 3. plentiful. A rice plate loaded with stuff cost about seven Singapore dollars and was enough to feed at least two of me. I picked out fish in black soy sauce, tripe cooked with coconut milk, sambal greens, dried stir-fried fish (one of my favorites of all time) and some sweet chili sauce on top. Scrumptious.

I committed a horrible sin and began eating with my left hand (suppose to be used for toilet functions, icky as fuck to use for food, you know the rest, but i am left handed, so, you know, it's a dilemma) , but a nice little lady next to me tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at my right hand. Whoops. Thankfully this was all in good fun and we made friends in a sort of broken English way immediately afterwards. A normal looking British guy walked in a few minutes later with a hijabed and ultra traditional looking Malay woman. His wife? What's the story there?

After dinner, I decided to make for the Esplanade and the bay to see what it looked like all lit up at night. This, as always, entailed more walking. I've never felt quite as safe in a darkened and immense city at night as I did in Singapore. It's one of the many benefits of the whole "benevolent dictatorship" thing. I hate to say it, but, well, truth. I ran into the Nigerian team en route, who were attempting to find a place to hail a cab so they could get back to the Olympic Village. I took them under my wing and guided them to the Raffles taxi stand.

Well, I did one good deed that day.

I ended up walking under the hyperactively modernist opera house to get to the Esplanade, finding myself semi-lost in a warren of Mall Mall Mall. I walked by a pack of teenage boys, who watched me coming with big glittery eyes for a moment. "Hello there!" one boy said in a shy voice, and I said something approximating "Good evening" to him in passing since I was intent on my goal. I heard him say behind my back, triumphantly, "See, I talked to her!" to his friends.


I finally got back to the hostel - feet hurting like hell, but happy - and set up my laptop. I began chatting with the professorial looking guy next to me. Turns out he was indeed a professor of anthropology at (of course) Sacramento State University. Lived in Midtown. He was in the city doing research on Wallace - you may know him as Darwin's arch rival - who did a large amount of work in Indonesia (mostly Borneo) and deposited some documents on his evolutionary study and the city's origin in the local archives. A Tamil Indian gent joined the discussion, and we spent the next two hours merrily discussing the fabric of the universe, showing each other pictures of stromatolites and Indonesian and Tamil art, and arguing about the cultural and actual status of women in India, Indonesia, and the USA. I am a hobby evolutionary biologist (what a thing to be) and derived extreme pleasure from talking to someone who actually was one. This would be the upside of hostels.

I then retired to my bunk upstairs at around 2:00 AM. I discovered to my displeasure that the Bollywood club next door did not, in fact, close at 11:30 like nice Bangalore clubs but instead kept rocking all night long. Thankfully, ear plugs and a stuffed whale shark clamped over my face blocked out the noise. I dropped off.

Downtown Perth, The Horrors of Northbridge, King's Park (Again) and Some Bizarre Art

Decided to spend the day in the city of Perth proper, maybe have a look at the Art Museum. Perth, like most non-American cities, has an efficient, clean, and speedy train system that the locals bitch endlessly about. Perthians, for God's sake, can it. Try living in New Orleans, okay? We have a bus system that takes you nowhere you need to go and is populated primarily by people who reek of SoCo and emotional despair. The street-car is even worse. (I myself have been One of Those People nodding off and drooling on the shoulder of innocent bystanders I don't even know. Not to claim that I am morally superior. I miss you so, New Orleans). The point is, Perth's public transportation is superb and they should really appreciate it and be grateful that their odds of getting shanked or barfed on when using it are slim to none.

So we took it into town and headed to the Art Museum, which is both extensive, attractive, and free. Well, you're supposed to make a donation. If you feel like it. Such optimism.

The special display featured Australian artist Patricia Piccinni, who has made the internet rounds quite extensively with her profoundly disturbing human-like animal works in just about every possible media. Her resin based figures are incredibly realistic and seem plausible enough in reality: sort of the thing one very well might imagine in a fever dream on the New Orleans RTA system. Yeeps. She's fascinated by the relationship between human and animal and mother and child, and takes great delight in conflating the two: think lots of fleshy things with meticulously attached fur, a curious attraction to the marsupial and the milk-scented and sort of icky. But sweet, in a horror-show kind of way. It's fascinating stuff. I wouldn't want it in my home.



Well, except for The Stags. This is fantastic. She made these out of resin then painted them. I believe she somehow convinced an Italian car-leather company to specially produce stuff for her art.


Piccini has an affinity for savage and plausible creatures that would dearly love to devour your face. Exhibit One.


Exhibit two. This statue is life-size and is placed in the middle of the room, so you have the experience of walking into a room full of 1800's vases and pretty landscape paintings of rocks and find this thing right up in there. The sign indicated that the creature has decided to latch onto its caretakers face in an expression of misguided and desperate - indeed, uh, suffocating - affection. Me? Nightmare. I hate baby things - human, animal, whatever - and they unnerve me to no end, especially when they leap and hug your face so you can't breathe.Piccinni has an amazing ability to completely and utterly squick me out. She needs to make horror movies.


DON'T DO IT KID DON'T DO IT


OH GOD DON'T LOOK INTO ITS....eyes...eye? Dendrites? Gums? oh my god it's going to latch onto my toes that dangle over the edge of the bed unsocked and it is going to hang there all night long and i am going to awaken and know exactly what it is that is hanging onto my toes and then i will evaporate into pure fear

I have no idea what to make of this at all. Ask me later.

After that, I needed restorative calories. I always need restorative calories. As my aunt observed, "We are all held hostage to your stomach." I have no witty retort. If it is any consolation no one is held more hostage to my stomach then myself.

For lunch, we "toddled over" (christ I can't get used to that I just can't) to Tasik Indonesian in Northbridge. My aunt used to work over in this section of town, and had eyed this place with some curiosity for a while. However, she couldn't cajole her Australian coworkers into eating there (for shame!) and enlisted me. The restaurant is set in a converted and colorfully painted house, and is very pleasant place to eat.



My aunt had the rendang daging lunch special. Rendang is a fantastic braised beef curry with coconut and plenty of chili, and this was a good one - good smoky chili flavor, fall apart meat and plenty of it. For Perth, Land of Crazy Expensive Food, the special was a good deal. Something around 10 AUD.



I had the chicken Soto Ayam and the Capcay Goreng, Indonesian style sauteed vegetables. Soto Ayam is traditional Indonesian chicken soup and is delicious stuff. Sort of like traditional American chicken noodle soup but with actual flavor. I've made it before - you boil a chicken then pick off the meat and use the stock for a broth, along with other spices. Then you toss in some noodles and some veg and some chili and devour. Totally delicious stuff.


Capcay Goreng - sauteed vegetables with ginger and garlic. Not a culinary revelation by any means but awfully pleasing when you just want some damned greenery.

Speaking of Northbridge. Northbridge is reputed to be the sin and horror capital of Perth. There are bikie (bicycle/motorcycle) gangs, prostitutes and topless dancers, random errant kidlings and worst of all backpackers wandering around, just waiting for an innocent suburban soul to glass. Glassing, in case you were not familar, is the Australian battle tactic of whacking someone about the face with a broken bottle until they shut up, go away, or (occasionally) die of blood loss. Not superlatively pleasant, but also not particularly likely to happen to you unless you're in the habit of insulting the virile manhood of big ugly guys named Brucie at 3:00 in the morning. The Northbridge I saw was no more seedy then the rest of clean and pleasant Perth, other then a noticeable increase in the number of signs with foreign languages on them. There were also people with tattoos and piercings hanging outside backpackers hostels (the kind of people I will be associating with, rightly or wrongly, for the next god-knows-how-long.) Basically, I failed to be shocked and reviled by the urban grit. I imagine Perth does have its "feral" (as a Aussie friend put it) areas but I do not think that Northbridge is likely to be the site of your violent and unprovoked murder.

The Perth newspaper had a shock tactics type column on WEAPONS SEIZED BY THE LOCAL POLICE. These included such nightmarish horrors as: brass knuckles, smallish cooking knives, and a big stick with some nails stuck in it. OH GOD HIDE THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN AN ORGY OF VIOLENCE AND HORROR AWAITS US. I remember playing with all these things on a fairly regular basis as a ten year old in the woods. I am not, insofar as I am aware, a violent felon.

Anyway.


Lyn decided to head home, so I went back to King's Park. This involved a fairly plesant jaunt up Hay Street, until I reached the entrance. I headed up Fraser Avenue, which is planted with lemon-scented gums. The trees were "officially" planted in 1929 as evidenced by the plaques set up by local stand-outs in front of each, but turns out the original trees were red-flowering gums. These trees promptly up and died, and were replaced in 1938 by lemon-scented gums, which have grown large and majestic in the ensuing years.


A banyan tree of considerable size. I like banyan trees. Nothing else to say at this time. Check back soon.


More paper daisies. Look, they're pretty. And papery. Quite strikingly so.


I walked past the bridge, which I seem chronically unable to tire of, then headed down the path into the extensive preserved bush area. There was no one around and I had it to myself: it was nice to look at the native plants. Plenty of evidence of the fire that raged through here a couple years ago. Australia, like California, is subject to an inordinate number of bush fires.


Some lovely hanging purple flowers on the trail.


The view of downtown Perth from the park is not unlovely.



Aaaannndddd pan right.


My aunt lives in this blue tower, near the Canning bridge. That's the Swan River out front. As you can guess, it is not an unappealing place in which to reside.

I took a nap in the park and headed back via the still-pleasant train. Everyone in downtown Perth wears black. My blue coat drew stares (and compliments). Do not know why this is. Sociological experts? Anyone?


For dinner, I made gingersnap porkchops with beet greens and sauteed sauerkraut. This was an attempt to make maximum use of our new found and delicious bacon, and was not unsuccessful. Everyone done loves a porkchop.