Let's go to the zoo!

Smiling monkeys are not friendly monkeys

I had some friends over visiting, and one of the touristy things that they mentioned they would like to do was a trip to the Singapore Zoo, which is famous world over.

As it was a weekday afternoon, there were very few people visiting, mainly traveling families, tour groups, and some Chinese tourists which proved more entertaining than the animals themselves. 

Overheard (in Mandarin):

Son: Daddy, what's that?
Dad: It's a lion!
Son: Daddy, can we eat lion?
Dad: No, we cannot eat lion.
Son: Daddy, can we eat giraffe?
Dad: No, we cannot eat giraffe.
Son: Daddy, can we eat tiger?
Dad: (pause) Well, we are not supposed to eat tiger anymore.

Also overheard in Mandarin at the crocodile enclosure:

Girl 1: Ooh, look at that HUGE crocodile! How many handbags would that make? 
Girl 2: Better to make shoes, more profit.

Overall, the visitors were well behaved, apart from a noisy group of Japanese teenagers, and an absolutely atrocious pair of German children whose parents had given up in the heat and looked decidedly miserable. 

Also, it's interesting to note the number of women who wear animal print in a trip to the zoo. [insert anthropological behaviour observation here].

On the despair of youth

There are so many things to write about in life, but somehow in the last 18 months life itself got in the way, and I left blogging to the verbose, and decided to try and convey experiences through the medium of 140 characters or less. 

Then, one evening, while drunkenly deciding to reorganise the study, I decided it was also time to weed through the boxes of stuff that I'd accumulated over the last 15 years. There were boxes of postcards, hoarded through drunken pub crawls in my youth. There were rolls of film and photographs back from the days when film still existed as a proper medium, and not some hipster reincarnation. Then, there was a jar of petrified wasabi, nicked from a night out with a friend during the kleptomaniac phase of (again, drunken) youth. During that same time, I'd also accumulated enough bulldog clips and other stationery cupboard paraphernalia to last me, and any new business, a lifetime and a half.

However, there was one box of memories that I hesitated on once the lid was lifted. Diaries of inane meeting notes, reams of coloured paper (also courtesy of the stationery cupboard), and a journal. This was, in hindsight, a pathetic attempt at a scrapbook. Stuck in it were receipts from travels, stubs from museums, and aspirational pencil sketches conveying the "artistic impressions" of my deluded self. This included a rendering of the Shanghai Pearl Tower, which looks like a skewer of meat balls, and an attempt of the Venus de Milo: if it was drawn by a 5 year old with no digits. Actually, a 5 year old with no digits would be better. My absolute shame remains the "freestyle" smudged sketch of Stonehenge which looks like it was built using twisty marshmallows and "artful" gothic script reminding myself of what it actually was meant to be. 

Note the pensive Snowman and "spirit" giving my younger self the side-eye. Also, I just realised that the dangly eye in the top right is actually supposed to be what Stonehenge would be like if the Chinese we're to hang talismans by it.

Said journal also contained a number of angst ridden entries, which reading through them made me cringe desperately. I want my current self to be able to tell my younger self that the future is much brighter than I had envisioned. I want to tell my younger self that frustration isn't exclusively mine to bear. I want to tell my younger self that my attempt at deep, meaningful poetry is best left to those who can actually write poetry. Most of all, I want to tell my younger self that love, once lost, will be found again. 

At this point, I could no longer shoulder the burden of all this angst anymore. I had to share it with someone. So, naturally I picked up the phone at 5 in the morning and dialed my best friend 12 timezones away on the other side of the world, knowing she'd be the one to understand all the emotions coursing through my veins at that moment (to be honest, it was because I knew she would be awake, and it was probably the whisky coursing through my veins, but that's beside the point).

She picked up, and I ranted. She, in turn, found some of her old journal entries, and together, we read them aloud to each other. We laughed, we sneered at our younger selves, then we made a promise to start blogging again. 

So, while I start combing through experiences to post anew, I leave you with my last entry in the journal. (Disclaimer: I am not responsible for you choking, gagging, or reacting in any way to the following paragraph)

"Dear XXX, sometimes it seems sensible to lay pen to paper and let flow all that is cooped up within. However, at these times things seem most unclear and I am in turmoil. From my work struggles to my relationships, nothing seems clear to be on their way to resolving themselves. [He] is unhappy, yet I cannot find the strength within me to champion what seems to him a lost cause. I am a jinx to those I love, and to those who are dear to me. Stem this flow of unhappiness, and unleash the positive vibes that exist there in the universe. Namaste."

Hasta la vista, Readers.

When life gives you sour plums...

There comes a time when even the most ardent wordsmith struggles with something to say. I seem to have hit that wall a while back, and although I am not an ardent wordsmith, I am certainly loquacious. So, I wonder why I am finding it so difficult to find a suitable topic to post about? 

The move to shores anew certainly sparks a number of new stories, but most of these have been wildly frustrating in navigating new systems, mindsets, and routines that while understood and taken for normal by locals, frankly baffles the hell out of me. I certainly do not want to relive the Saga of the Wood Effect Bookshelves, or the Tale of The Too Short Shoe Rack. 

Instead, the past few months have been spent away from the new place we call home. That has given us a new sense of appreciation of what we now see as an abode that we have put our mark to, and somewhere we can find solace in after a long day. It also helps that we have stocked up on duty free. 

Iceland is a place of outstanding beauty. Naturally, I got more excited with these amazing works of public art instead of the scenery. (Not pictured, the 2 headed goat)

This summer saw us gallivanting through parts of the UK, Iceland, and Canada. For the most part, it was a break to see new places, experience new things, and generally, kicking back and having a laugh. For me, mainly, it was a time to spend with friends afar, and that after 2 weeks and a bit of being together all the time, and not being totally sick of each other, bodes well for the friendship we talked about for years to come.

 This is Thkipper, Barbie's Galician cousin. This picture is also totally unrelated to the post, apart from the fact that it seemed a good idea that the Spanish themed dinner we planned suddenly went via Mexico.

My friend Hillary has written a much more succinct post on the incredible light that completely discombobulated us. Imagine after almost constant light, stepping off a plane to find yourself in the darkness that is called night. That struck a sense of awe in us, arriving in Halifax, after 4 hours on the flight where I mainly got overexcited with the meal plans we had ahead. In the end, time itself limited our voracious appetites, and while I went a bit mad at the markets and shops, the true thing of wonder was when both Hillary and I stepped into Canadian Tyre. 10 minutes later and our arms laden with various things, we suddenly remembered what we had actually gone in for.

There were lobsters to be dismembered and grilled. There were punnets of berries to be turned into jam, sorbet, pies, tarts and other things. There was meat to be charred on the barbeque. We did all that, and more. 

I may be digressing, but, I have come to the thing I wanted to write about, which mainly, is the experimentation with the various foods that we had. I bought some golden plums, which, when cooked, turned out to be even more tart than sucking on a lemon. A whole upside down tart had been baked, which was essentially inedible. Even after having sprinkled lots of sugar over it and whipped back in the oven to caramelise. So, instead of sending the whole thing to waste, we improvised and turned it into a golden plum and cardamom ice cream instead.

Here is the recipe:

Ingredients
1 inedibly sour Golden Plum Tart
1 handful of more sour Golden Plums
1 measure of sugar
1 portion of prepared custard for ice cream, infused with cardamom instead of cinnamon

Method

• Scrape off plums from the tart, put in pan with some uncooked plums (stones removed), add an amount of sugar to mask any tartness.
• Cut up the soggy tart base into small pieces, set aside.
• Prepare the ice cream base. Chill, and churn, adding the plum mess and soggy tart base.
• Eat with gusto. It really is more delicious that I have made it sound.

Can or not, lah?

Less than a fortnight fresh off the boat, OH and I have started to notice a number of things in Singapore, some of which are quite amusing, and some which, quite frankly, frustrates the hell out of one. The following are a few first observations:

-       Singapore has a love affair with plastic bags. Every shop, stall, outlet you go to, they seem to delight in double, nay, triple bagging for that 2oz bottle of soy sauce you just bought.  Everything else should be bagged individually. Having for years brought my own bags to the supermarket, the cashiers cannot process not putting things into plastic bags, to the point of them bagging up stuff to put into my canvas bag.

-       “I go check”. This is the stock response to almost everything. “Does this come in a different size?” ‘I go check.’; “Does your mother work here?” ‘I go check’; “Does my bum look big in this?” (giggle) ‘I go check’; “What’s your name?” (PANIC) ‘I go check’.

-       Substitutions in restaurants are unheard of, and can often lead to you and your waiter sobbing and rocking in the corner, both reduced to gibbering wrecks. You, over the simple incomprehension why you cannot have a salad substitution, and the waiter because the binary system does not allow for the“IF” command. Americans, go home right now.

-       Japanese/Korean culture. All the girls seem to want to look like Manga dolls, with pinched faces, large vacant eyes, and a permanent expression like they’ve sat on a cucumber. Also, if you are adverse to Hello Kitty, this is not the country for you.

-       Queuing for free stuff. Admittedly I have been guilty of this trait, queuing to find that I’m being given free tampons, or baby rusks. Here, however, I noticed a long snaking queue for free sugar samples. You might as well hand out free toothpicks for amusement.

So, there it is, the first installation of observations of life in a different country. We will return soon with more quirks, so, stay tuned!

On going to the food hall

HOMOSIMIAN WALKS INTO A STORE AND TAKES ESCALATOR DOWN TO FOOD HALL

BUNCH OF LOVELY GREEN LEAVES AT BOTTOM OF ESCALATOR, ORANGES, AND OTHER LOVELY STUFF

 HOMOSIMIAN (HS) THOUGHT BUBBLE: *LIGHTBULB MOMENT* I WOULD REALLY FANCY SOME SOUP FOR DINNER. HOW ABOUT THAT CHORIZO AND KALE SOUP THAT I'VE MADE A FEW TIMES? MAYBE I SHOULD SEE IF THEY HAVE CAVALO NERO!




HS: Do you have cavalo nero (sees dark leaved veg that could be cavalo nero at the back of the veg stand)

Woman1: What is cavalo nero?

HS: Its known as black cabbage. It looks like Savoy cabbage but has big, dark green leaves.

Woman2: That is not cabbage (pointing at dark leaves). That is spinach.

HS: No, I know that is spin-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks us celery)

HS: No, but-

W2: Spinach isn't cabbage. (points at spinach)

HS: I know, but th-

W1: Is this cavalo nero? (picks up artichoke)

HS: No, bu-

W2: You actually want broccolli rabe (points at broccolli rabe)

HS: Not really, its a type of g-

W1: cavalo nero? (thrusts asparagus at me)

HS: No! It's actua-

W2: You want thyme.

HS: Erm, no, bu-

W1: Here is cavalo nero! (gives me thyme)

HS: No! I don't want thyme, it looks like chard, but wrinkly, and dark....

W1: Here, cavalo nero! (thrusts chard at me)

HS: N-

W2: You want something green?

HS: Yes, but, I wa-

W1: Cavalo nero! (proffers spinach)



HS: That is spinach...

W2: Yes, we told you that is spinach. 

W1: H (holds up beets, hopefully) cavalo nero?

HS: No, no, no, I'll take the broccolli rabe instead, please.

W2 to W1: (in conspirational manner) I told you he wanted this but he didn't realise.

W1: Voilà, CAVALO NERO!! (hands me weighed bag of broccolli rabe).

HS: ... Thanks! (looks nonplussed)

Life is like...

... a box of chocolates. When its empty, its time to find a new box and start the gluttony afresh.



Zürich, being the unofficial capital of Switzerland, and the home-bound ambassador of chocolate, finds itself being that chocolate box. However, as said box is coming to the end, and someone must finish the orange ganache filled specimen, it will be a while before OH and I pick up a new box to start the process anew.

It is a difficult time to get through the humdrum slog of life, before we find ourselves in new climes. I am finding it particularly difficult to get through the next 12 months before we embark on a new journey, and trips out to set up shop in the new abode and imagining our new home is proving to be difficult in maintaining the daily equilibrium. There are days when I want to turn round and say: Fuck You All.

I will however, persevere. Instead, I am savouring every last morsel of the seasons. Asparagus has taken on a new dimension, nectarines, albeit from Chile, seem to be sweeter (after the antihistamines). The hunting season, although 6 months away, promises delicate and succulent flavours from every morsel that Mother Nature yields. At that time, I will be grasping hold to OH's hand, and promising him loyalty, devotion and half of my inheritance.

All that, and more, I promise. If, and only if, he allows me the frivolity of a Céilidh band for the Gay Gordons at some point during the celebrations.

Watch this space.

Its the most wonderful time...

And suddenly its that time of the year where everything is all wintery and the streets are crammed with people armed with bags and bags of presents as well as even more determination, pushing past others trying to reach for that last object that would complete the list for the year.

OH and I have taken a pretty relaxed approach to shopping for each other. Internet shopping has made things so much easier, and we can order in advance and have things delivered to the in-laws, all wrapped up so we don't even have to make much of an effort, apart from last weekend when we went shopping for Christmas baubles, and Secret Santa presents for a lunch we were hosting the next day.

The premise was simple: each person would buy 2 gifts of 10 francs each, then there would be a ballot, and then each corresponding number would be given to the person who held said number. Simple! Although, the reality went along the lines of something more like this:

"Draw lots, determine order of person, open a present, then either open another present but then you could 'steal' someone else's present. Said present can only be stolen a maximum of 3 times, and it can be stolen back, but not in the proceeding round. Next person can 'steal' the previous person's present, and the previous person would then have the option to open another present, or wait the next round to open 2."

For my part, I paid scant attention and just kept refilling my glass of wine, lamenting the 2 expensive baubles I suspect OH had broken deliberately because of the Swarovski crystals on them. For not paying attention, I ended up with a pen with a naked man, some magnets and some pretty cool ice shot glasses. OH ended up with some delicious chocolates which everyone finished before the game was over.

The aftermath of that Christmas lunch is still reliving itself through random discoveries of an empty glass here, a greasy tray there. Hopefully, when we go away, the fairy on the top of the tree will wave her wand and make it all disappear. Or, since we couldn't find a fairy, and all Swiss top of the tree ornaments look like minaret covers (ironically), another fairy will be certain to be doing it instead.

Merry Christmas you jolly lot.

Long overdue

Blogging, is dead, according to my secret online hero North Morgan, or more commonly known to those out there as London Preppy. Yet he continues, less for the growing following of those who 'come for the pictures, and stay for the words', but more because he wants to, and does it very well. He seems shy and retiring, but looks like he should be a model, and at the same age as myself, already has a book published, touted to be the next Catcher in the Rye.

He is one of those impossibly good looking people (in the sense of the gay asthete) who you wish you could meet, and dazzle them with your words of wisdom, or your (apparent) weariness in the world, coupled with anecdotes or throwaway comments (and have them adore you in return). Yet you realise that it is all an act, not just because you want someone else to find you interesting, but because you secretly hope to be interesting yourself.

In this case, myself.

Today I have come back from work after a weekend interlude in Venice with OH. It was nothing short of perfect: the scenic approach into Venice, the unstaged drop-off in front of lots of tourists at one of the busiest stops in Venice, the nonchalant strolling off the pier towards the hotel.

Together, OH and I had a wonderful weekend visiting the Biennale, catching exhibitions and dining out sumptuously. Good conversations were had, and laughs aplenty. However, at one point, amongst all the creativity and beauty and love, I felt a bit lost. I'd been carrying on towards my goal of success for such a long time, and now that I felt that I was almost there, I wondered if I'd actually lost focus on what I wanted to do ultimately. That, however, opened another can of worms, in no particular order:

1. Many moons ago I wanted to write, then the blog came along to indulge my fantasies. The vanity accompanying self publication, read by a few of your closest friends, and if perchance, someone else online, was euphoric. I'd sacrificed close friendship developed in the latter years of university with thinly concealed personas of my housemates, which led to some uncomfortable exchanges, especially the description of 'Medusa-like' hair. Words were had, the blog assumed a new form. It's had a few incarnations since, but nevertheless, its never really encapsulated what I really think or feel given those out there who do know me.

2. A restaurant has always been an interesting angle. Being, however, the control freak that I am, does not necessarily translate well. I want full control over front of house, and the dishes I create which, honestly, only my acquaintances know of and despite the exaltations, I am aware that taste is subjective. This leads to a memory of a situation where once I cooked paëlla for an ex, who declared it horrible and proceeded to make himself a ham sandwich. I threw the entire pot, including contents into the bin, and continue to regret throwing a thoroughly practical pot away. It was an indication in hindsight that the pot was a metaphor for the relationship, and that I should have jacked it in a long time ago.

3. I have in my apartment a number of black and white photos which I'd taken with an old manual camera, and developed myself. This was probably the earliest vanity project I'd ever embarked on, and to date has the most lasting presence. The grainy pictures staring back moodily, the subjects staring at me through non-focussing stares, the paper yellowing gently as a reminder of time. A friend once asked me why I'd stopped taking pictures. My reply was 'with a digital camera and photoshop, anyone can do it.'. This is the most defeatist statement to date but I still cannot get myself to combat the apathy surrounding it.

To rectify this dilemma, I have taken a quarter of a Xanax, which will provide me with vivid dreams, and no answer. I feel, however, that I will be lucid enough in the morning to focus on the pile of shite known as work to get me through the day, and the promise of more alcohol to get me through the rest of tomorrow night.

Rinse, and repeat.

Carnivale!

Every year, on the 11th of November, at 11:11 in the morning, the whole world comes to a standstill, and a two minute silence is observed in respect for those who lost their lives in the Second World War. The Swiss chose this moment to begin their Fastnacht celebrations, culminating in multiple parades and street parties to mark the beginning of Lent at the end of winter.

Normally a restrained and discreet people, these celebrations are an excuse to drink on the streets, greet everyone and dress up in gay colours and to get up to mischief, safe in the knowledge that you're hiding behind that macabre mask, intending to 'scare' the winter away.

Flies, Pomegranates and Peaks

This is where OH and I have just been:



I can't even begin to describe how amazing this place is. It is really something that has to be experienced personally. The ancient city itself is vast, and all hewn out of rock which is an absolute work of engineering genius. the surrounding cliffs and walls of the hills and mountains lend to an illusion that everything was covered in carvings, and then you catch sight of a worn out Corinthian pedestal, and some cornicing that fades into another worn piece of rock, then you're not quite sure again.

If you encounter gung-ho Yanks telling you where to go, don't follow their advice if you're not sure or not one for hair-raising adventures. OH and I thought it would be a good idea to go off the beaten track, and found ourselves scaling a set of stairs up to the top of a 12th century fortress, and the last time the stairs were used probably dated from then as well. After getting to the top and enjoying the sublime views, we panicked when all the probable paths down led to sheer drops off the cliff faces. Finally, after taking a Panoramic Pee (tm), we screwed on our adventurers heads and followed the ghost of other footprints, and finally found the way down via some sensible stairs.

This is another wonderful experience:



Stepping into the Dead Sea, the density forces your feet up from beneath you and all you can do is float on your front, or on your back. Lie back and enjoy the sensation of not having to exert yourself, and float with wild abandon. Mind the drift though, you may inadvertantly end up drifting over to Israel, and cause a diplomtic incident. As OH pointed out, if you get shot, the salinity would cause the wound to hurt like fuck.

The constant evaporation of water from the surface creates a wonderful haze that dampens sound all around you, as well as filters out harmful UVB rays. This means you tan without burning, which is fantastic. The mud from the seabed which you can slather on and washed off in the sea makes your skin as smooth as a baby's bottom.

The low season allows for a completely deserted experience, as no one else is around. We had 30 staff waiting on us at the Dead Sea resort. The one drawback are the multitudes of flies that are around during the day, but mysteriously disappear before sundown, so dining al fresco in the evening is thoroughly pleasant.

And for pomegranates? They are delicious with most things, especially baba ganoush and as a late night snack.

*wink*

The start of apathetic middle-aged spread...

As I'm sat at my desk, eating fried rice for lunch, suddenly I catch the irony of the image as I'm flipping through a Men's Health magazine. Ever since I hit 30, I've been resolute in getting back into shape. The only thing is that my willpower has yet to catch up with me.

After a 3 month gym binge earlier this year before attending my parents wedding, I was struck with the realisation that my metabolism is slowing down, and my 23 year old assistant sitting next to me does nothing to help my effort in portion control, as he wolfs down his body weight in pasta, sausages and anything that if I glanced at, would immediately pile itself onto my hips.

However, now, I have a new resolve to go: This morning while bending over to put on my shoes, I actually wheezed a little. This has been alarming, and the secret hypochondriac in me has suddenly popped up, with silent-film images of myself dying in fairly graphic detail in a myriad of ways related to gluttony while on my way into work on the tram: Death by foie gras. The anxiety must have shown on my face because my secretary kindly offered me some Xanax that she was taking for her pre-flight nerves.

Also, an added incentive to going to the gym from today onwards, is the thought of the upcoming trip to Jordan and the Dead Sea. I'm hoping that I won't be mistaken for a dugong with the paunch, and be harpooned.

Things I have discovered and are probably not related...

- Riding a tandem is easy if someone up front does all the work

- Salmon can leap really high, but when they hit obstacles it redefines the adjective 'stunned mullet'

- Vancouverites love their weed

- Salmon jerky is delicious

- Trails marked on maps are often 10 times shorter than you'd expect

- Giant redwoods are, well, giant

- Skants, however hideous, serve an occasional purpose

- Margaret Cho is on Dancing With The Stars, which would be an incentive to watch that programme

- When life gives you gin, have a party

- I have pretty fucking amazing friends

Next destination, eh?

Taking a break. Flying to Vancouver, but going via London and meeting OH at the check in counter. Apart from the small suitcase, I'm also carting a large bag full of stuff for my sisters that includes my body weight in chocolate, cheese and salami, eh?

Very much looking forward to the break, the food, and being 9 hours away timezone-wise which automatically means I won't be able to contribute much, work wise. But, I'm happy with that, eh?

In the meantime, you'll have to put up with the linguistic twitch, eh? Until I'm back via Brussels, then it would be all normal again, une fois?

Bi-wine curious

After almost a year of radio silence I am back once again. Somehow I
managed to lose focus on priorities in life and let myself be
overwhelmed by the career.

This, in itself, shouldn't have been the case given the constant promotion of the elusive work-life balance. However, in my defense, I was doing a 9 man job and at the end of the day was just too exhausted to even turn on the TV, let alone the laptop to type in a blog entry. Things have now improved, and instead of a 9-man job, I'm on a 4-man job and managing 5 others.

Managing people is somewhat akin to having internal arguments with your subconscious. Sometimes things well up and you want to shout, but you can't, so you take a step back and try to reason with your not-conscious. However, unlike with your subconscious, the worst case scenario you think of then proceeds to act itself out in front of your very eyes.

A recent trip to New York unearthed some absolute gems of overheard conversation, which really had to be heard in person to be believed:

Boy1: I really really like wine

Boy2: yeah, I really like a full bodied red.

Boy3: (hesitatingly) I like wine too, but if you really REALLY like wine, can you like both red and white?

Later...

Boy 2: whites are good, but I only like really dry whites. Like a good chardonnay. Not a riesling though, its not dry enough.

Later, after more fuckery in a similar vein, OH and I left following a conversation involving the new word 'superiocity'.

More to come, and by god its good to be back...

Square one

I have been on gardening leave over the last few weeks which is a novel feeling, not having to work. Given my cleaner returned to her home country, I am left without help, but given the time I have on had I decided to do a spring clean. However, unlike riding a bicycle, it doesn't all come back automatically.

On the first attempt at cleaning the bathroom, I squirted myself in the face with bleach.

I think I need a new cleaner.