tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25165264302703780132024-02-07T17:33:46.222-08:00Hicktown girl surviving in AsiaWhile I am being generous with the word "girl" I am just a person from small-town anywhere trying to survive the culture shock of "Asia-Easy". Well, it ain't that easy, but then again, it ain't that hard to survive where there is no snow, shopping galore and food every 5 metres. Singapore, Cambodia, Viet Nam, Thailand, educate this prairie girl.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-35299010431618526322013-03-28T16:47:00.000-07:002013-03-28T16:47:46.500-07:00Who let the blog out?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwEaEvCowHlG7AvzsZKZ8is4Fs9y4KzUS5Sk4cZRNJ6n7ojLW_p85kkvc_18ief9MF5jhX6Jw_ucR8Hr27VmLSewkHue_sgBlHtRaLzKGMiaihO5-dU97cfhQf6_ivjLJLdNzapdV8Pke/s1600/IMG_0342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwEaEvCowHlG7AvzsZKZ8is4Fs9y4KzUS5Sk4cZRNJ6n7ojLW_p85kkvc_18ief9MF5jhX6Jw_ucR8Hr27VmLSewkHue_sgBlHtRaLzKGMiaihO5-dU97cfhQf6_ivjLJLdNzapdV8Pke/s320/IMG_0342.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is winter?</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">How is it possible that
one-month has come and gone since we landed with a thud in Canada? How is it
possible that 30 days have flown by so quickly and I haven't pressed a key,
except to hook up utilities, bid on auctions and comb the web for the best places
to buy pomegranates and track migrating orcas? Not one single
key stroked on our travels, explaining where we alighted on our latest
adventure. I guess life got in the way. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">When you disembark in a new
country, and yes, even though I am a</span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""> Canadian, it feels like unfamiliar territory,
there is an adjustment period and that is what I am doing. Adjusting my pompousness that I am not stuck in six feet of snow in Saskatchewan or
sweltering through another soggy rain in SE Asia, while pancake-size armpit
stains form on my dress. I am slowly becoming knowledgeable in what up island
means, how the HST soaks you every time at the till, and how to recycle
everything. I am learning a house doesn't have to be heated with forced air or
cooled with constant air conditioning; there are places where you can survive
with a perfect climate, surrounded by Cherry Blossoms and Daffodils. </span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2ah284iPguOZHD7Qzs27iHZqqDJkoL8KelyMvoxmHxOpSEcCHClPVqMgfl_YphovoCJZoCsBuqKY8xc2K1wMETAWj9pl9xncP5Xvv1qWDl7S1Q0x3RumG2CcsLFlEGFgQZlSw93ePvYy/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC2ah284iPguOZHD7Qzs27iHZqqDJkoL8KelyMvoxmHxOpSEcCHClPVqMgfl_YphovoCJZoCsBuqKY8xc2K1wMETAWj9pl9xncP5Xvv1qWDl7S1Q0x3RumG2CcsLFlEGFgQZlSw93ePvYy/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Japan, but as lovely</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">Most importantly, I am
learning you don't drive your car on the left hand side of the road unless you
are on a one-way street. You can get away with walking on the opposite side
because the vagrants wander with no real purpose, but time to reign in the
crazy when you drive on the wrong side of the mountains. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">Now that we are settled, my
children are coming to visit when school is out for the term, and we already
have a two week trip planned to Montreal; no, I am not foregoing my Spanish for
French, but all Canadians speak French don't they? That was the question
I was asked at least once a day in Asia when Canada was mentioned.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">I promised my readers our
travelling play-by-plays would not stop, so I will try to keep the Quebecois
from cursing my Grade 12 French and ridiculing
my Anglophone accent under their breath as I search for other
madcap events to amuse in La Ville Aux Cent Clochers.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">While our adventures are
not ending, the laynainasia blog is winding down at 25,000 viewers. I am glad
to report that I have started a book, which will give more in-depth adventures
of Asia in an e-book format. I hope you all have a reader on your Christmas
Wish list. With all of the advances in the e-book tablets; the abilities for
colour photos, video clips and links, it is exactly how this techno-lover wants
to showcase the beautiful sites we experienced. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">My book, while still
garnering a few laughs, will tell the darker side of life in Singapore and
beyond. These are stories I was scared to share because of possible repercussions while
living in Asia. Nothing will get you a one-way ticket home like spilling
the ugly hidden secrets they so carefully try to mask. With this, I mean the
horrific lives many young children are forced to live when sold or taken from
their families, the
slaughter of the elephants, tigers, orang utans and other endangered beasts</span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">,</span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""> and how maids are treated like modern day
slaves. These are only my opinions and observations from what I saw and
researched, but I imagine you will be as shocked as this Hicktown Girl was, to
the travesties I witnessed. </span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZW6BygXyUD9U6xv6_yIk9gZZOVXmnSOvViqLqfkcChd7RIGH0TtLMtbuGyhOj25P-4MFJBpqP-FDXJ31L79K6qK_fEWeRRaD8REsIfk2WKem1VCdgFjqU3wVeYCvraRKDyMypyeAOUjD/s1600/IMG_0432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZW6BygXyUD9U6xv6_yIk9gZZOVXmnSOvViqLqfkcChd7RIGH0TtLMtbuGyhOj25P-4MFJBpqP-FDXJ31L79K6qK_fEWeRRaD8REsIfk2WKem1VCdgFjqU3wVeYCvraRKDyMypyeAOUjD/s320/IMG_0432.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little Asia in Canada</td></tr>
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</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">So back to the here and
now; I promised to reveal where we are putting down roots, for as </span>long as R2
and I can manage roots. Tomorrow, we are making a little jaunt down to
the wharf, where we will board a Harbour plane. You know the Harbour
plane? It is the one they used on the Beachcombers in the 70s. The type of
aircraft that lands on the water and pretends it is a boat. R2 thinks
this is going to be fun; I think he is wrong and he will come to learn this as
I am throwing up my dinner from the previous night. He wants to take in a
concert, so what better way than to arrive in style on a Seaplane, majestically
landing on the Pacific. I bet even Bob Seger isn't arriving in such class. I
hope they have life jackets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times="">While the concert is a nice
perk, it is only a diversion to the real reason we are soaring off in a
floating air taxi. A mere two weeks after landing, we were informed that R2 is
being granted his Canadian Residency after almost five years in
Canada and he doesn't want to miss our 10:30 a.m. appointment. There is nothing
stopping him from getting that little card he needs to carry with him when he
travels; a card that shows he has almost the same rights as any Canadian. He
can travel freely, he can access health care, he can have a pension and best of
all, he can pay an exorbitant amount of Canadian tax to really make him feel
special; like he is one of us. Nevertheless, it is a proud, exciting day; one
that is long overdue. Next stop, citizenship.</span><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyyX3EolvFmob2ylhHj3XPTukmcRiLV859YKWSLoOhvcDVfykHtLJcDWvlA2xPG7OlBmLLD8_8JzIBR7EImRjY3NtTjyEL6RJH38gnPTVudg3olocotCUWqtMnsWrjftEtALJjHTOKu0k/s1600/IMG_0146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyyX3EolvFmob2ylhHj3XPTukmcRiLV859YKWSLoOhvcDVfykHtLJcDWvlA2xPG7OlBmLLD8_8JzIBR7EImRjY3NtTjyEL6RJH38gnPTVudg3olocotCUWqtMnsWrjftEtALJjHTOKu0k/s320/IMG_0146.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bring the sick bags</td></tr>
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</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" times="">For a change of travel, we
will return to our cozy flat that over looks the majestic mountains, on
the Tsawwassen to Swartz Bay ferry. Yes, we will travel from Vancouver, to
Vancouver Island where we have quietly relocated in Victoria, British
Columbia. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" times=""><br /></span>
To quote a tall, Mexican
man, near and dear to my heart, "This place is like Moose Jaw but with
quality restaurants like Montreal, great transportation like Toronto, less
crazy than Vancouver and weather close to perfection. Victoria, oh, Victoria,
where were you all these years in my search to find paradise on earth?"</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2odbP23BMnuOfXy49Wu4zNB_6Smi9Ki6hyphenhyphenVgCtlOSE-6oggGEHSh4T0E_tzZ4Yja81oTGe8130PX-lTE7emSnGDhusf_1G0CbSJtu1aD89-hyQwkC5KPwV-YC7E8Xx_P9VVRmZLnEx7fU/s1600/IMG_0360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2odbP23BMnuOfXy49Wu4zNB_6Smi9Ki6hyphenhyphenVgCtlOSE-6oggGEHSh4T0E_tzZ4Yja81oTGe8130PX-lTE7emSnGDhusf_1G0CbSJtu1aD89-hyQwkC5KPwV-YC7E8Xx_P9VVRmZLnEx7fU/s320/IMG_0360.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">It doesn't get better than this</span></td></tr>
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<span color:black="" mso-bidi-font-family:="" new="" roman="" serif="" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" times="">I hope you have enjoyed the
drama and will hang about for the book. Now that I have put it out to the
universe, it will happen. As long as you are reading, I am writing.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-82406293802248280622013-03-10T19:31:00.000-07:002013-03-10T19:31:21.079-07:00Birthday time zones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RGmbOpoh4x0RrrNYkeA5Vdj_nMF-U0x4kmDVfzKHEtRp_tKPKNEEwbgx5-pkSMlDM10E794YSNTPW_mHPtRinL7w2pzC6hYIYvrbkBKSDrjbhX37XGRgH06qiJSJi5axzt-Vq5Sa93B2/s1600/emu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RGmbOpoh4x0RrrNYkeA5Vdj_nMF-U0x4kmDVfzKHEtRp_tKPKNEEwbgx5-pkSMlDM10E794YSNTPW_mHPtRinL7w2pzC6hYIYvrbkBKSDrjbhX37XGRgH06qiJSJi5axzt-Vq5Sa93B2/s320/emu.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Curious emu in OZ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last year on my birthday I was on hiding from the vibrant sun under a tiny umbrella on Manly Beach, in Australia, wishing I knew how to surf because the people that flock to the white sand beaches looked like they were loving the last week of summer in the surf. Summer was slow to come to Australia but we hit the sweet spot on our two week trip, enjoying dazzling autumn weather.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitBn3gMAvpeNv12PcBHHBMqWa51jfc1IAaH8W4dtWddbi2eOSkhwXUcMVn1ObqoiVQA6lC_e50eLjRuyxLDJiHrOD19UY_RI5eevxTAmu4tSPILpqUQFyMuzcFtUItpWcOzqTkSnXILxq/s1600/opera+house+in+sydney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="99" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitBn3gMAvpeNv12PcBHHBMqWa51jfc1IAaH8W4dtWddbi2eOSkhwXUcMVn1ObqoiVQA6lC_e50eLjRuyxLDJiHrOD19UY_RI5eevxTAmu4tSPILpqUQFyMuzcFtUItpWcOzqTkSnXILxq/s320/opera+house+in+sydney.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The most famous site in Sydney</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This year is slightly different. It is my birthday and we are up at 5 a.m. sitting in the lounge waiting for a flight out of Singapore. Our passports are stamped, our employment passes have been surrendered at the border, we have withdrawn as much cash as our pockets will carry and it is sayonara, Singapore. We arrived during Year of the Rabbit and now that Year of the Snake has slithered into Asia, we are onto the next chapter in our lives.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilMYt47CCti89K8MomkWgD3zwKey9nf6ANYdSwhoqVZwM-H_OryLiS9Z6rsXuLjQqlVEVAfiMdb4lFkZgXYPYVQZo4oVbHgV7cXHl9O4RDoqxsE64PeaLJQ7BrzhEz0_mrZ3WCuONB1Dl/s1600/group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgilMYt47CCti89K8MomkWgD3zwKey9nf6ANYdSwhoqVZwM-H_OryLiS9Z6rsXuLjQqlVEVAfiMdb4lFkZgXYPYVQZo4oVbHgV7cXHl9O4RDoqxsE64PeaLJQ7BrzhEz0_mrZ3WCuONB1Dl/s320/group.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbye to wonderful friends</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It occurred to me that I have written over 50 chapters on Asia and abroad. I started this blog as a way to keep me sane, in an insane place. When I came to Asia, I thought I would be lonesome and never meet any friends but that thought couldn’t have been further from the truth. I have kept so busy that often I don’t have time to write, the way I would like. I met interesting, friendly people from every corner of this small world, and no matter how far away they lived from Canada, we all had something in common, being so far from home.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04pnKInCQ98qPOJsZHx2_YjgKN8rIoG1OG8Taaazyl9uOOqLjwwD0UqxG2txqwxBsSPodzsWJgws_1AQUCDyWcdfLeYUusz3XBdUMwnzuAOLE2vJxc_gkO0R3M6YKESYe5nUS3c_SfUuH/s1600/takoballs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04pnKInCQ98qPOJsZHx2_YjgKN8rIoG1OG8Taaazyl9uOOqLjwwD0UqxG2txqwxBsSPodzsWJgws_1AQUCDyWcdfLeYUusz3XBdUMwnzuAOLE2vJxc_gkO0R3M6YKESYe5nUS3c_SfUuH/s320/takoballs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 learning to make takoyaki</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Some of my closest friends don’t speak much English but we still manage to laugh and figure out what the other is trying to say. When I said goodbye to my wonderful friend from Japan, she was so overwhelmed, everything she said as she cried was in Japanese; she forgot any English she ever knew. It didn’t matter what she said, I understood.</span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The blog has taken on a life of its own and the first question is whether it will continue when I leave Asia. I wish I could answer that, and I wish I knew the title or whether LaynainAsia will remain. I have reached 20,000 readers in one year, was nominated Blogger of the Year in Singapore, and it shows no signs of stopping, but my Asian life has. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved my elephants</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I started this blog as a way to keep my children and friends updated on our adventures, and I started writing for the newspaper so my parents knew I was not stranded on some island in the middle of the South China sea. However, knowing my love for technology, even if I was, I would find a way to connect. I can picture R2 up a coconut tree trying to find a signal for my phone so I could keep in touch. “Layna, do you have signal, how many bars are there, maybe if I move my hand to the right? How about now?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Since I began telling my Singapore friends we are leaving, it has been difficult saying farewell. I don’t do “goodbyes” well, and I avoid them at all costs because I am trying to save the environment from all the soggy tissues I produce. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Our biggest challenge is our return to Canada. Arturo, yes, that is his real name because most English speakers can’t roll the second R and find R2 an easier way to address my husband, is not a Canadian citizen. Many people think if you are married, it is an automatic freebie into the country. Not so. We have struggled for more than four years to have the federal government grant him a Canadian residency. We have written, phoned, begged, pleaded, spoken to our political leaders and still that tiny piece of paper that grants him Residency is out of our reach. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will miss the animals</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">It is a mystery why they are making us jump through every hoop, cross, all Tees and dot every I when we see thousands of people immigrating to Canada that can barely murmur “hello”. He is a well educated man that speaks four languages and has lived all around the world, with a professional respect that many will never achieve. He pays his Canadian taxes, rarely uses any medical care and is not a burden to the country. He loves Canada almost as much as he love me, and it was his decision to give it one last shot before we are too old and will be denied Citizenship forever. If that is the case, Viva la Mexico.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It is my turn to support and work, while he follows his passion for cooking. Twenty odd years, running from airport to airport, living in suitcase and hotels is more than most people could take. Many think it is glamourous, but once I lived this “envied” life with him, it is far from that. Yes, you see many countries, but before he met me, each looked the same from a hotel room window. I made him leave the comfort of the hotel and see the landscapes with my innocent eyes. Even though he would return, often exhausted, he never denied me when I had something to show him in every location we travelled. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We will persevere with an Immigration lawyer from Vancouver, to help our cause because nothing, to date, has helped. The amount of money he has spent on immigration could front a small country for a few years. We feel we are close, but we need to not be traveling to secure the papers. It is a sad state of affairs that everyone in Mexico is deemed part of a drug cartel and the hard working people that want a better life don’t get a chance. The divorce rate of international couples is staggering because often one person isn’t allowed into the country and it is too difficult to live apart. We have chosen not to let anyone deny us our right to be, us, so if Canada is not the place, then other countries will welcome his skills and professionalism gladly.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQSCM5s8Mt6oaTwpDtCOiLSuQuGwgHSeiPq3Ag7QYItV2XNy5rXvbDHIHWw4tKLi9FMGb_QwpRk0NKKu6nDwJw_WSE0tteXOrI5k3BHyeDFBLtJvcVv1J2hCNQuo2sbglM1tOUd1L5TYk/s1600/acrobats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQSCM5s8Mt6oaTwpDtCOiLSuQuGwgHSeiPq3Ag7QYItV2XNy5rXvbDHIHWw4tKLi9FMGb_QwpRk0NKKu6nDwJw_WSE0tteXOrI5k3BHyeDFBLtJvcVv1J2hCNQuo2sbglM1tOUd1L5TYk/s320/acrobats.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing Asia</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I want to thank all of my readers from my blog and the paper that have followed, left comments, laughed and cried at my stories. The people that phoned my family and said, “That is your daughter, sister or friend? We love her writing,” bless you. That means more than you know, to know you enjoy reading about our crazy life. While I have worked for the Government of Saskatchewan for 16 years, I feel this is my true calling, and I have a spouse and family that backs me 100 per cent.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am not certain LaynainRegina, or LaynaBackatWorkintheSnow will be amusing and entertaining, but I promise you, we will scale the CN Tower in Toronto, or hike the Three Sisters in Alberta to keep you amused as you log on, whilst drinking your morning coffee or your evening Gin and Tonic by the pool in Singapore.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We are in the Hong Kong airport, waiting for our next flight to Canada; we have two more to go. While it seems like such a long way home, I know I get two birthdays once we cross one of the many time zones. My children have already wished me happy birthday in Asia, and tomorrow, I get to hear their voices. R2 hasn’t stepped foot in Canada since 2011, so having him back here with me is the best present I could ask for.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Please don’t forget us, and follow us on laynainasia.blogspot.com. Until we meet again, or as they say in my kampong in Singapore “Sehingga kita bertemu lagi.” Let’s leave it at that to save the trees from my tears.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-53760776092245815882013-02-27T04:51:00.000-08:002013-02-27T05:01:36.220-08:00The tuk-tuk diaries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fancy tuk-tuk in Melaka</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pardon me, Che Guevara, because I don't mean to impose on the highly famous "<i>The Motorcycle Diaries" </i>however, in my little world, it feels like I have crossed Asia on a tuk-tuk and made it out the other side, alive.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">Coming from Canada, I had no idea what an Asian tuk-tuk was. As Canadians, we think it is our god given right to own a car, a mini-van for the kids, a truck for hauling the weekend trailer, a sled to cruise in the snow and maybe even a quad to roam around the north forty if there is enough mud to get down and dirty. Public transportation and taxis are foreign to most of us, unless we have swilled down too many drinks on TGIF happy hour.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">My closest experience to these tiny transports would be the Pneumonia Carts that whizz around Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico. Compared to the tuk-tuks, the Mexican carts are champagne next to no-name beer chugged down at a country jamboree. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">My first experience was India and I have never looked back. Each region I have visited has their own version of the tuk-tuk but no matter where you go, the drivers are hungry for business and willing to take you on the ride of your life. Every time I hire one, I think it might be my final day on earth but even with all the close calls, the honking and blaring of horns, I manage to survive. We won't mention all the kissing of the ground I do, when I get through another excursion.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPiicGbVKEpPkQ9IKPdQ39SlLjeTO4daSk-1x0okAkO8TDlJTdhqueHMfBG5X1zLqSzo8sZf_p8KEi_xYVAua9iE2hi-2uLBhiphjxV9bZsAinEnJmnf7KSqy9y415X0CTbUU5_5pGHYM/s1600/IMG_2853.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEPiicGbVKEpPkQ9IKPdQ39SlLjeTO4daSk-1x0okAkO8TDlJTdhqueHMfBG5X1zLqSzo8sZf_p8KEi_xYVAua9iE2hi-2uLBhiphjxV9bZsAinEnJmnf7KSqy9y415X0CTbUU5_5pGHYM/s320/IMG_2853.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Houses on stilts from floods</td></tr>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">Our latest joyride in Siem Reap was fancier than some and less than others. It consisted of a motorcycle pulling a seated, covered cart that could carry four but often ten were crammed inside. What we didn't count on was the dry season in Cambodia, making for asphyxiation by red dust that coats every thing in a fine red silt, including our lungs. Most people wear masks but the "newbies" in town forgot. We had to pull our T-shirts over our noses, making us look like we were on our way to a badly orchestrated bank heist. Bonnie and Pedro, cameras, not guns, a blazing, Mexican style.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">In Phnom Penh, the tuk-tuks were the same, but we noticed many rickshaw drivers pedaling or pulling people in a tiny cart meant for one scrawny posterior, not the four we saw stuffed into the seat. Luckily the Cambodians are wee people. One western rear would barely fit into a rickshaw seat but in Asia, why take one when four can ride?</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;"> There is a special dance that occurs when you cross the road in Cambodia. With the thousands of scooters, it is best to cross when you see a small break in the traffic, don't hesitate and act like you own the road. Like a beautifully choreographed Tango, the drivers will weave in and out never giving your presence a second thought. Miraculously you emerge, unscathed on the other side.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">On our journeys we have seen scooter gangs as far as the eye can see, and I thought I had seen everything until I went to Siem Reap. I have witnessed several strange items being carried on scooters but we had to look twice when we saw a man carrying a queen sized mattress and box spring, strapped precariously, riding shotgun. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDl8_1TBg8AHNsWspf5o_NTA694X5d24OJNXKX0-Fmil9UrPaQecexJU_WO-r3j6bdSsWj6-1hYGtE-RXCKGHNkSu8EJE_M4UJtAAEF6RlNra5NS_DJJ6KGM-9BohezccJBPmMME1UFwQ/s1600/pig+on+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDl8_1TBg8AHNsWspf5o_NTA694X5d24OJNXKX0-Fmil9UrPaQecexJU_WO-r3j6bdSsWj6-1hYGtE-RXCKGHNkSu8EJE_M4UJtAAEF6RlNra5NS_DJJ6KGM-9BohezccJBPmMME1UFwQ/s320/pig+on+bike.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off to market</td></tr>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">It is always pleasant to go for a Sunday drive in the country, but on this Khmer outing, it was a family tree on a scooter. Papa was driving, while first born sat in front helping him steer. Mama was behind with a child wedged between, standing on the seat. The granny was perched, sidesaddle on the back, holding an infant in her arms, with a smoke hanging from her lips. In total, there were 6 people on a scooter meant for one. How the wheels managed to carry that weight is anyone's guess, but perhaps that is why Cambodian people are slight.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">If that wasn't enough, we saw several scooters with two huge pigs strapped to the back. For the sake of Porky and Wilbur, I hope they were dead; they looked pretty stiff to me as we whizzed past. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">We saw dozens of drivers carrying hundreds of upside-down chickens, tied by their feet on their final drive to the chopping block. They were squawking and clucking, with their heads bouncing off the potholes and wind ruffling their feathers. </span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">Our hired driver informed us that village chickens, such as these, were the most delicious. He told us they were more tender. No wonder, they were being tenderized on the fly as they took their final ride to some restaurant serving up Chicken Curry Amok. Not a nice way to leave this world, and I avoided eating any chicken or pork for the entire trip. Mango salads suited me just fine.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGmuzQjFZZKgPWpYvBLQrF8kCyazGpWLZQgWF86wJj4ppkN8ApSTkANwoD1cVuKoRtDSvb17R-mYDbvBNFpTLdd22fc5uW5buDteQHXbMnrSZ15zts3B0y_JS_rWEhHMgd_pUKQK-66N4/s1600/IMG_7291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGmuzQjFZZKgPWpYvBLQrF8kCyazGpWLZQgWF86wJj4ppkN8ApSTkANwoD1cVuKoRtDSvb17R-mYDbvBNFpTLdd22fc5uW5buDteQHXbMnrSZ15zts3B0y_JS_rWEhHMgd_pUKQK-66N4/s320/IMG_7291.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another way to travel</td></tr>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">Cambodia is a fascinating country and I am pleased I had the opportunity to visit a small portion before I left Asia. It was an in and out trip, however, it made a deep impression on me. While the country is so far below the poverty line you can't find the percentile, with many people making less than 75 cents per day, I was charmed by the locals. I was amazed at the service, the quality of the food and how we were treated with respect and dignity. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitRO6NBmap1jDXlE393gMHJ_dCKSSZYXgiul74BbqzTvUgQ8BHqkGm_qS1hYa6bDqh3SYl_OQG-H-eEuM42DxFjJitr8yJza4b8Bzg615QUdy51pA4lFtL20CY3AqQ3JzOIRw8Oa6rpfFi/s1600/IMG_7404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitRO6NBmap1jDXlE393gMHJ_dCKSSZYXgiul74BbqzTvUgQ8BHqkGm_qS1hYa6bDqh3SYl_OQG-H-eEuM42DxFjJitr8yJza4b8Bzg615QUdy51pA4lFtL20CY3AqQ3JzOIRw8Oa6rpfFi/s320/IMG_7404.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids waving to us</td></tr>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">You can see the poverty everywhere in Cambodia and yet, the children were happy to meet us and when we left a US two dollar tip with a lady at the foot massage, you would think she had won the lottery. The death and destruction of such a country is unimaginable to most people but when you drive through the country side, you will see, even with the little they have, they take pride in their homes and work. The people that have lost their limbs to the land mines still smile when you pass them on the street. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmS4VBA9qTe9BEK_UgbTjrGOCqHNE1GVd4hhjko44-8__HxsmAxWyLgpUXgzxCT43QGZgFPzuYvvCgyV7UPgNTavXtbuPswpqN6TPPMMSBegOdHLXCYE9Dfp_27Dqrsb2TcCO496SF1Dpx/s1600/IMG_2936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmS4VBA9qTe9BEK_UgbTjrGOCqHNE1GVd4hhjko44-8__HxsmAxWyLgpUXgzxCT43QGZgFPzuYvvCgyV7UPgNTavXtbuPswpqN6TPPMMSBegOdHLXCYE9Dfp_27Dqrsb2TcCO496SF1Dpx/s320/IMG_2936.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life in Cambodia</td></tr>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't feel I am done with Cambodia. Every day I think about the poverty, the survivors of the land mines and the children that are sold by their parents into the human trafficking for the sex trade. The poor are conned, the children work in sweat shops and often the tourists that think they are volunteering for a good cause are being completely scammed due to a big heart. Cambodia has come a long way since it opened up to tourism in the 1990s but there is a long way to go to for human dignity and rights for all of the citizens.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-family: inherit;">I may never get back to Asia, but I know I will always have a soft spot in my heart for the people of Cambodia. I recently read about a special Canadian, former RCMP officer that has dedicated most of his life to helping the people of Cambodia. I may just have to look him up and see what I can do to help. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com18Cambodia12.565679 104.990962999999974.638202 94.663814499999972 20.493156 115.31811149999996tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-83516188979645574072013-02-13T02:52:00.000-08:002013-02-13T02:52:19.509-08:00Garage sale..Singapore style<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This is not the first time I have sold everything I own, and something tells me it will not be the last. I believe there are a few more moves waiting in the wings before we put down permanent roots somewhere in the world.<br />
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<span class="s1">When R2 gets the moving bug, nothing is safe from an online posting site that sell the strangest items. It was when I saw him heading for my enormous shoe closet with the camera, a well-flung slipper nailed him and his red Canon, stopping him in his tracks. Some things are sacred, and to me, I have spent a large percentage of my life hunting down the perfect texture, the right heel and the correct shade of black for every outfit. Back away from the high-heels and no one gets hurt. Those 250 pairs are coming with me, even if I have to smuggle them on the plane by wearing five pairs through security.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQLbSO6q7Fe1esdyzTTwbBwM5gLqnutpmuJrpAds7_Xjk13FivMmu60CN2Mhxxn_O20MJcUW544nsi8XIGHvowBRkAALgsIoAiKecK5A2fm_BVAZZd905S_X3p-1LGwRgM7f-0gbuyN7k3/s1600/IMG_1605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQLbSO6q7Fe1esdyzTTwbBwM5gLqnutpmuJrpAds7_Xjk13FivMmu60CN2Mhxxn_O20MJcUW544nsi8XIGHvowBRkAALgsIoAiKecK5A2fm_BVAZZd905S_X3p-1LGwRgM7f-0gbuyN7k3/s320/IMG_1605.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How we love technology in Asia</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Singaporeans are among the world's most voracious users of digital media so it is no surprise I am refereeing bidding wars via smart phones, tablets and computers. When I started posting my items, I had no idea my phone would be buzzing, whistling, pinging and chirping all sorts of messages. I couldn't keep up. I could write a book with all of the hilarious texts and messages I received. Keep in mind, Singapore is an English speaking country, but most of the offers are in Singlish so it often takes two or three replies to figure out what the people are asking me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Your blow up mattress, blow, can? If blow, want, lah. I like your photo, you pretty Mizzus." This was one of the first messages I received, and from there, it became more difficult to determine. I am translating and filling in the missing blanks once I used my special decoder ring to figure out what the locals wanted to buy from me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Can vacuum ride on bike with me?' One of my favorite questions and yes, he did pull up on a pizza delivery scooter and rode away hoovering as he cleaned off into the sunset.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"You make me good price, you make me good, lady." This was on a fifty cent spatula; how much better can I make the price? I threw in some free slippers I enjoy stealing from hotels for guests to wear in the house. Hey, don't judge; wearing slippers on the house is something I learned from my Japanese friends. You never now what evil lurks on the bottom of your shoes, walking in the local Kampong.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"Hey lady, you have ten foot palm, selling, lah?" was one inquiry. "How tall?" "Is it palm?" This one had me in stitches and shaking my head. I received this message while riding and I had to stop the bike for fear I would fall from laughing so hard. I am not sure what part of "<i>Selling Ten Foot Palm</i>" was not evident in my ad.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sold everything so we cook with fire now</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Honestly, I can't make this stuff up. "Does your popcorn popper, make popcorn? Does your blender, blend?" As for the rice cooker inquiry, I can't even go there. Let's just say, rice cookers make rice and you fill in the joke.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">R2 hates when I sell our almost new items. If he had it his way, he would open the window and heave everything out, letting the people below think it is raining washers and dryers. I, however, am from small town Saskatchewan and making a buck is what I know. He leaves the room when the potential buyers come, he cringes when he hears me chatting them up, asking questions about their lives in Singapore. He shudders when I ask how long they have lived here, or about their children. He just doesn't care. He is of the mindset, open the door, shove the goods in their hands, grab the cash and slam the door in the poor soul's face.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"I would like to take your almost-new, front-loading, energy-efficient washer-dryer set from Germany that you paid an arm and leg for, but I want a quick-bargain deal and if I have to go on any stairs, I am charging you," was one comment. Am I mistaken or was I the one selling the item? I am being charged for moving from a penthouse elevator, straight down the lift to the car park in the basement? What is wrong with this picture? How do I end up paying for the man's delivery when I have cut the price by thousands of dollars?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He could use my mattress</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">"Your King sized mattress, is that a Sing King, UK King or a Queen? Is it latex, can it fold, can I come and sleep to test, are you single?" I am close to my boiling point by now, and googling like a maniac for Women's Shelters in need of gently used items so I don't have to put up with crazy questions anymore. Leave me in peace so I can continue my quest for the next country to move.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Through all of my electronic selling, I met some interesting people too. People that started to read my blog, people that were quite thrilled when I gave them special deals on items and threw in a few free plants and cactus and even a media mogul that allowed me to drool on his BMW convertible while he checked out my goods. I hope slobber comes out of the Nappa leather. I hope he enjoys his spatula.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Overall, it was another amusing experience to chalk up to Singapore living. Maybe R2 has the right idea, open the window and drop everything overboard and yell "Heads up" but I doubt that phrase makes sense here and with my luck, I would crush a few of the tail-less cats, on the way down.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My next flat, condo, casa, villa or casita is going to be made completely of stone and plastic with a wash basin outside and the old-fashioned sun to dry the clothes. No irons, no skillets, no flippers and definitely no more selling. I wonder if I can get some stock options in paper plates and plastic forks because I think that is going to be my new way of life. Now where is that atlas, I need to find a country.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-29388386478292411572013-02-02T06:41:00.001-08:002013-02-02T06:41:08.548-08:00Let the countdown begin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Today was a day for trepidation, sadness, anxiety and excitement. Today was the day I waited with my stomach in butterflies while R2 gave his terms and conditions to his boss, a man he has a great respect and admiration for, however, he still felt it is time for a change from our life on the Little Red Dot. Health, family and immigration must come first.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DZJVVVwe01edFKfdg-0aCquGlwJ0Mm3UV10Q7DPpakgQJ4R9B6RQ3AUGY2DD1WHBqOGvuAKbMY6v0Pegom_Cc9eR6RW6YEtmqKHV_bKnAuR3xwfRQy_2Touav0kwSUtHPVL-94aczh4L/s1600/IMG_0471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DZJVVVwe01edFKfdg-0aCquGlwJ0Mm3UV10Q7DPpakgQJ4R9B6RQ3AUGY2DD1WHBqOGvuAKbMY6v0Pegom_Cc9eR6RW6YEtmqKHV_bKnAuR3xwfRQy_2Touav0kwSUtHPVL-94aczh4L/s320/IMG_0471.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this site</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Leaving Singapore is something that has been on our minds for a few months but a part of me tried to ignore the cold, hard facts that there was a high probability we would leave before the full two years. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There have been so many extraordinary aspects about Asia, and yet there have been so many appalling things from this region that will remain with me for a lifetime. I have seen, smelled and heard noises that still don't seem real to me, coming from small-town, semi-safe, Canada. I have tried to write about the positive experiences we have encountered and leave the shocking stories behind until I am safely away from a nanny state that watches our every move.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orchids galore in Singapore</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">When we came to Singapore, we made a decision that we wanted to live in a local neighbourhood for two reasons. The rent in our neighbourhood, while still outrageous, at least did not take the entire paycheque. It left us just enough for an ice coffee at the local hawker station each morning, instead of shelling out $10 in the fancy expat, frappa-crappa-mocha latte that no one seems to blink an eye, as they dash to their air-conned Landrover. We also decided if we were going to live here, we didn't want to try to keep up with the Joneses because it is impossible with the expats that have companies paying $20,000 per month for rent and $40,000 for each child to attend an International school. We wanted to live as residents and have the means to travel most weekends to new countries to see as much of Asia as possible. While we didn't see it all; an impossible feat, we did manage to see dozens of fascinating areas.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">While living in a predominantly muslim community, we spoke to many neighbours that told us shocking stories about the treatment of the maids or helpers, as they are often called. We refer to them as Modern-day Slaves. If you think the maids in the book<i> The Help</i> by<i> Kathryn Stockett</i> were treated poorly, you haven't seen anything.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We also lived very close to the area where prostitution is rampant in Singapore. Prostitution is legal in Singapore and controlled by the government in brothels, but for the illegal, underground activity, the Human Trafficking and smuggling of women in Asia is a vicious, competitive and fierce business. These are stories that won't be my typical humorous look at Asia, and I will be safely in another country when I speak of some of the horror of the kidnapped women and children forced into prostitution rings. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There are also stories to be told on the <b><i>Inflated Expat Ego Syndrome</i></b>; an affliction that hits many expats that think the locals are beneath them, and behave in the most unbecoming, obnoxious way. Case in point, out with some friends dancing when a drunken man fondled me, not once, but twice. The second time, it handed him a well placed elbow to his overextended pot belly. To grope or grab anyone in Singapore is a criminal offense that will land you in jail and on the receiving end of a tortuous caning. I noticed the bouncers were watching this exchange so I didn't worry he would touch me or my friends again. He stumbled away, holding his gut, sulking in the corner. Many expats think it is there right to misbehave and they are above the law to any of the strictly enforced laws here. So why do we wonder why the locals glare at us and hate our very existence? Perhaps it has to do with the inappropriate manner so many behave.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The loveliness of the Botanic Gardens</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">While I appreciate the orderliness of this country and the symmetry of the structured landscaping, what I will miss the most is the people. I have met more people than I can remember, from so many countries. We are all in the same boat, and my experience with the expat community has been more than I could have imagine. I have not told many that I am leaving, allowing this chapter of <i>Layna In Asia</i> to be my mouthpiece because I find it too taxing to say adieu. There are not enough tissues in Singapore for my soggy tears and snotty sniffles.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe he will let us live with him on a mountain</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">My 20,000 plus readers have asked if I am continuing the blog, will we still travel and where will we go? R2 is not a Canadian and immigration in Canada is extremely difficult, contrary to what you are lead to believe; marriage does not make a Canadian, no matter what you have been told. All of these questions are issues that keep me tossing and turning at night. We are nomads up for the offering, a lot like the prostitutes and maids, except we don't have a house or country to return to. We are taking a quick side trip to Cambodia, we are selling our meager possession and we have less than one month to leave this country before we become illegals in a nation that takes their custom and immigration seriously.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was told under no circumstance should I give up the blog, and I doubt we will stop the travel until one of us becomes incapacitated, "What was your name again?" <i>Layna in Asia</i> may seem strange if we become worker bees in Canada or Mexico, but my promise is to seek out adventures in everything we do, even if it is Layna at the 15 Minute Lube in Prince Edward Island or R2 changing a tire in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Cheers and Salud, Singapore</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-25316605143351501962013-01-24T04:54:00.002-08:002013-01-24T15:56:46.743-08:00The great blizzard of 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My final day in Canada started out innocently enough with an early flight to Vancouver, where I would relax, make a connection in a couple of hours to Hong Kong, hang out in the HK airport, only for a few hours and then take my final leg to Singapore. This was a completely different route than I had taken almost one year ago, to the day. Last year was the milk run; Vancouver, Seattle, Seoul to Singapore with little time in between to relax or make a connection if the plane was delayed. The thought of running the 2 km boot camp sprint through the Seoul airport with no boarding pass, still strikes terror in my heart.<br />
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<span class="s1">My flight wasn't too early, which is a change of pace for me. Often I find myself at the airport by 4:00 a.m., bleary-eyed and grumpy from lack of sleep. This flight was lovely; 9:20 a.m. granting me enough time to catch a ride and enjoy a leisurely breakfast with my parents. So much for my smug, best laid plans. According to the weather, an abundant amount of snow had fallen during the night and the Highway Hotline was reporting blowing snow, ice and whiteout conditions. This seemed impossible to me because it was clear and there was no extra snow on the ground at my parents' home.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaEgdx1XEzhlBkUHj48MSVPsaijnN2r8lTRFsSl-FzMiJHrVm4t6P-Khv-0I3elUea7o5KfXsMlemxeR6PaHEjLlQ9wdBWM2MJDe0iNM-RZVqlJ_rC6HiRt1MvksjfxW-kYDJ0acOPKHI/s1600/snowplow3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaEgdx1XEzhlBkUHj48MSVPsaijnN2r8lTRFsSl-FzMiJHrVm4t6P-Khv-0I3elUea7o5KfXsMlemxeR6PaHEjLlQ9wdBWM2MJDe0iNM-RZVqlJ_rC6HiRt1MvksjfxW-kYDJ0acOPKHI/s320/snowplow3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never pass these beasts!</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">After loading my ten ton suitcase into the car, my parents and I started our 60 km journey to the airport in the darkness. It is a 40 minute drive in good weather but when there is an impending blizzard, our timeframe was anyone's guess. It was lucky I allowed myself extra time to check in. While the drive wasn't bad yet, we still drove cautiously making sure not to pass anyone. The plows were out in full force, trying to clear the snow from the previous night. If you have ever come upon a snow plow on a darkened road, it is scary business.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was explaining my drive to a friend when I reached Singapore. She is from South Africa and just can't imagine the intensity of an old-fashioned Canadian blizzard. There really are no words to describe the biting cold, the blinding vertigo, or the perceived terror of driving into a ditch with a semi truck bearing down on you while you pray catches a glimpse of your tail lights.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjub_lVQWp5JDkVBW8LALUOvvWFw-yFJHGm28qraKfIZM_bjvA4ak2gr8n37d3_fkCESq2WWSC6FxRPORgRpLWE5jIL82SMljclBas3QJgXTe268F5LS0CdcTd4I9ry9w5PoLOuZc1LJ0Y2/s1600/3902441052_1dde9af5fd_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjub_lVQWp5JDkVBW8LALUOvvWFw-yFJHGm28qraKfIZM_bjvA4ak2gr8n37d3_fkCESq2WWSC6FxRPORgRpLWE5jIL82SMljclBas3QJgXTe268F5LS0CdcTd4I9ry9w5PoLOuZc1LJ0Y2/s320/3902441052_1dde9af5fd_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first-class pods</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">My flights to Vancouver and Hong Kong were exceptional because thanks to "Mr. Frequent Flyer" Velez, I had a first-class ticket again. I took full advantage of the Executive lounges, the premier boarding and snapped my fingers to alert the attendants I was onboard so bring the </span>Veuve Clicquot champagne and keep it flowing.</div>
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<span class="s1">I arrived in Hong Kong quite fresh, considering the copious amount of bubbly, the 14 hour flight and the 14 hour time difference. Playing with the electronic buttons on the pods, and watching a plethora of movies will do that to you. It wasn't until I found wifi in the airport, opened my mail, that I saw the horrible storm that was raging in, not only Saskatchewan but making its way to Alberta. Even British Columbia was getting more snow than they had shoveled in years.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGt-GCw_vhX6WK1kLIp091GdO3bxqB_ViJHtVqy-K6O2q-zEB8FydNcNEMY7fSCgsG4TfUhaqI7MxF4xeM7MT434g0XJ3S1IdzKh3CgKNk8arPlG0f7G_73FhdodZUONgAmFXP4NBHvRu/s1600/Hong_Kong_International_Airport%252C_Arrival_Hall_3%252C_Mar_06.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGt-GCw_vhX6WK1kLIp091GdO3bxqB_ViJHtVqy-K6O2q-zEB8FydNcNEMY7fSCgsG4TfUhaqI7MxF4xeM7MT434g0XJ3S1IdzKh3CgKNk8arPlG0f7G_73FhdodZUONgAmFXP4NBHvRu/s320/Hong_Kong_International_Airport%252C_Arrival_Hall_3%252C_Mar_06.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hong Kong airport</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">This is when panic kicked in. I quickly sent a message to my sister, asking her to make sure my parents were home safely. Luckily I have a night owl Sis and she was online to tell me that they arrived without a scratch. I wish I could say the same hundreds of others. According to reports, there were three fatalities, jackknifed semi drivers, hundreds of cars in the ditches and thousands of motorists stranded when a major portion of the highway was closed. There were abundant heroes who tried to dig out a man that was buried under a truck, but their attempts were sadly, in vain. This driver didn't make it, but that is Canadians for you. So many risked their lives in a blinding blizzard to try to rescue someone in need of help.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The blizzard didn't stop there. It came back with a vengeance in a couple of days, dropping about 15 cm of snow, to the already momentous amount that had accumulated. This amount might not seem like much, but you combine it with wicked winds and you are looking at snow drifts that can grow to be more than six feet tall on roads, sidewalks, highways and against people's doors.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qXSBppKOloDlfLCHJ-Xa3PqNJwbU_0HCqHuzP-SitfXng04U5wStEdEbmd6jCa1vaw9H3iwZ8PaE9z-mmKDKldSPO7Ag7GQ5D0cDHQqOTnnqe5FUKjREaAepbEfzXcSOW1gTsZMMLbg_/s1600/2009SnowStorm+088.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4qXSBppKOloDlfLCHJ-Xa3PqNJwbU_0HCqHuzP-SitfXng04U5wStEdEbmd6jCa1vaw9H3iwZ8PaE9z-mmKDKldSPO7Ag7GQ5D0cDHQqOTnnqe5FUKjREaAepbEfzXcSOW1gTsZMMLbg_/s320/2009SnowStorm+088.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A familiar site in Saskatchewan</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">It would seem I dodged an extraordinary bullet with my timing to leave Canada. The travel gods were for once, on my side, when most of the time, they take great pleasure in messing with my flights and mind. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have now been back in Singapore for a week, and it feels like I never left. I am back to sweating at every meal, having shiny-face syndrome, my hair has shrunk back to poodle dimensions and I can never wear enough deodorant. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3s3e_quuGOG0eKCqaSLIForvnii_nbvs-3e_bFxDaWPfeZqAXqFVbAMpk5UHSQRc7LAqbm03Se6O8iRPkO5JGfiFVHpyg3o12IaCNaaiJtEL7vsLefJ-pjRGDwrJ_t-ttN_RdMdyEoE4/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE3s3e_quuGOG0eKCqaSLIForvnii_nbvs-3e_bFxDaWPfeZqAXqFVbAMpk5UHSQRc7LAqbm03Se6O8iRPkO5JGfiFVHpyg3o12IaCNaaiJtEL7vsLefJ-pjRGDwrJ_t-ttN_RdMdyEoE4/s320/rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A brolly - rain or shine in Singy</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I am still addicted to the weather, a fascination all that is inherently Canadian, but the closest I can find in Singapore is the impending rain, which on some days, it is announced as a Monsoon Day. I am not certain how you can qualify it as a Monsoon Day, because every day is a monsoon day. It just means you get wet, really, really wet. Thankfully, it isn't freezing rain that makes your car skid into the ditch, it isn't blinding whiteout conditions, that cause your eyes to play tricks on what you are really seeing, and it isn't small mountains of snow to navigate through. It is just hot, sticky rain that lasts an hour and then the sun comes out with a vengeance, turning the city into a steaming, hot bowl of Sauna soup. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Somewhere, someday, we will strike a balance between this sweltering heat and the bone-chilling cold. We are searching for the perfect climate and according to National Geographic, there are two places in the world that qualify; Kenya and Lake Chapala, Mexico. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am not up on my Swahili, but I can manage some Spanish on a good day. Hmmm, Mexico! Why didn't I think of that?</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-65944698389596912922013-01-17T01:57:00.001-08:002013-01-17T01:57:23.100-08:00I wish I was homeward bound<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxF36K0labfD67LdnxTUMMMUuZLcAW2BI8u0TX3a20dnfuIotlvAzQkHrQAHAe_zMuek_z5R6WULmPJbsQvMYgawc5qytsXFH3zEuYOU2u9djqhImJRSAtSlLV1jO6ooqQM6jjDLG0dpV/s1600/IMG_1349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxF36K0labfD67LdnxTUMMMUuZLcAW2BI8u0TX3a20dnfuIotlvAzQkHrQAHAe_zMuek_z5R6WULmPJbsQvMYgawc5qytsXFH3zEuYOU2u9djqhImJRSAtSlLV1jO6ooqQM6jjDLG0dpV/s320/IMG_1349.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It looks pretty, but brrrr....</td></tr>
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You can't go home again, especially when it is -28C and you left +28C, but somehow I managed to live to tell.<br />
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<span class="s1">The trek to Canada was easy once I got out of the Denver airport; just hop on a plane the size of a Tonka truck, slouch as you squeeze through the aisle because you are too tall and two hours later, land in snow-covered Regina.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The only snafu was the 45 minute wait on the runway in Saskatchewan because they have one ground crew, who seemed to be busy with another plane that landed earlier. Dear god, where have I landed? Oh yes, and of course, the snafu in Denver where five agents had difficulty finding my reservation and my spinning head and frothing mouth, telling them I had a confirmation, I was getting on the plane, even if that meant sitting on the pilot's lap and helping him land the aircraft.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp9AxyWVRkf_KYOCOQfQHSkLnfyyHbWqz-7_OFdXhg7sCcc7XGpfvSiOQ24VbiY6hGTIgKLSK64jMJIhqUA1VyEby8M457wv7t7OZRNXM7yo_e8RBT4K1tqAjrCFF5FwbOrj4dg13k5SF/s1600/IMG_7123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp9AxyWVRkf_KYOCOQfQHSkLnfyyHbWqz-7_OFdXhg7sCcc7XGpfvSiOQ24VbiY6hGTIgKLSK64jMJIhqUA1VyEby8M457wv7t7OZRNXM7yo_e8RBT4K1tqAjrCFF5FwbOrj4dg13k5SF/s320/IMG_7123.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I surprised them all</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Only one person knew I was coming to Canada and that was my daughter. She was my partner in crime, telling white lies to everyone we spoke to for eight months. Both of us nearly spilled the beans so often but somehow we managed to keep mum on the plans to give my son, family and friends a huge surprise. We made up so many stories that by the end, we couldn't keep straight what we told people. I managed to block FaceBook so my immediate family had no clue I had arrived; the beauty of technology.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I finally got off the plane, I raced down the gangplank, knocking over moms with strollers and one man taking his sweet time with a white cane. I raced up to Immigration barely able to answer the questions about where I lived, where I had been and when I was I last in Canada. I couldn't concentrate on what she was saying, but when I tried to answer where I had been, I said, "Lady, you don't have enough time to hear my story. My kids are out there and I haven't laid eyes on them for over a year, just let me go. No fags, no booze, just a bunch of cheap souvenir crap from Southeast Asia." Miraculously, she said, "Welcome home."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was shaking when I found my funky pink luggage and wheeled it from the protected area. I heard a scream that would shatter glass and was hit with a blond bombshell, yelling, "MOMMY." Luckily my daughter is petite or she would have sent me flying. She was hugging me, crying and getting mascara all over R2's huge coat that I wore; I barely saw my son who was shocked and grinning from ear to ear with his beautiful smile. Everyone at the luggage area was laughing and pointing at the tearful reunion of these three crazy people.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscs10joLi0vFUqN46BQK3Jfh48pmFUza-wMBomhZbVbuNOQPEMshXwa8z6nMkVsCQr049QXilBg8QlXxcea1TQX9yQqD4GddJxNpa4fOVKs5xIhqVMg-Dyz-epkArH-VtTwYSpphfwfte/s1600/IMG_7171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscs10joLi0vFUqN46BQK3Jfh48pmFUza-wMBomhZbVbuNOQPEMshXwa8z6nMkVsCQr049QXilBg8QlXxcea1TQX9yQqD4GddJxNpa4fOVKs5xIhqVMg-Dyz-epkArH-VtTwYSpphfwfte/s320/IMG_7171.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Road Warrior - Ed</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">We were fortunate to have the help of a wonderful friend and man I worked with. He had no clue what was going on, but had volunteered to help make this reunion happen even though we had told him fibs and fabrications to get him to the airport. He drove us 60 km to my parents’ home through blustery conditions to give my parents the shock of their lives. My children went in to greet their grandparents and I hid in the Jeep. Finally I emerged from the vehicle with my hood up. When my dad turned around, I took off the hood and said, "Merry Christmas, dad." My father talks more than I do but for once in his life he was speechless. My mother saw me from inside the house and screamed my name. Yup, the plan worked as orchestrated.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIaUobtQkNAniGkQ_q1pFgj5hzuZwTx8-nr6Gl7R_fDpr4rCS36s4wk_cXcneXH-KChmmOXeGHHLrYAjFzx8TuyfS7yXqwxEFSf1Ahe9Sr9lHqX76e0gxRndriCHgDyEVMjdIfm7iSSdO/s1600/IMG_2788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTIaUobtQkNAniGkQ_q1pFgj5hzuZwTx8-nr6Gl7R_fDpr4rCS36s4wk_cXcneXH-KChmmOXeGHHLrYAjFzx8TuyfS7yXqwxEFSf1Ahe9Sr9lHqX76e0gxRndriCHgDyEVMjdIfm7iSSdO/s320/IMG_2788.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Mitten Swap Tradition</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Christmas held the same traditions; the cabbage rolls, the games cheating, the great knitting swap of mittens made by my mom, and of course, the annual photo of overstuffed grandchildren who are now too big to make the pyramid pose. We Skyped R2 but he was knackered from a ten hour delay in Beijing so we only saw him for a moment. It was a great Christmas even though I only had a few gifts to give from the various countries due to weight restrictions on the planes. My daughter said "We don't need any presents mom, your being here was enough." We can all thank my thoughtful husband. He is generous to give me up almost every year since we have been married so I can see my family, while he spends Christmas in a cold, lonely airport, drinking stale coffee and eating greasy food at the nearest food kiosk. I pinkie swore to him that next year, it is all about him.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWreixFV4PzCl4hOOPbJM1Ntb_xFm9e4xj27uAkrRSUD-ZxTMYC0mjMas0a_fmzSMibQ_D_MZ9cHgl_x3xHXfImJM2VhTe8yQDnFnoxAyd66B0o9o69oUeyOPQHierPk33MpAJNdQZksZH/s1600/IMG_7163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWreixFV4PzCl4hOOPbJM1Ntb_xFm9e4xj27uAkrRSUD-ZxTMYC0mjMas0a_fmzSMibQ_D_MZ9cHgl_x3xHXfImJM2VhTe8yQDnFnoxAyd66B0o9o69oUeyOPQHierPk33MpAJNdQZksZH/s320/IMG_7163.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seeing my dear friend CLW</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I can't say I loved the frigid weather, I got a cold almost immediately, but I was pleased to spend quality time with friends, old and new. I saw people I hadn't seen in yonks, I met some new people that I hope remain friends for a lifetime, I chatted with people that follow my blog and asked when the travel book was coming. My Singapore people ask me that all of the time but they are friends and have to ask that question. When it is a perfect stranger, it gives me the courage to contemplate the thought. I know there is a book somewhere, even if it is only for me, I believe I have it in me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">While Saskatchewan is my home, I know I don't belong here anymore. Every time I ventured to Regina to visit, I was smacked with a white-knuckled drive back. I drove through fog, mist, rain and white outs. I can't bare the cold and I now dress like a hippie, European in a multitude of layers. That look is wonderful for the girls in Spain but on me, it just adds to the "Singapore Fat Western Woman" look.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7qlyP-svTv4-OF1v1X6wxAiJtHjsSRi0WjPHVF13WOc58PjbT6IuHcf1DgXH1oOzy1gq0WVdAz3hlvvjQopeBVXQ1fILb2o86pnZtK5nKP3Cooweiax6HHc3o96zUvBOjs0rz-CLrppt/s1600/IMG_7160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf7qlyP-svTv4-OF1v1X6wxAiJtHjsSRi0WjPHVF13WOc58PjbT6IuHcf1DgXH1oOzy1gq0WVdAz3hlvvjQopeBVXQ1fILb2o86pnZtK5nKP3Cooweiax6HHc3o96zUvBOjs0rz-CLrppt/s320/IMG_7160.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodbye GPA - tearful goodbye</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Our time in Asia is on the countdown now because we are in Year Two. We are homeless people with no possessions with the exception of my bike, my ten foot palm tree and a bunch of hangers I will never give up. We are nomads up for the offering. The older I get, the more Mexico is beckoning us to return and live a simple life. For a fraction of what we pay in Singapore, we could live like Kings in Mexico and this thought truly appeals to me; no work and be the Princess I have always envisioned myself. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GzUJ4gMTCAEc4mv9f0Qj738vecJ_Vf-gLA0ZhViElGHbxefGxF1I-12K0m7WupMjXukZg-pAmmjzDrwYvquWXKw1dAUnY8sWSxG3qr_wMZhNpJZKkJUs3PWFdioE5Se3LwWd7TR2b9BB/s1600/IMG_7152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GzUJ4gMTCAEc4mv9f0Qj738vecJ_Vf-gLA0ZhViElGHbxefGxF1I-12K0m7WupMjXukZg-pAmmjzDrwYvquWXKw1dAUnY8sWSxG3qr_wMZhNpJZKkJUs3PWFdioE5Se3LwWd7TR2b9BB/s320/IMG_7152.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GMAs are the best</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Thank you to the friendly people of Moose Jaw who follow me, thank you to the lovely Japanese waitress I met in DK Sushi House who reminded me of home, thank you to McNally’s for a $28 round of drinks, instead of $200 in Singapore, thank you to my co-workers from Saskatchewan Highways and Infrastructure that made me emotional when so many of you showed to greet me, thank you to Rikki and Lucas who made Christmas extra special, being the amazing adults you have grown into and mostly, thank you to Herman and Gerry Segall who put up with my slovenly ways, my late nights, and giving me their brand new car to bomb around, when I can barely remember what side of the road you should drive.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Happy New Year Canada.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com10Regina, SK, Canada50.4547222 -104.606666750.292954699999996 -104.9293902 50.6164897 -104.28394320000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-47818566117065010342013-01-11T02:27:00.002-08:002013-01-11T03:58:27.472-08:00In the Land of the Tortillas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eWHJFoW9CP5UuMeshnj13bI-kuZdc1MjUs-PnSqVJ7VBwePEAmSE1QHhNAAQagk0BgS-6nsIxFxPb2LZ8dtexCfhwe4YLh8gBoG1o0Zc-is6sBgwAE606RSoKpiPI7IR3G6ZCcc8yjdk/s1600/IMG_2704.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7eWHJFoW9CP5UuMeshnj13bI-kuZdc1MjUs-PnSqVJ7VBwePEAmSE1QHhNAAQagk0BgS-6nsIxFxPb2LZ8dtexCfhwe4YLh8gBoG1o0Zc-is6sBgwAE606RSoKpiPI7IR3G6ZCcc8yjdk/s320/IMG_2704.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breathtaking sunset over the Pacific</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
took me a couple of days to unclench my fists, and loosen my jaw once
we arrived in Ixtapa, Mexico for Christmas. I didn't realize
how much I missed our "second home" until we arrived and
were settled in for a couple of days. The first few days were spent
trying to forget the constant noise, pushing and sweltering heat of
Asia. I guarded my table in the restaurants like a hawk, thinking
someone was going to come along and put a packet of tissues on the
table to take it away from us, like they do at the Hawker stations in
Singapore. Once I got past the screaming nightmares and had a few
tequilas, everything on our return visit home, was under control.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAaEZeMVLdgH1jkhMGqwxHj9r_11sxQSz-7C3bUGde3fEJ7rp9QBiP2sMVzYI2kay6wAhLZvxyad3ArEuW0PFy7Ia7ryZoR5YtkIJfoDu-yqPQhCu3Zi4ZksO7T89ohX1OzeXNdeM_3li/s1600/IMG_7073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAaEZeMVLdgH1jkhMGqwxHj9r_11sxQSz-7C3bUGde3fEJ7rp9QBiP2sMVzYI2kay6wAhLZvxyad3ArEuW0PFy7Ia7ryZoR5YtkIJfoDu-yqPQhCu3Zi4ZksO7T89ohX1OzeXNdeM_3li/s320/IMG_7073.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our tiny Mexican family</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It
has been 18 months since we were in Mexico, and we have been in,
on, and around dozens of beaches since we left North America but there
is nothing that spells rest and relaxation like the sand in Mexico;
that is unless you go during Spring Break. Then that spells, bikinis,
booze and ambulances hauling away pickled university students. We got
lucky; our week was filled with family Christmas festivities,
courteous staff and people that greeted you with Buenos Dias every
time you met. In Singy, I could faint dead away in the MRT train and
no one would lift a finger or bat an eye at my plight, except to push
me off the seat so they could sit down.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdOODF7VOfyRr8pPhl1_kw6eeLzwxHcyc_1koHh8-mgluihpHMseEaocDFqqGuTNn9JiqbvKWpnU6k25MaCKoCz1bcjxyOz3cuV5ZRXJnb-rZvuk7DCs1jaTbO4kcjjI9emgPR-QZVM1z/s1600/IMG_7049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOdOODF7VOfyRr8pPhl1_kw6eeLzwxHcyc_1koHh8-mgluihpHMseEaocDFqqGuTNn9JiqbvKWpnU6k25MaCKoCz1bcjxyOz3cuV5ZRXJnb-rZvuk7DCs1jaTbO4kcjjI9emgPR-QZVM1z/s320/IMG_7049.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stuffing our faces again</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like
me, R2 was homesick for his sister in Mexico. It had been too long
since he saw her and his tiny family. His parents passed away so he
is an orphan with only his sister's family to call his own. He has
adopted my mom as his surrogate madre but with no VISA to Canada, and
scared to death of the snow, he wanted to eat, drink and breathe Mexico
for a week. What a week it was. If R2 could gain weight, he
would be a Sumo wrestler by now with all of the tortillas, sopes,
quesadillas, chilaquiles and beans he shoved down his gullet. I told
him he needed to slow his pace and that no one was going to take the
corn tortillas away from him. He was so excited to have
authentic Mexican food that he forgot breathing was essential to
eating. After every meal he would complain, "I can't believe I
stuffed my face like that again. I need to stop," and yet each
meal he would be ravenous, indulging in the familiar food from his
childhood. I would just shake my head and make a bee-line for the
papaya and mango.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORkht7jO-JBaf47hfE39TXFncyjWcxCyRD6z_y3bzYMh6DNhjyx16Ecp8IKMmfmdOOd6i31HZYLAUHvtvz5VNzfa-I8HNm0xd3vYZAwqtuQqZUJZJJmXbxnVLQaZWsO6k3jOpCGYMs_d4/s1600/crocodile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhORkht7jO-JBaf47hfE39TXFncyjWcxCyRD6z_y3bzYMh6DNhjyx16Ecp8IKMmfmdOOd6i31HZYLAUHvtvz5VNzfa-I8HNm0xd3vYZAwqtuQqZUJZJJmXbxnVLQaZWsO6k3jOpCGYMs_d4/s320/crocodile.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the twenty crocodiles at Playa Linda</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
have been to Mexico so many times, I have lost track but even so, I
never grow bored or restless with the country. There is so much
to see and do and this time was no exception. We wandered down to the
crocodile swamp where there are vibrant flamingos and egrets among
the prehistoric reptiles. It was Sunday so many locals hang out at
the swamp because it is free to view. Even though we have been there
dozens of times, we never tire of watching these slow moving beasts
sneak up on the egrets for a morning snack. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzwrr_qxARhpYXxxmk0N2F8ACHNFgN98mEEzLNgGmwP3SqgxuaRQ4KU723vTYBE6CaRaCdaJq0r_d62XIHd95uJSfGffgdmdMX4hYHji57A-fcH54_pRYZDtpCHVintF7i4cd-iN6H6an/s1600/image_1357353908981999+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzwrr_qxARhpYXxxmk0N2F8ACHNFgN98mEEzLNgGmwP3SqgxuaRQ4KU723vTYBE6CaRaCdaJq0r_d62XIHd95uJSfGffgdmdMX4hYHji57A-fcH54_pRYZDtpCHVintF7i4cd-iN6H6an/s320/image_1357353908981999+(2).jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My goddaughter with baby and teeth</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
time, we were shocked to see an elderly, dark skin man with daisy duke
shorts, bleached blond hair and a wonky eye walking among the
crocodiles. He was cleaning the banks from garbage and telling
everyone that he is able to walk among the reptiles. At least that is
what I think he said. He might have said he was selling
crocodile boots from the back of his car because my Spanish is still
in the learning phase. I fear that one day, someone will happen upon
this sanctuary and only find his hat and mess of blond hair. I have
seen the crocodiles sneak up on an egret and make a quick meal out of
it, and I don't think this 80-something year old man man is as agile
as the bird.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He
hauled out some tiny crocodiles for the locals to pet and take photos
with, but we stayed far back. Even the babies had a mouth full of
teeth that would do serious damage if they thought we looked sweet
and juicy. Really people, it is not a puppy or a kitten. They are not adorable and fun to cuddle; it is a crocodile, no matter how small.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" lang="en-GB" style="background: transparent; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; orphans: 0; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-decoration: none; widows: 0;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
rest of the week was filled with gyms, swimming, jelly fish stings,
snorkelling and generally being a lazy sloth which is a good thing
because once again, landing in the USA is pure hell and you need to
be on top of your game to deal with Customs and Immigration.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We
got off the plane in some nameless US city, to be ushered like steer
to the Visitors line. It was similar to being in Disneyland, winding
through the enormous queue. You were forced to listen to the
propaganda welcoming us all to the United States of America, over and
over. In fact, we listened to it for the 1.5 hours we stood in that
line. We watched as the Americans raced through their lines but
us Mexicans stood, silently waiting for our opportunity to be abused when we
finally got our turn with the official.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuUlz71MUAnWivljBaHYbVlSLqdmpifuz3g8XqKu4oQYjGPCSfN-osZuXYIKqj35RnwC532yf7UO5ZwL6M3nsSE1Lgj4IYMiRVNZl4hUkn1LgPjFLyK2eERAXye6ppZiUlZlwJYEVGW-f/s1600/IMG_1318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbuUlz71MUAnWivljBaHYbVlSLqdmpifuz3g8XqKu4oQYjGPCSfN-osZuXYIKqj35RnwC532yf7UO5ZwL6M3nsSE1Lgj4IYMiRVNZl4hUkn1LgPjFLyK2eERAXye6ppZiUlZlwJYEVGW-f/s320/IMG_1318.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't believe I ate so much, again</span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our
Agent was named Lopez, but I guess he forgot his roots and manners
when he spoke to us. As usual, R2 was treated badly, his passport
scrutinized from all the stamps that decorate his pages and the usual
question, "What are you doing with this Canadian woman?' "She
is my wife." And the sceptical eyebrow from the agent. "How
long you lived in Thailand and what is your business?" "We
live in Singapore, huge difference, and he is a Computer Engineer."
Can we go now! I had to correct Sr. Lopez three times that we
lived in Singapore and contained myself from punching him in the
throat for his racist attitude toward R2. As a Canadian, I am treated
decently, but if you are Latino, watch out and be prepared for the
glove if you look the wrong way.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
We
barely made the gate to my next plane, where R2 and I parted company
with only a few leaky tears from me. He flew to Chicago, where
his Singapore reservation mysteriously disappeared, was rerouted
through Beijing almost freezing to death with the ten hour layover. I
went to Denver for an overnighter before I boarded a miniscule plane to Canada
to surprise my family for Christmas. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
things we do, just to get a decent Tortilla.</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-68498784849469476532012-12-24T23:08:00.002-08:002012-12-30T22:11:08.820-08:00Can we melt the 24 K gold taps?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;">There was a time when staying on a beach for $25 was all that was within my budget. Soccer, guitars and keeping a roof was priority one and if there was anything left over, a great seat sale, and God willing, I took a little R and R for myself to regenerate my frozen batteries. That was five years ago, my children are now in uni, and now I have a husband whose idea of roughing it is sharing a bathroom with me on the 50th floor of the Conrad Hilton Hotel. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The billowing sail</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I have always known R2 is "high maintenance" and yet he swears it is all about me. What I didn't know is that he harboured a secret fantasy about staying in the most luxurious hotel in the world; a hotel that provides a private butler, a fleet of Rolls Royces at your disposal and the infamous 24 karat gold faucets that grace the bathrooms. A hotel where they provide a place for you to land your helicopter when no other parking spots are available in the desert, and if you require complete privacy, at The Burj, you will be indulged. The hotel stands on an artificial beach, and was built to resemble a billowing sail. For us Canadians, we can be proud that the design and construction was managed by Canadian engineer Rick Gregory, from Vancouver. </span></span><br />
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Due to a little side trip we decided to take several months ago, our flight happened to be landing in Dubai. At the time, when we booked the trip, all we knew was the journey was going to be miserably long. That is when R2 got the brilliant idea to change the flight and extend our time by booking a room at The Burj Al Arab, the only self-proclaimed seven star hotel in the world. You aren't allowed into this hotel without a reservation, and even with one, the security is tight, limiting photos to protect the extremely rich and famous that often use this hotel as home base. We fall into neither of those categories, but I do fall into the category of having a husband that enjoys making each and every anniversary we celebrate better than the last. This was our fourth, and his surprises always give me one year to wonder how he will top the next. Last year we were separated by Singapore and Canada so I guess he was making up for lost time.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our grand entrance</td></tr>
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R2 told me that I couldn't walk into The Burj with my ratty, sweat-stained Singy clothes and the thought of shopping in tiny-sized Singapore sent shivers up my spine. He also told me the Roots Canada backpack was out. "What? That backpack is almost as worn as I am from being in so many places." What had I got myself into agreeing to go this hotel? Luckily I did find a couple of muumuus that I thought would suffice and eventually I talked him into letting me carry the backpack when he saw how handy it was for the telephoto lenses for the camera to take the photos of this 8th Wonder of the World. You can take the girl outta Canada but I can't travel without my tacky grey and black Roots bag. He did suggest I purchase a Louis Vutton carry on until I told him, the bags start at $1,500.</div>
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We were met at the airport by our driver, with a bouquet of roses in hand to welcome us to Dubai and say "Happy Anniversary." We thought Singapore was an amazing city with outstanding architecture, but it pales in comparison to Dubai, and to make it all the more remarkable, this city was a desert only ten short years ago. There were pristine conditions everywhere we went, with flower, green grass and date palms making, what is a desert, seem like your are in the tropics. An even more pleasant surprise was cooler December weather, giving us a respite from the oppressive humidity of Singapore. The summer reaches temperatures of 50C so I am not sure I would be as impressed in July.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 being artsy</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">We arrived at the hotel which dominates the Dubai skyline. I am sure the chauffeur had to pick up our jaws and wipe the drool from our chins as we stepped into the lobby. R2 yelled as I pinched him to make sure he wasn't dreaming. I kept waiting for security to come and toss me out, spotting my fraudulence a mile away. This must be how Granny Clampett from the Beverly Hillbilly's felt when first laid eyes on the cee-ment pond in Beverly Hills. I grabbed Jethro and we rushed to the room for more visual stimulation.</span></span></div>
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To answer your burning questions, yes, this hotel was everything we expected, and more. From the grand entrance in our two story suite with the sweeping gold staircase, the gifts of His and Hers Hermes perfumes, the gratis bottle of French Merlot, the fresh tropical fruit and boxes of exotic chocolate dates, the butler that draws you a fragranced sea salt jacuzzi, the towels that are so heavy you can barely lift them, to the bed so luxurious you sink in a sea of softness. We toured the facility and saw private elevators to floors not meant for peasants like us, impressive lounges with crystal pianos and 30 ft nutcrackers. We checked out the aqua blue Arabian sea, dined amongst a few celebrities in town for a film festival and had our socks blown off at the most impressive gym and infinity pool we have ever laid eyes on. If I wasn't so jet lagged from our red eye flight and long stop in Sri Lanka, I could have enjoyed playing with all the electronics in the room a little more, and might have got up the courage to summon our butler for a soothing massage. I could only open and close the drapes from the bed with the controller so many times before I knew I needed some Arabic coffee to jolt my caffeine fix into action. Strangely, I don't drink coffee, but I felt if I ever needed it, it was now. While I have nothing to base my opinion on, I imagine I drank one of the best Cappuccinos in the world. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Khalifa is outrageous</td></tr>
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Our time in Dubai was short but we did manage to take in as many sites as possible. The Burj Khalifa Tower has recently opened and is the tallest building in the world in every category. It is so tall, you become dizzy trying to see the top. I thought the Petronas Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpur were impressive but they have nothing on the Burj Khalifa.<br />
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It is a well known fact that in Dubai, the stranger or more outrageous the idea, the more quickly it will be built, as if to show the rest of the world, "We don't care what you think, we will be the biggest, the best, the most amazing city on the planet." Their newest project to outshine anything in the world is the largest shopping called appropriately enough, <i>The Mall of the World</i> which is being built to beat Dubai's own record of largest mall in the world, call <i>The Dubai Mall</i>. They have run out of records to slash and burn so they are now turning on themselves.<br />
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What we found the most familiar about Dubai, was on the way to the airport, I spotted Tim Hortons out of the corner of my eye as the taxi zipped in and out of traffic. A nice piece of Canada while so far from home. From my research, Timmie's is just as busy being flooded by the Canadian expats in Dubai, as any drive-thru in Canada with the exceptions of the high-performance cars instead of the trucks and 4X4s. </div>
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We had our anniversary dinner at Al Mahara (Oyster) seafood restaurant surrounded by an over the top 990,000 litre fish aquarium that was bigger than most people's flats.I couldn't eat any fish with eels, Blacktip Reef Sharks and hammerheads staring at me with bulging eyes. I didn't ask the price of the bill but I will bet R2s latest pay stub is a few less zeros. We may have to dine on white rice at the hawker stations in Singapore for a month but I think it was worth the indulgence.</div>
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It was difficult to leave The Burj but like so many things in my life these days, it seems like a dream, with each country we visit, more exciting. The thing that kept my spirits was our next, but not last destination; The Burj was merely a stopover. One stop in a journey that doesn't involve servants, fois gras, men in white, billowing dishdashas or women dripping in Cartier and Tiffany diamonds. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bathroom to love</td></tr>
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When my son came to Singpaore in April, I was so homesick as the days raced by and I knew he had to leave to get a job to cover university costs in BC. I felt a physical pain in my stomach that all mothers feel when it is time for your kids to leave the nest. R2 to the rescue to make me smile. He came up with a brilliant idea, and gave me the ultimate gift of travel.</div>
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R2 knows I share a tight bond with my children so it was then he decided to buy me a flight to Canada for Christmas with a one week stopover in our favourite place before I hit the frozen tundra. I was able to leave The Burj because I knew I had a week in sunny, Mexico with his family and then two weeks in Canada with my family. The only catch is that I would have to carry on to Canada on my own due to his immigration issue with our Immigration friends. Once again, a Christmas apart but one day, I know we will be together, with loved ones.</div>
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My family or friends have no idea that I am coming for a brief visit, so by the time you read this, I will be flying through the USA and being hassled at Customs, too give them a surprise Christmas to remember. I haven't seen my daughter or my parents for over a year. I plan to land in Regina, Saskatchewan with no winter jacket, mittens, pants or socks because I tossed them away when I moved to Singapore, but somehow I will make the drive in 4 feet of show and bone chilling temperatures. I hope I remember how to live in Canada; I am scared out of my mind about the cold I keep reading about. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my kids once again</td></tr>
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Somehow I doubt I will feel the cold when I see my kids but after the reunion happens, I will be raiding my dad's closet. If you happen upon a curly haired woman with her tongue frozen to a pole, provide a little warm pee to unstick me. If you see my face crack from the cold, provide the humidity I am used to in Asia. If you see a frozen popsicle wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jacket, and man's winter boots, say hello because Layna in Asia is home for a good time, but not a long time.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-40005388167058309012012-12-11T14:02:00.002-08:002012-12-11T14:02:36.787-08:00Living la vida loca<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Last year I missed the Christmas hoopla in Singapore because I wanted one last hurrah with my children and of course, I can never get enough of that frozen stuff that is so plentiful in Canada. I know you thought snow, but I was thinking the ice in my drink that manages to stay frozen for the entire length of the drink. In Singapore, it lasts as long as you can walk from the kitchen to the dining room. While scraping car windows, braving the biting cold to do battle in the malls and ramming old ladies in Costco for the biggest pumpkin pie, I missed all outrageous seasonal parties in Singapore. Come on, you know you would knock over someone for those pies. Have you seen the size of them?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 showing his sopes</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">R2 and I got the party training rolling by inviting a dozen Japanese friends over for a little pre-Christmas spicy Mexican food and spirit. Nothing says "Joy to the World" like jalapeno peppers, black bean dip and chicken chocolate mole on top of freshly made sopes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">For a little added fun, R2 asked the guests to help make the sopes from imported corn flour, in our hot, steamy kitchen. Most of the guests have a limited grasp of the English language but with sign language and a little cerveza, he got the message across. I know there was a lot of bowing and laughing as Yukihiro rolled the sopes and Kyoko pressed them flat in the tortilla maker. I suggested we introduce tequila in the cooking class but then R2 would have been speaking Japanese and the Japanese, Spanish with remarkable efficiency.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Oddly enough, the next party I am attending, is again hosted by me. Don't judge; at least this way I always like the host gift and I am dressed appropriately for the occasion.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am trying to outsmart Mother Nature at this event. At our last fiesta of this magnitude, we had the monsoon rains blow in during the evening making conversation almost unbearable, so if I host early enough, maybe we can have a conversation without screaming at the top of our lungs while the rain pummels my glassed-in dining room. Is 10:30 a.m. too early for aperitifs?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">This get together started innocently as a ladies book swap but now we have more than 30 women coming, and me serving sangria along with nibblies. The one thing I know is the only booking involved will be of taxis to get the blottoed chicks outta the henhouse before my Old Rooster gets home. As for any swapping; well, that is another kind of party down the road in Geylang.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An $8.95 per litre rip off!</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Fast forward to the next, next party because you can never have too much Eggnog during the Holiday Season; even if that Eggnog is $8.95 per liter in this part of the world. R2 and I are invited to a restored shophouse for an old-fashioned Secret Santa party, with friends from the UK. I really have no idea what a Secret Santa is but I do know that if Santa doesn't point his sleigh due East, trade Rudolph for a camel named Habib, and shed his fur, he won't be finding me anytime soon in Singapore. And here is my secret for you Santa, Rudolph, even with his nose so bright is no match for the heat, sand, oil and Ferraris in Dubai.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">With all of this hobnobbing, a girl has to find some fancy regalia to wear to the parties. Shopping for the western woman in Singapore puts fear into the heart of gals from one end of the island to the other; I am no different. I shudder just envisioning a trip to the mobbed malls, going through racks and shelves full of clothes meant for wee people. The average expat is almost out of luck when it comes to buying, well, almost anything except for the occasional pair of shoes or a pashmina.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was not going to let Singapore win this clothing battle. I loved to shop in new stores in North America and no way was I going to let Asia defeat me. When I used to try on clothes in Canada, people would give me feedback and compliments, telling me clothes looked decent on me. Here, I am told, "We find you bigger size, you fat." I have also been told, "You aren't THAT fat," and my all-time favorite, "You too big, go to fat western store." How is that for a kick in the ego?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Off I sweated to Orchard Road where if you can't find it, it ain't made. I went into a department store and determinedly marched to the Ladies wear. I knew boutique and Layna were not going to see eye to eye on 5'9" and curves.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The salesclerk spoke some sort of English that was unfamiliar to me but I explained I needed party dresses for Dubai and a Secret Santa party. I think she understood the Dubai part; the jury is still out on the Santa comment.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She dragged me back to the change room with an armload of dresses which I eyed dubiously. They were beautiful lace and sequined frocks but the size and price didn't match. I think the tinier the dress, the more it costs, as with lingerie. She began to push, shove and stuff me into dresses that the armpits where so small, I looked like I was in a permanent "hold up." The waist bands on my over-length torso became an underwire bra. It may be just me but something about a glittering belt situated and holding up your tatas just didn't sit right with yours truly. To top it all off, the mid-length dress turned in its modesty to become a micro-mini on my frame.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Finally we found two dresses that didn't make me look like a 10-year old girl covered in ruffles, frills and bows, and were decent, if not quite attractive. Never mind that, I now am the proud owner of a size L and, gasp, XL. Maybe I can cut the tags out. All sense of pride and vanity is thrown out the window when you are dealt the "Fat Card," and given an XL.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aQCDAHamT-lTMbpcOpvO0kPoAQhhr1myo9KS2rqXMbBPQkQY2NmBxukFIsUdMa6aZWfYwTqlq6HmJMP0qhhXCoEN0g4IJw31UXdBRqjcR1ldlzuCSfISAnkCsPyqVuwObV9bqVX4GkBR/s1600/food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aQCDAHamT-lTMbpcOpvO0kPoAQhhr1myo9KS2rqXMbBPQkQY2NmBxukFIsUdMa6aZWfYwTqlq6HmJMP0qhhXCoEN0g4IJw31UXdBRqjcR1ldlzuCSfISAnkCsPyqVuwObV9bqVX4GkBR/s320/food.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No wonder I am XL</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1">Despite the calamities that befall R2 and I, overall the Christmas season has been special in Singapore because like us, there are thousands of expats searching for that "down-home" Christmas experience they left behind. What has made Christmas charming in Singapore, as in Canada, is the friends we have made. We might be sweating around the fake Christmas tree, the rum that goes in the eggnog is even a more outrageous price than the nutmeg thick goo, but with all the wonderful friends we are blessed to have met in this past year, I want to say thank you for letting us share in your Christmas traditions. So as they say in Holland, "Gelukkig kerstfeest</span><span class="s2">", or in Thailand, "สุขสันต์วันคริสต์มาส</span><span class="s1">", or Portugal, "Feliz Natal" and of course Mexico, as R2 recalls his father telling his mother “Your mother is here, pass me the Whiskey.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">While we may not be home, and we are both missing our families and traditions, we are enjoying being surrounded with new friends and customs, no snow and the knowledge that all of my amigas are also wearing size XL.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-44982158327512286122012-12-05T04:04:00.002-08:002012-12-05T04:04:49.465-08:00Santa, grab your flip flops<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
People from Canada will think I am barking mad when I whine and moan about the tropical, sweltering heat during the Christmas season, but that is what I am about to do, so pull up a chair.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpQMiAdxw40oB26IqzU-pNwdKs7RWQ85DSoQgF1ZzXZ0ZkstLcH4FxW20N7UPr7iM9W7C2wkn9IsVjoIw4d0nnWB6a4RvbFUWfwrUqEtLBxc0cmURQWkrpfJDY52ACmnO5YexA-1OulnD/s1600/IMG_1263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpQMiAdxw40oB26IqzU-pNwdKs7RWQ85DSoQgF1ZzXZ0ZkstLcH4FxW20N7UPr7iM9W7C2wkn9IsVjoIw4d0nnWB6a4RvbFUWfwrUqEtLBxc0cmURQWkrpfJDY52ACmnO5YexA-1OulnD/s320/IMG_1263.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orchard Road spectacle</td></tr>
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Let me correct myself, it isn't the Christmas season quite yet but the decorations have been up for yonks. In Singapore, we had to get through Thanksgiving for the Canadians, Hari Raya Haji for the Muslims, we then had Halloween for the party revelers, Deepavali for the Indian community, Remembrance or Veterans Day for the many westerners and never to forget the Americans, it is Thanksgiving today and Black Friday tomorrow. Whew, I hope I didn't forget anyone. But amidst all of festivities, Santa has been lurking in the background, trying to get your hard earned dough by advertising what are the hot ticket items you must buy for your kids or their lives will be forever destroyed. Singapore is always about the money so what better time to drill into our heads that we must head to Orchard Road, one of the most expensive shopping areas in the world, to load up on Prada, Louis Vuitton and Cartier. I know that I am expecting a $20,000 diamond encrusted Rolex under my Christmas Cactus.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREQ8zJPtbol9zCkPTe2wmUHz3nOXy97clxj0Ew-sHZcujXQxWnFn8wlkGq34bi-3O2yKqFhShsyF0SFosO51Utt6LOH1WsqTxOrr7qzU_gCX6rLjEO4KFQH9hlpd4c4pmC-Tkno8rPqB0/s1600/IMG_1262.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREQ8zJPtbol9zCkPTe2wmUHz3nOXy97clxj0Ew-sHZcujXQxWnFn8wlkGq34bi-3O2yKqFhShsyF0SFosO51Utt6LOH1WsqTxOrr7qzU_gCX6rLjEO4KFQH9hlpd4c4pmC-Tkno8rPqB0/s320/IMG_1262.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What kind of tree is pink and neon?</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Singapore is never one to do anything on a small scale so when I say there are Christmas decorations, I am not talking about a subtle tree or nativity scene scattered here and there. I am talking about 50 feet, neon pink, bedazzling trees that have globe sized ornaments that advertise banks, credit cards, liquor and anything else they can showcase. The electricity needed to light these fake trees would power up an even smaller country. Every nook and cranny has garlands, jolly elves, bulbs, sweaty, scrawny Santas and mustn't forget the music. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The Yuletide tunes blasted everywhere would rival a rock concert for ear shattering decibels. I have not heard any beautiful music that has anything to do with an Oh Holy Night, but I swear if I hear Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree one more time, I can't be held responsible for my actions. By the time you get out of the madness, you need to have a Christmas Jack Daniels. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_uQre5auaAhQn3eOLabglb19N8JZhuvHTnsmR9SFrWE7P4-VWv2pwJ7y8_fUbhbVKEq4maVhLdu7Vmgx9uD7qPOROBnpok2nYsUlxobkQxerg4GZf5j4aR-jWBLkJOsNjmpOhOzaHZh1/s1600/IMG_1243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC_uQre5auaAhQn3eOLabglb19N8JZhuvHTnsmR9SFrWE7P4-VWv2pwJ7y8_fUbhbVKEq4maVhLdu7Vmgx9uD7qPOROBnpok2nYsUlxobkQxerg4GZf5j4aR-jWBLkJOsNjmpOhOzaHZh1/s320/IMG_1243.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ye old Christmas VISA tree</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">The most interesting part of all this manufactured “O Come all Ye Faithful” is that Singapore is one giant construction site. It is hard to be festive and oohh and aahh over decorations while a brobdingnagian crane is looming overhead and you are listening to the pounding jackhammer make, yet another hole. I am living in a country full of holes and always on the lookout in case I fall into one. Maybe it will have a candy cane protruding to make the gorge more jolly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There has never a single Christmas that I haven't been immersed in snow and had Jack Frost nipping at my nose, while I was nipping on Rum Toddies. It isn't as if I have never seen Christmas in a hot country before. I took my children to Disneyland but it was still chilly while we watched Santa Mickey during the night time extravaganza. I have gone through brown Christmas where people were out golfing and flying kites after opening presents during El Nino in Canada. I have had the pleasure of before and after Christmases in Mexico where cities are adorned with real mistletoe and poinsettias as far as the eye can see. It is charming to see the children in Mexico because of simple pleasures; not this outrageous, overstated grandstanding ad naseum in every mall.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMq-jAlH2HOsmxmp7igbyf1eT7ZU_H5eElYW8KQQTBl4zmE3GnppyystVuqeRMNw1DHKTVZuML0JbztgCM-PPRYQgq_p6x2-mP3qvJ4eVPIeIkeu8eCyPXyv7ZfiTeWSv7rzQ6LA0dq4t6/s1600/IMG_1264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMq-jAlH2HOsmxmp7igbyf1eT7ZU_H5eElYW8KQQTBl4zmE3GnppyystVuqeRMNw1DHKTVZuML0JbztgCM-PPRYQgq_p6x2-mP3qvJ4eVPIeIkeu8eCyPXyv7ZfiTeWSv7rzQ6LA0dq4t6/s320/IMG_1264.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fighting the crowds at<br />
Hello Kitty Christmas</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Christmas to me was always a time for family, eating until we couldn't roll off the couch, family snapshots where one kid was always putting rabbit ears behind another's head until I would bellow at them to knock it off. My mom would bake the most delicious cookies, slices and chocolates. Her house always smelled of turkey, cabbage rolls and the sage from the dressing. I can almost guarantee my house won't smell like that on Christmas for two reasons. First, my oven is 13 inches big so it is tough to make sugarplums dance through your head when you are dealing with an Easy Bake Oven. Furthermore, my house smells like a wet chicken that hasn't been plucked, thanks to the constant rain. Well, at least it is in the poultry family. Maybe I could sprinkle sage in the corners for that authentic wet chicken dressing smell.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Christmas hasn't always been as easy time in my family. When my oldest sister Leslie died, much of the enthusiasm of Christmas went away for my family. Christmas was the time she always made it back to Saskatchewan. We would sit up for hours arguing over endless games of Scrabble. I know to this day she cheated and that is why I could never beat her. She would drive me mad by playing the piano and her flute at all hours of the day or night so my sleep pattern was out of sync, but it was a time for family. With the addition of six grandchildren to the mix, my parent’s house became more crowded; there were more sloths on the couches complaining of turkey asphyxiation and while the flute is gone, my son plays some mean Christmas carols on one of his many guitars. The games may have changed but I play them with the kids and they cheat as well as their Aunt did.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOIbi0bwkNnlCcfJU3fCcu49f6IhQeKJ59vOMNfQDMbzAiXljn0iOAlb1_16319FeB_GkG85FW8mWzLCbYYqW33HdTTHfDSIVvxf1RVGzbYLU5A9GObCU8Iz0plErVyIM0p0sSpAIhcZc/s1600/IMG_3114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOIbi0bwkNnlCcfJU3fCcu49f6IhQeKJ59vOMNfQDMbzAiXljn0iOAlb1_16319FeB_GkG85FW8mWzLCbYYqW33HdTTHfDSIVvxf1RVGzbYLU5A9GObCU8Iz0plErVyIM0p0sSpAIhcZc/s320/IMG_3114.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Mexican Santa in Vera Cruz</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I have never missed one Christmas from my family so this will be a first. To make me forget what I am missing, R2 has come up with an even whackier idea than celebrating Christmas in the torrential downpours, soggy decorations and frenzied tourists that push and shove you to jockey the best position for a photo op on Orchard Road. He has decided to book me into the dessert for an even hotter experience. We are heading to Dubai to stay in the most glamourous, indulgent hotel in the world, The Burj Al Arab. I hope having a butler at my beck and call, a fleet of Rolls Royces, and camel racing will make me forget jellied fruit cocktail salads and celery slathered with Cheese Whiz. Thanks to the beauty of Skype, I can’t be with my family but they have promised me they will steal wifi from the neighbours, connect and show me the cookies.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDhZAu5SpPJfDu5LfKkYJpJHlNp8uooWEwPxQC-rKWGZW3Skt7sZxgLUCCtOOWBqYkFT2BmwCu75qbgHQuAfcXKbiVmKeSkFPe0F-dOz5WT9xej6bw5qkW1dXLZ-63bBztC8GTg-ACduQE/s1600/IMG_1258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDhZAu5SpPJfDu5LfKkYJpJHlNp8uooWEwPxQC-rKWGZW3Skt7sZxgLUCCtOOWBqYkFT2BmwCu75qbgHQuAfcXKbiVmKeSkFPe0F-dOz5WT9xej6bw5qkW1dXLZ-63bBztC8GTg-ACduQE/s320/IMG_1258.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fighting to take a picture</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">So Santa, this year I won’t be in Singapore looking out the window while the rains make it as hard to see as a Saskatchewan blizzard. I am heading for warmer climates. If you are coming to find me, make a right turn and head to the Middle East. The security is so tight at The Burj, I hope you can make it through the metal detectors. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Just between me and you, I would suggest your bikini and flip flops but remember it is a Muslim country so modesty must be maintained. Perhaps it is okay to wear your speedo under your Dishdasha. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Merry Christmas from this side of the world.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com2916 Orchard Rd, Singapore1.2987212 103.8474311.2907837 103.8375605 1.3066586999999998 103.8573015tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-23104594263553051622012-11-27T18:29:00.000-08:002012-11-27T18:29:11.149-08:00Autograph anyone?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I like to think of myself as the bashful, introverted type, and then I wake up from my dream and realize I am the nosey Mrs. Kravitz from <i>Bewitched</i>. It was my inner busybody that landed me in a film being shot in Singapore about children being forced into arranged marriages around the world.<br />
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<span class="s1">Three weeks ago, I was walking with some friends in the Chinese Gardens when we happened upon a film crew and my big yap asked if they needed any extras. I didn't expect the director to say yes, but she needed some bodies for a wedding scene in the upcoming weeks and asked if I had friends."Do I have friends? Hecks ya."</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNq_wGtQTDXi7L7Y3nz3BZVIVVNThOfySgCqZ9BITHoWdYYCoazuz0zhh7gcETELkApp9-9gVrovd1izuqxCZ3i6zKrsVkWxDOl3EZXNMaruDR8i-kHhy7N1W0QtrU9s2kOcVWY7RldH2d/s1600/Mrs.+kravitz.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNq_wGtQTDXi7L7Y3nz3BZVIVVNThOfySgCqZ9BITHoWdYYCoazuz0zhh7gcETELkApp9-9gVrovd1izuqxCZ3i6zKrsVkWxDOl3EZXNMaruDR8i-kHhy7N1W0QtrU9s2kOcVWY7RldH2d/s320/Mrs.+kravitz.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I even look like Mrs. Kravitz</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I put the call out to some of my Singapore mates and told them to gather up their saris because we were going to be heading to Little India to be the crowd at an Indian wedding. None of us knew what the film was about but it didn't matter because it sounded like first-rate fun. We all just hoped it wasn't a porno movie, but this in Singapore. No chance of that!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">If you have not been to the enclave of Little India, you are in for a feast for the senses. Little India is a loud, messy mishmash of spices, flowers, produce, meats, clothes and food. Every corner has a restaurant, a market full of aromatic, handmade garlands and Hindi music blaring. I have been to several cities in India and this is as close as you get, minus the animals running on the road, rooting through the trash.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb43St0P4ODmPYI8jW2xx9iHXCbKR0P2NyXcfI5sKRdH3P8mECg9ppJtWedD1vIqf-YJzKy5yzHVv-vEL3lCkZ3-lDAh9GyVw0hERHK6KM9APnU2O15X_8nEv_jxRHkzNW2-8RCpZdDAKf/s1600/IMG_6847.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb43St0P4ODmPYI8jW2xx9iHXCbKR0P2NyXcfI5sKRdH3P8mECg9ppJtWedD1vIqf-YJzKy5yzHVv-vEL3lCkZ3-lDAh9GyVw0hERHK6KM9APnU2O15X_8nEv_jxRHkzNW2-8RCpZdDAKf/s320/IMG_6847.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our lady in pink</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">The director, Natasha is a whirling dervish, full of energy from New York City, making films in Singapore for the next three years. She is originally from Iran, as is her Director of Photography. They are making films that highlight many of the injustices in the world, such as young children being forced to marry creepy old men. Imagine our surprise when we were introduced to the bride of the scene. Farrah is about 12 years old and the groom looked to be about 35. I don't think it was hard for Farrah to "act" sad or upset about this role. It was downright pedophilic We were told to be happy, happy while this poor little girl looked so far out of her element, she was on Mars. If you were put in this position, you would be confused, terrified and wanting to run for your life. The groom was told to act proud because he had such a young bride.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZyaGBTwjqu6kBrOiAOFzqrSsqOuJcDAM1bDiQ8TLlNoB6bhCyUaPx2bdJnn_df7iSDYqdp3ZZKeOkZyYc6x0cHg1nflCG_wwbg7b1CE-BKLH072f4cwW4HHAjVF9wxJL6JbOhfJoS2an/s1600/IMG_1111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieZyaGBTwjqu6kBrOiAOFzqrSsqOuJcDAM1bDiQ8TLlNoB6bhCyUaPx2bdJnn_df7iSDYqdp3ZZKeOkZyYc6x0cHg1nflCG_wwbg7b1CE-BKLH072f4cwW4HHAjVF9wxJL6JbOhfJoS2an/s320/IMG_1111.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luckily my friend knew what to do!</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Besides meeting the tweenagers in this movie, I met more expat extras, some local Singaporean woman and Cameron, the sound man from Virginia. Of course, we mustn't forget the Indian men that wandered up to me in the park and asked to take their photo with the redhead in the blue sari. Good lord, can I not get away from the photo taking? My friends thought it was hilarious and suggested I give out autographs. These men became such a nuisance that we had Cameron chase them away. Luckily he was a big guy, not used to taking no for an answer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The shoot itself was fun but also exhausting. I didn't think I would get so tired, standing in one spot, and who knew your cheeks would hurt from take after take of the “wedding crowd” smiling. The second she yelled, "cut," the smiles would droop off our face and the sweat would run down our backs. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDK0NBxU6eNUnqeRPckbO8Y1AXIlUvnYgOHZvMHbDV86vniQiW2FGmAiQkdGhjwSZ79EikyI4AxAoeiIQ8h6urp3FfoxNTgF-rF4D4jg6TVqr11-gyqqfJuVH9clD5yr4BqywvqzarhJu/s1600/IMG_1117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKDK0NBxU6eNUnqeRPckbO8Y1AXIlUvnYgOHZvMHbDV86vniQiW2FGmAiQkdGhjwSZ79EikyI4AxAoeiIQ8h6urp3FfoxNTgF-rF4D4jg6TVqr11-gyqqfJuVH9clD5yr4BqywvqzarhJu/s320/IMG_1117.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "stars" of the movie</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">It was a blessing that it had rained before the shoot because I am certain there was a huge salty, puddle beneath me from the sweat running from my head to my toes, one drop at a time. I was one of the lucky ones because my Sari was a cheap 5.5 metre piece of cloth wrapped around me several times. I only spent $7 on the tatty fabric and like any big sister, my sister Lori Facebooked me and said I looked like I was wrapped in a bed quilt that my parents had in the 70s. Leave it to the sister to tell it like it is. Some of the other ladies had authentic saris and they were hot and heavy compared to my thin cloth. As wonderful as they looked, you knew they were melting with the silken sheaths.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and our bride, melting</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I am not sure I looked like a duvet cover, but I do know by the end of the shoot I looked like someone had wrapped me up in $1 store wrapping paper. All of the hard work my friend put forth in making me look respectable was for nothing. We were all so hot and ragged that when the director yelled, "That's a wrap," there was a collective sigh of gratitude. So much for my film career as an extra. One day was more than enough for me. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Natasha told the actors and crew to head to Little India and grab lunch at one of the delicious spots for authentic southern Indian food. We were happy to head anywhere that had air con and a place to rest our weary legs. To make the meal even better, our petite leader picked up the tab as we gorged ourselves with food I can’t name. I never knew standing around would make one so famished.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"> Natasha explained these short films they are making will be entered into many worldwide film festivals so who knows? Maybe the other love-of-my life Robert Redford will see me at Sundance Film Festival in Utah, but if he doesn’t, this is his last chance because I am officially hanging up my sari and retiring from being an Indian as well as an extra in the movies.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-4894619438681650932012-11-18T05:01:00.000-08:002012-11-28T02:08:01.867-08:00Puzzles, punching and excuse my Spanish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
They say as you get older you should engage the head in activities that stimulate and keep the brain fresh such as Sudoko or maybe Pictionary. I am not sure my brain has many cells left after a lifetime of tequila and kids driving me mad but I do believe in the philosophy. My Grandpa Kat was a puzzle man and as kids it always gave us great pleasure to try to stump him with the most challenging puzzles we could find; the best one, as I remember was Spilt Milk. He completed it with ease, and we never managed to rattle him. He had great patience to deal with dozens of grandchildren and to complete even the most brain busting game.<br />
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<span class="s1">In Singapore, because it is difficult for expat spouses to work, we are always searching for new ideas on how to keep the cerebellum on an upward spiral so we don't become complacent and die of boredom in the heat. Yes, "Wah, Wah," says the expat wife, and I will forgive you if you don't feel sorry for me.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHCa1Vt67BinouVubWhU9xkYeea2ImsBG7iF8AyZEUW_Zvjmu2I39bE9hEIVVfwDdO4S2rqXw6W3yVjk_6AReD0BGzBDNo1OmpyQJSKgr3SpBB_CtwaG-pMIukOs9yD0cqahVnRfc2Dw1/s1600/krav+maga2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQHCa1Vt67BinouVubWhU9xkYeea2ImsBG7iF8AyZEUW_Zvjmu2I39bE9hEIVVfwDdO4S2rqXw6W3yVjk_6AReD0BGzBDNo1OmpyQJSKgr3SpBB_CtwaG-pMIukOs9yD0cqahVnRfc2Dw1/s320/krav+maga2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take that, girlie man!</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">My latest pursuits are a little off the beaten track when you think of Asia. This continent conjures up the idea of the mysterious Orient, heavenly spices, mythical creatures, bizarre medicinal remedies and exotic ladies dressed in Cheongsams. None of that nonsense for me though. I have decided to take a self defense class while here to keep my muscles confused. Before I came to Singapore, I spent half of my life in a sweaty, testosterone gym and since leaving, I have turned into gelatinous goo. I do bike but I can only ride so many kilometers before I fall off the island and end up in Indonesia. I thought self defense would be a great way to keep mentally alert and toned at the same time.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When you think of Asia, you think Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid, graceful Tai Chi, or ear piercing “Hi-Yahs” in Judo. Not my bag. I decided to take an Israeli self defense class called Krav Maga that is comprised of kicking, biting and punching your way out of any situation, including a paper bag. What Israel has to do with Singapore, I have no idea but I am never the one to take the traditional route.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFzlAZaoItciaCEHSLixp6y-kb8v17g9IEGaiNfqXQFFySClHxfjrBmex4VRIfPVVOn4OBvV8tpJWZiosVMg3jFuFUF1m0-jeMXY4iEc1rkD9A6xNVX0kCsCzqNI2nogpvo9D-UYKov7X/s1600/layna+at+krav+maga.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFzlAZaoItciaCEHSLixp6y-kb8v17g9IEGaiNfqXQFFySClHxfjrBmex4VRIfPVVOn4OBvV8tpJWZiosVMg3jFuFUF1m0-jeMXY4iEc1rkD9A6xNVX0kCsCzqNI2nogpvo9D-UYKov7X/s320/layna+at+krav+maga.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can't tell you whose face I am imagining</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">There is nothing sexy about Krav Maga. It isn't for show, belts or the fighting ring like Muay Thai. It is just to survive in case of an attack. The only problem with taking the class, as much as I enjoy hitting the instructors and breaking free from a choke hold, is that I am now looking for people on the MRT or the bus to nail after the class is finished at 10:00 p.m. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I walk away from the class with bruises, and cuts, so whilst on the subway home, I am begging people to mug me or get frisky with an Outrage of Modesty incident. No such luck. I have taken to walking down dark alleys but Singapore is one of the safest countries in the world so the chance of any type of attack is less than zero. I will have to suffice with punching the bags, beating the pads or giving my instructors a good smack now and then. I have noticed when I arrive home, both R2 and Man are safely tucked into their beds for fear I want to show them a newly learned technique.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLeO1BIg1pSFbWB4tt1clHhDSo-M1hXqKejJY0Uy-WtCfYGtf4waC-9_zInLiAaITIlZxcEmOTbz7ijI98yh-IpL51W5gWIfVlgeB-dx1gmLSm7NT_32Sa8NbIn7G5LcJ-F7hbmObjfXCq/s1600/spanish+books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLeO1BIg1pSFbWB4tt1clHhDSo-M1hXqKejJY0Uy-WtCfYGtf4waC-9_zInLiAaITIlZxcEmOTbz7ijI98yh-IpL51W5gWIfVlgeB-dx1gmLSm7NT_32Sa8NbIn7G5LcJ-F7hbmObjfXCq/s320/spanish+books.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few of my texts for class</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">The other activity that I have taken up, which makes no sense in Asia, is Spanish. I pay a private tutor more money than my son’s college tuition to teach me “Hola, dos cervezas, por favor.” I can't be satisfied to learn Malay, Mandarin or even Singlish for that matter. I can't say "lah" at the end of every sentence or cut phrases to a minimum by saying, "Can, can," or "Can not" as they say in Singapore. I had to hire an expensive tutor from Spain to teach me Latin American lingo. You must remember I live with two Spanish men but they seem to forget they are Spanish speakers when I enter the room. That is why I pay the hefty fee, do a ton of Spanish homework, and hope one day I can survive in a Latin country without sounding like a complete hick town girl, from Canada. “Mi nombre es Dora la Explorer,” well, you get the picture.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I mustn't be too hard on R2 and his lack of language teaching skills. I have for a fact, become incredibly adept at swearing and blasphemy with every combination of sinful words available to me. For some reason, I pick up these words like a duck to water, I can prattle them off at any situation. I am not sure why I am so fluent in expletives but it might have something to do with every time there is a futbol game on the computer, I hear words that would make a Mexican bandido blush coming from the office, where R2 is holed up trying to get any soccer news from home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am not sure where Krav Maga and Spanish will take me. I know that I am frustrated that I am not as agile as I used to be so it makes Krav Maga more difficult, but to date, all of my pearly whites are still intact, and I do come home with some skin left on my arms so that is a bonus. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBfBpFWSlxVEmKOC9McEBsZC9yUolbW5-Vvz5nLZOpNEbuWrKUVtZsRrmHtXZRywgfodO1OwT5hAZybf1WJH_8-ZVkyhxps2eX-P_npZ6n-JPCZ2s5JR6y-MUoUDQXArpNK-8xgHkd3iU/s1600/IMG_4714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBfBpFWSlxVEmKOC9McEBsZC9yUolbW5-Vvz5nLZOpNEbuWrKUVtZsRrmHtXZRywgfodO1OwT5hAZybf1WJH_8-ZVkyhxps2eX-P_npZ6n-JPCZ2s5JR6y-MUoUDQXArpNK-8xgHkd3iU/s320/IMG_4714.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can speak to Caterina in Spanish</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Spanish, well that is another story. I guess I should have paid more attention in Grade 9,10 and 11 French class but our 300 pound pedophile teacher was more interested in staring lecherously at the young girls, handing out chocolate bars when you won French bingo, and having the students make "snack runs" to the local store, than teaching us anything useful. Had I only knew how to conjugate French verbs and understood the masculine/feminine thing that goes on in other languages, not called English, I might be a wee bit more successful at Spanish. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We are on countdown mode to leave Asia and we have no idea where we will end up. For four years the Canadian Government has held up R2's residency for reasons we will never understand. I have come to learn that Mexicans, even well educated, highly sought-after professionals, face great discrimination across the world and Canada is no different. You never know how my Spanish will come in handy while living in Mexico, and my Krav Maga, well, that will keep the bandidos at bay while we wait to return to Canada. Meanwhile, these new activities may or may not be keeping me on my toes but I know my body and my brain need a constant diet of Tylenol.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2Lpj2HLr1USqeDN_DJcyzA19TIL_xxWw5FS23qfuTP8gywf77yMfWZv65f-ZMwYr8Bscl1Q-o9sBkqVDm_mVJxdtUiQZx3SuvtPnF7FSBVjxvs5sBnodjHXIZk6AhFAKA-lNL2TQcTKI/s1600/protect.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2Lpj2HLr1USqeDN_DJcyzA19TIL_xxWw5FS23qfuTP8gywf77yMfWZv65f-ZMwYr8Bscl1Q-o9sBkqVDm_mVJxdtUiQZx3SuvtPnF7FSBVjxvs5sBnodjHXIZk6AhFAKA-lNL2TQcTKI/s320/protect.JPG" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">G.L. & Steve are ready to Protect</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">For anyone interested in taking Krav Maga, Muay Thai or Boxing, I would highly recommend <i><b>Protect Singapore</b></i>. Senior Instructors Steve and GuanLong (G.L) are fierce competitors and well trained in these disciplines. They are tough, and when you hear them kick a heavy bag, you know it. They are also both extremely patient and work you at the level you need to be; not under and not over. They both look like a couple of gentle, Singaporean gentlemen, but believe me, you would not want to be in a fight with them. I can almost guarantee, you would not win.</span><br />
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The particulars for the studio are below.<br />
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<span class="s1">Protect-Singapore - 11D HongKong Street (5th Level), Singapore 059654</span></div>
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Contact number - 8250 4361</div>
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<span class="s1">Facebook link <a href="http://www.facebook.com/protectsg"><span class="s2">www.facebook.com/protectsg</span></a></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Website <span class="s2"><a href="http://www.protect-sg.com/">www.protect-sg.com</a></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-45776963261470828142012-11-09T18:24:00.003-08:002012-11-09T18:24:46.351-08:00Don't steal my thunder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoX0yf9EwnCJ1PJxVZuInOOzxqPA3BA39UU6tjUPhRCgq7S3adzcgCTrEEGsnttFXyLDSMgn4ALDAuHLD8tJqGFf0HTl-FI_yxGRCUis0aGkpj3jwf_zNDWon-zyEzeXp4uQ5-Qdqbn2Iz/s1600/DSCF0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoX0yf9EwnCJ1PJxVZuInOOzxqPA3BA39UU6tjUPhRCgq7S3adzcgCTrEEGsnttFXyLDSMgn4ALDAuHLD8tJqGFf0HTl-FI_yxGRCUis0aGkpj3jwf_zNDWon-zyEzeXp4uQ5-Qdqbn2Iz/s320/DSCF0022.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had my sun hat on, preparing for The Bahamas</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">When R2 and I got engaged five years ago, we wanted to throw a <i>Tommy Bahama</i> party because we were on our way to Nassau to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, to buy a wedding band in the jewelry laden country, and let's face it, to get out of the bitter cold. We invited our guest to don board shorts, Hawaiian shirts, bikinis, flip flops and anything else that reminded them of the beach. What we didn't bargain for was-42 C weather.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">R2 had only landed in Canada in May so it was his first winter, and as far as he was concerned, his last. We had already made a trip to Mexico in December but by the end of January, we were ready to escape again so the trip was booked and a party was organized. Many guests made the party but it wasn't the full house we thought it would be due to the bitter cold. We all made the best of it and toasted to the brave souls that thumbed their nose at Jack Frost.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdc7Oj7NJnTKY7tJGvnkoy2_h9Hgp8_iCibTHt1jUt4btESdrj2HtIAOH7u4YyQitJjiHccW06AolCwyNTDu2mkrg-E6c4DUT7V31T9plqaBLNjtygH-0dXngj2EeYSutdTCnY8Slb9ua/s1600/IMG_0023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMdc7Oj7NJnTKY7tJGvnkoy2_h9Hgp8_iCibTHt1jUt4btESdrj2HtIAOH7u4YyQitJjiHccW06AolCwyNTDu2mkrg-E6c4DUT7V31T9plqaBLNjtygH-0dXngj2EeYSutdTCnY8Slb9ua/s320/IMG_0023.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My plants were waiting for the guests on the roof</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Fast forward five years to Singapore and not Saskatchewan. R2 and I decided to host an international party and invite all the people I have met since living here. What I didn't tell him was exactly how many I asked. I assured R2 no matter how many showed, on our garden rooftop, we would find the space.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It may sound like a piece of cake to host a BBQ; we all do it in our home country, but you must remember, we have no car and I had no idea where to buy buns, burgers or a piece of cake, for that matter. We had to remember the non-meat eaters, the non-pork eaters and the non-beef eaters. I scoured the city for chicken and veggie burgers. Luckily a local friend knew of a bakery that would bake me the white, sweet hamburger buns - all four dozen of them. There is no Costco or Walmart so if you can only find white flour buns and processed, plastic cheese, so be it. As long as we all got together, it would be fun.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends from Singapore and Japan</td></tr>
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I felt quite cocky on the day of the party. I told R2 and Man that our day was going to be perfect with no rain in sight. The past days, we had buckets of rain, but not a drop fell on party day, Saturday. At 6 p.m. we were going to set out the chairs on the rooftop when Man pointed to the sky and told me in Spanish the sky was very dark. "Oh no, nothing is going to ruin this party. We have over 40 people coming so the rain isn't invited."<br />
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<span class="s1">No sooner than I said this, the sky opened up, the lightening streaked through the sky and thunder shook the house. Then the phone started, and the texts and the Facebook messages and the emails asking, "Is the party still on?' Come on people, this is just a little rain; yeah right.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The rain pounded the house, pelted the windows and bent the trees. The party goers were having difficulties getting taxis, the roads were flooding, and our elevator broke down. Nothing like a five story hike to the top of the complex to get a party started. The people arrived with sweat and rain dripping off their ruined coifs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I lost control of the party and the greeting of the guest because we opened up another door to our penthouse to try to help the people not capable of walking the flights. R2 was greeting them at the front and I was at the back. Food appeared out of nowhere, Susan, our helper started to "BBQ" in the kitchen, Man tried to entertain and introduce himself in his Spanglish and we ran to get the guests drinks, if not towels.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">At one point I counted 45 bodies in our condo. We had people from India, Japan, France, Korea, Spain, Canada, USA, England, Scotland, Nigeria, Australia, Philippines, China and Singapore. When the Italians showed up, I sent R2 over to chat them up in a familiar language and make them feel welcome amongst the saturated crowd. Every other language was on their own because frankly, my Gaelic needs a little work.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was our international student, Man that heard the "Help, help me," wafting from the bathroom. Too bad he wasn't sure what the voice meant. Our condo has heavy wooden doors and thick sliding panels that block off one section of the flat from the next to save on air con. One of our guests went into the bathroom and shockingly locked the door. What a terrible thing she did. Imagine, locking the door to a bathroom. This door has been the bane of our existence in the condo and all the guests that visit us are warned about the lock. We already spent money to get a locksmith to un-jimmy the door when we arrived.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Man saved lady in checkered shirt from the loo</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">All of this action was going on without my knowledge while I pretended I spoke Japanese to assist the non-English speaking Tokyo friends. R2 and Man tried desperately to free our young guest out of the loo. There is no air con in the toilet and I think she was starting to melt. It was Man's brilliant idea to jump out his bedroom window, in the monsoon, up five stories and leap like Spiderman to the bathroom ledge from a precarious perch. He then buttered his hips and shimmied through a two foot square window, head first into the shower to jack the door on the other side with a credit card. I asked how a lawyer knew how to pick a lock and he just smiled. That part of English he understood!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was able to usher people to the rooftop and we had space, fresh air and a beautiful Singaporean night. While it is a sweltering heat zone during the day, all the expats and locals live for the nights in Singapore. The temperature dropped to a cool 24C, there was a breeze blowing from the beach, and for several hours the party continued under the stars, with distant lightening over Indonesia giving us a spectacular light show.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I think most people enjoyed themselves at our first international party. A ton of fun-loving people, a torrential downpour, inside BBQ burgers and powder room drama. Most people can only dream of hosting such an event.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com20Singapore1.352083 103.8198361.098096 103.503979 1.6060699999999999 104.13569299999999tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-58240329413439610562012-11-03T00:19:00.000-07:002012-11-03T00:19:56.249-07:00White elephant in the room<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before I moved to Asia, I had a love of Dragons that began with R2. He explained that in Asia, the mythical creature is the most revered of all the zodiacs and now that 2012 is <i>Year of the Dragon</i>, everyone wants a "Dragon Baby". The beast is a mix of all the animals and only comes around once every 12 years. We enjoyed dragons so much that in every country we visit, we purchase one, so now I have an extensive collection. While most of them were broken in two or three pieces on the boat ride from Canada, I still have them on display - everywhere from Mexico, to Austria, to Spain to Hong Kong to Vietnam. Thank god for Crazy Glue.<br />
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<span class="s1">I have never been a dog lover, although I have tried. I enjoy the look of dogs, but in Singapore, often the poor guys are relegated to a small flat and bark like mad out of sheer boredom. Too much yapping and crapping for me. I love cats and grew up with them, but the felines in Asia are bizarre. The eyes are too close together and only a stump of a tail; it's just creepy. They mostly roam wild and keep the mouse population to a minimum but I don't want to touch them. There are many kind souls seen in the parks and void decks feeding the strays and if they are generous, pay to have the cat sterilized to keep the population down. A clipped ear signifies a neutered cat, a missing tail, well, we haven't figured that one out yet. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">What I truly love in Asia, since I visited on a holiday three years ago is the gentle giants; the elephants. I ask you, is there anything more beautiful than the wrinkly face, the soft, trusting eyes and the inquisitive trunk of a pachyderm? These regal beasts understand about 40 commands and become attached to humans for 80 years, so why isn't there a Year of the Elephant?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dozens of elephants walk for hours carrying tourists</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I was like most tourists and didn't think much about the elephants. All I wanted to do was claim I rode one while in Malaysia. The first elephant I rode was apparently in the movie, <i>The King and I</i> with Jodi Foster but for all I know, it could have been in <i>Dumb and Dumber</i>. I only felt sadness after I handed over my Ringgits and rode that poor creature. I didn't tell R2 my feelings because while in Langkawi, I dragged him, all over God's green earth to ride that exhausted fellow. He proceeded to book me another trip in Jaipur, India, not knowing I was sickened by the abuse of the elephant and that we were contributing to it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">What we experienced in Jaipur made Malaysia seem like a picnic for the elephant. In Jaipur, there were about 50 elephants all painted and decorated with Mahouts riding them on the neck, up and down Amber Fort. An elephant has a weak back so it is only advisable to ride on the neck. This was not the case here; there were baskets and often you would see three or four people loaded on the backs while the elephants climbed a steep 1 km trail to the top of the fort. I thought I would die when I saw a man beating the elephant on the head with a bull hook. Again, I didn't tell R2 about how upset I was, but in retrospect, I know he was as saddened and sickened as I was about the treatment. As sure as the sun rises, I know that R2 puts me first in everything he does. While riding an elephant up a huge hill is not his cup of tequila, he did it for me. I didn't want to hurt his feelings by telling him I was distraught over this madness.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have seen the tourism elephants in Thailand and I have seen the posters advertising the shows where they dance, bow and perform for the tourists. I have seen people parading the elephants up and down the congested streets in costumes and paint while the travellers pay for a photo with them. Now that I have worked with and researched elephants, I refuse to help the people that benefit from the abuse of the beasts.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello YaYa...I am Layna</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">What I did find in Phuket, Thailand warmed my heart to a select group that make money with performing elephants. We met a man on Mai Khao beach that had a two-year-old baby named YaYa. We were lounging by the pool, when R2 shot up and yelled, "Follow me." I don't ordinarily see R2 move that fast unless there is a buffet line involved so I didn't question him, as his long legs raced down the path to the beach. What we found there was the most beautiful sight.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The man had his wrinkly, grey baby and to make money he asked for 100 Baht ($3 CA) to feed her a huge bunch of bananas. We had left so quickly we didn't have time for money, so I asked him if he could return the following day. A male elephants eat about 250 kg of food per day so I had no problem paying to feed this gorgeous girl.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too many kisses</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Sure enough, the following day the man and YaYa came back. I hugged and played with her as much as I could, while she covered me with elephant slobber from her trunk. She had bristly hair sticking out all over her head and she was a flirtatious delight. She lapped up the bananas and grabbed them out of my hand if I was too slow to feed her. I gave her 100 Baht and she put it in the man's pocket.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">YaYa stuck around the beach for a long time that day; maybe business was slow or the man was enjoying the cooler weather. R2 ventured into the ocean and was surprised to come out of the water, right beside YaYa. She had wandered into the Andaman to refresh herself. All R2 saw was a grey periscope above the surf. He had never been so close to an elephant before and was charmed by her.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We sat near the ocean, waiting for the famous sunset of the JW Marriott and YaYa stayed right there with us. I watched as the man tried to hose her off after she rolled in the sand, like a dog. She is still a baby so she refused to get clean, like many babies do. He had to scold her until she slowly came forward for a bath. Typical kid, doesn't want to take a shower. She played with the man by licking his face with her gigantic tongue. He blew into her trunk and she squealed in delight. At one point, he sat on the grass and YaYa stood overtop of him. No matter where he would go, she would run after him. I was grinning from ear to ear to see this display. He was kind and gentle with her; never did he strike her with a hook or treat her in a rough manner.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Finally the sun set and all the tourists called it a night on Mai Khao beach. So did the man and YaYa. Before he left, I walked to him and said, "That elephant really loves you," He replied in broken English, "I really love her."</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9a4JC4cmjl5bhvIeKapQOS8r9ZZx_WVvh5I7USqzWRTkfXASX-iqqNzGjkD9QZMgALOxV4ddAVFNeUtPo4lUZK-4KalxVCjSrsCQjSiCvN5Kga6HlO_3DSFTIgZsJl1Nw5cm0vSlFa8f/s1600/IMG_6716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9a4JC4cmjl5bhvIeKapQOS8r9ZZx_WVvh5I7USqzWRTkfXASX-iqqNzGjkD9QZMgALOxV4ddAVFNeUtPo4lUZK-4KalxVCjSrsCQjSiCvN5Kga6HlO_3DSFTIgZsJl1Nw5cm0vSlFa8f/s320/IMG_6716.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Sunset means home time for YaYa </td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I hope the man always cares for YaYa and keeps the bull hook away from her. I hope she has a chance to procreate and isn't made to amuse the tourists indefinitely and I pray the man always loves her the way he did on our last day in Phuket. </span><br />
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Please remember and be discerning when it comes to elephant treks. Like the trapped barking dogs in tiny Asian flats and condos, not all are treated with dignity and respect, and have the room to grow and exercise, the way they were meant to. The elephant population is reduced significantly in the world. There is a very real fear they will quickly become extinct, so being raised by man may be the only way they will survive poachers and game hunters.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com33ภก. 3033, Mai Khao, Thalang, Phuket 83110, Thailand8.1254919 98.3077962-67.5940911 -63.4109538 83.8450749 -99.973453800000016tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-4412589262599701122012-10-25T20:22:00.000-07:002012-10-25T20:22:25.003-07:00Honesty is the best policy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is often said that honesty is the best policy and I try to live by that rule, but when it comes to your spouse, a little white lie is frequently better. "Yes, Corazon, your singing voice is as good as Bocelli, yes, mi Amor, you've got the moves like Jagger, yes Darling, I liked your fried bean, cucaracha salad better than Jamie Oliver’s." For the sake of harmony in the marriage, keeping the peace can be more cathartic than being truthful.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswynj8c4wtmAD5MfTBSoFCEuM0q3oi48AHvyLN-NVA0DssSHgvgw056Vh2WZET8hI-QUxObwpmFjJk1vjum3VZ4w0mpLPOp9OKrq6BRdK5kPu-VjGRpIqWY3V0a0MA8Xk4P26srvCOiei/s1600/thaimassage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswynj8c4wtmAD5MfTBSoFCEuM0q3oi48AHvyLN-NVA0DssSHgvgw056Vh2WZET8hI-QUxObwpmFjJk1vjum3VZ4w0mpLPOp9OKrq6BRdK5kPu-VjGRpIqWY3V0a0MA8Xk4P26srvCOiei/s320/thaimassage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signs are everywhere for massage</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">This was the case in Phuket, Thailand, at a massage "spa". We had frequented many massage centres for Thai Massage and most of the times, the services were decent, if not exceptional. Before we made our final trek to the northern tip of the island, away from the tourists traps, noise, ladyboys, and partying, we thought we would grab one last quickie, cheap-o massage. We went to an establishment close to our hotel because the sun was blazing at 12:00 p.m. I knew we were in trouble from the minute we entered the run-down shop front called Pimpsia. There was no way I was laying on those flea-infested beds. They screamed of bedbugs, cockroaches and towels that hadn't seen a wash machine since the last monsoon. R2 was oblivious to this, or at least pretended he was. I went for a foot massage, and he roamed off with some masseuse to a curtained room.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">My "lady," and let's just call her a lady for simplicity sake, couldn't take her eyes off of me. I tried to desperately ignore her while she rubbed and caressed my gnarly, beach callused feet. Thank the lord, I had my phone with me and I played a game while the caressing continued. Finally toward the end of the foot massage she informed me that I had a wonderful nose. I know I am no spring chicken anymore, and I have received a few compliments in my day for various attributes, but my nose? It turns out, Thai people enjoy the bridge of the noses on Western people. It is one of the top requests at the Plastic Surgeons, well that is, after they change from a man to a woman. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeh3FXwdx_MHPES8SOHsobs0YkH9f9c2nwE35rkZsZpSUUzmbui64A2kU6hpMISakaSWeBoBFuo7feBAtQEeEQ5wS2xOAFDFwbKoXJalxQ-kmvAz8ivThXslVbxsYUJUk2XdOUq4qbkQK/s1600/christinmassage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeh3FXwdx_MHPES8SOHsobs0YkH9f9c2nwE35rkZsZpSUUzmbui64A2kU6hpMISakaSWeBoBFuo7feBAtQEeEQ5wS2xOAFDFwbKoXJalxQ-kmvAz8ivThXslVbxsYUJUk2XdOUq4qbkQK/s320/christinmassage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a place for a "family" massage</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">As in most foot massages, they escalate to arms, shoulders and head. This tiny Madam continued to tell me I was sexy, hot and gorgeous while she stroked my curls. Oh dear lord, keep massaging and quit looking at me like a giant, sunburnt, ATM machine. I am not going down that road with you.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was never so happy to have one hour drag by, but poor R2. While I was being shaken down by a toothless, who-the-heck-knows-what, he was being propositioned only two meters from me. Being propositioned in Thailand is the same as breathing, but what has shaken him to the core is whether it was a man or woman. It seems he was in an awkward position, sans typical Thai massage comfy wear, when the Rubber asked if he was interested in an "off-the-menu-massage." Not wanting to offend and being in a vulnerable position, he politely declined and said, "I gave my money to my wife that is sitting outside this curtain." The look on the face of the masseur was either disgust or calculation on how to get the money from the wifey. He assured her/him, "Next time," which seemed to calm her down.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When he got off the mat, with his dignity, almost intact, he bellowed, "Layna, pay the, uuummm, lady." As in all Latino cultures, a lady paying is foreign so I wondered what the heck was going on. I whipped out his wallet he gave me for safe keeping so we could get the heck outta there and have a much needed, cleansing shower before heading off to a Five Star hotel on Mai Khao beach.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">"Please tell me that was a lady," he begged of me. "Of course Corazonito, it was a lady. Did you see her hands, that had to be a lady. No way it was a man, and no, I didn't notice her huge Adam's Apple and slight moustache." Some things I will take with me to the grave, so if you see R2, don't ask him about his final massage in Thailand. Too many painful memories.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com23Nok Ta Kaeo, Si Sunthon, Thalang, Phuket 83110, Thailand7.9843109 98.33074687.7327409 98.0148898 8.2358809 98.6466038tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-48918982765665077762012-10-21T06:05:00.001-07:002012-12-21T17:56:18.091-08:00I'm not in love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Thank you to R2 for contributing to this week's blog about life in Singapore from a man's perspective....as my editor, he was on the other side of the screen and realized how difficult and long the task of writing a blog really is. It was fun for me to be the editor and critique the work before it went live. This blog had several revamps before it was LaynainAsia ready, but somehow, I know you will enjoy. <br />Layna</i></div>
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<i><span class="s1">“</span><span class="s2">I'm not in love<br />So don't forget it</span></i></div>
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<i>It's just a silly phase I'm going through</i></div>
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<i>And just because, I call you up</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>10 cc in their "Hey Day"</i></td></tr>
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<i><span class="s2">Don't get me wrong, don't think you've got it made</span>”</i></div>
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<span class="s2">It was the mid-70s when Eric Stewart and Graham Gouldman from the group 10cc were singing they were not in love. What is unbeknownst to most people is the name 10cc refers to the average amount of sperm a healthy male produces in one, well, let’s just say, “Happy Ending.” “So this is important because?” It relates to just another day in lovestruck Singapore.</span></div>
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<span class="s2"><b>Remember these figures</b>: 10cc = 10 ml AND 1 pint = 473 ml <b>MEANING</b> 473 ml = beeeeerrr</span></div>
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<span class="s2">In Singapore, a questionable budget hotel with 81 rooms has its busiest day on Sunday, and during peak hours, there is about an hour wait for room inspection. Rack rate is $50 for two hours meaning that every Sunday there is a solid performance of chuga chuga for eight hours. In 10 hours, assuming the wait list is active and people are willing to bide their time, there are 81 rooms producing an average of 10 ml per hour, per room for a total of 8100 ml or 17 pints of semen a day. Only counting this hotel chain with 24 locations around the city with an 80 per cent occupancy on Sunday can be calculated at approximately 326 pints of semen. I fear to do the math on a rainy day because let’s face it, there isn’t anything else to do in Singapore when the rainy season hits.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYc0nvXd_pcHAaThym3p6CHiQSUFINRYxtXx75hEZNvYqBMnHTJqqg0hF_7QHaRkT8eTAugfdWtyNTIPsiUhngpai6M-iZ28owdjPpKEEisQ3uQoANiRhAMkXyye_vcuvyHz7sHeG367G/s1600/bdget+81.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYc0nvXd_pcHAaThym3p6CHiQSUFINRYxtXx75hEZNvYqBMnHTJqqg0hF_7QHaRkT8eTAugfdWtyNTIPsiUhngpai6M-iZ28owdjPpKEEisQ3uQoANiRhAMkXyye_vcuvyHz7sHeG367G/s320/bdget+81.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Special" hotels all over Singapore</td></tr>
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<span class="s2">LaynainAsia and I live near a budget hotel and we notice on hot days, which is about 363 of them, there is a particularly large amount of sheets waiting to be laundered outside the hotel. The stench is pungent, I mean, right in your face, pungent. Asia has a gamey smell at the best of times, but this is particularly ripe. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTItXzfjmXt0OiCpnghj8ekRuL-ZBMBgagD-72m41Q5g03m5T-rIws2xYCuBuiteA9WK30woZvP-0Mm9xCV_FhrYIOKl8HxAy_McgWout80j4g3mM7qu2vyvvTKfchL_jExfov2m0hEa86/s1600/f1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTItXzfjmXt0OiCpnghj8ekRuL-ZBMBgagD-72m41Q5g03m5T-rIws2xYCuBuiteA9WK30woZvP-0Mm9xCV_FhrYIOKl8HxAy_McgWout80j4g3mM7qu2vyvvTKfchL_jExfov2m0hEa86/s320/f1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 on his way to the F1 races</td></tr>
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This is, of course, an afterthought as I was cruising the streets of Singapore trying to find my way to the Formula 1 races. It was my first time attending an F1 race, which sounds far cooler than it is. I couldn’t help noticing the above mentioned events around the dark corners of this wonderful yet odoriferous city; I have to say though, I have been to far worse stinkers in the world, some not far from here. </div>
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<span class="s2">Moving along, I finally found the entrance to Zone Four, which was the only zone left to get tickets for cheapskates, if you consider a $160 a pop, budget. The downside of Zone Four is that no matter where you are, the only thing visible is the blur of the cars and tons of noise vibrating my internal organs, which by the time the race started, were processing three pints of beer. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">It wasn’t long before I became dizzy and I decided to return home, however, not before saying goodbye to Katy Perry in person. Katy was the closing act for the F1 and a huge draw for the Grand Prix. I thought I would take in the concert but between the beer, the crowd, the noise and my age…I decided my comfy bed and wife seemed a better option.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYnt1vZvE3lrJbFHGeNADq9nrwViBdcsNGTPcg_WtNYQb2wBI8kkCSUz1QlYbgBg_h04cTKJiRjvtuMSDzrA30qDEfdezAisqg2X2zHvHKNLDSvJ6BPfDLDePrINXYWGc7Jocf1LBMvKyn/s1600/2012-04-04-katy-perry.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYnt1vZvE3lrJbFHGeNADq9nrwViBdcsNGTPcg_WtNYQb2wBI8kkCSUz1QlYbgBg_h04cTKJiRjvtuMSDzrA30qDEfdezAisqg2X2zHvHKNLDSvJ6BPfDLDePrINXYWGc7Jocf1LBMvKyn/s320/2012-04-04-katy-perry.jpeg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perry - the Singapore Smurf</td></tr>
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<span class="s2">Before I managed to leave the F1 area, I saw Katy. She looks so big, and not just her tatas. She is attractive, what can I say, we had a moment. She saw my eyes, I saw her blue hair and soft, youthful stare. We connected on so many levels. Okay, I am fantasizing; she was on the big screen and I was trying to climb the walls to avoid the old, fat, drunk Englishman in front of me. Sorry Katy, I am not in love. Go back to your crazy ex-husband, Russell Brand, I will keep my lovely LaynainAsia. At least she will take care of me.</span></div>
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<span class="s2">For the record, since everyone seems to be doing this and getting accolades for their effort, here is my contribution to the great art of literature. This text contains 34 AWESOMES (by simplification, awesome x 34), along with, 45 “oh my” (“Oh my” x 45) and one inner goddess. Here you are, got away with it, without wasting ink and exhausting reader’s patience. Thank you 50 Shades of Crap, I mean Grey.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-7718086556848957922012-10-16T05:16:00.001-07:002012-10-17T19:22:21.186-07:00Who's da Man?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since R2 and I have known each other, we have bantered around the idea of an international student coming to live with us, preferably a Spanish speaker. My Spanish speaking husband lacks patience listening and correcting my Spanglish, so he thought he could foist me on some unsuspecting foreign kid from Colombia, Mexico or Uruguay. I, in turn would corrupt any Latino with my slang, cliches and colloquialisms while they listen to me blathering on about nada.<br />
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<span class="s1">This idea never developed in Canada, unless you count the 17-year-old German kid that almost burned down my house by putting an entire pizza, box and all, into my oven and jacking up the oven to a roaring 400F. The blood vessels in my temple still throb when I think of that less-than-brilliant darling.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Whilst in Singapore, it seems I have more time on my hands because social lunches, cycling, Zumba, Krav Maga, hiking, writing for a Singaporean website and a Canadian newspaper and who can forget, schlepping groceries, takes such little time. R2 thought getting a student would be my new project to keep me occupied; my new pet, if you will. After 17 years of working, to suddenly not...well it plays on some hidden corner within your psyche.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsJ4dlbuccqZ0DyOdM3M_YMgU9lZcfn0-bimPWNa9BF0bQptoW9e3ZsoUOfip7btS7nH9_cbKBYINVJDBsmTlMcq7IMoY4IOOlnf5B_PgY0arucIJzl6x_4zIssgmLtvHJ0Vv23ojABgL/s1600/manel2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsJ4dlbuccqZ0DyOdM3M_YMgU9lZcfn0-bimPWNa9BF0bQptoW9e3ZsoUOfip7btS7nH9_cbKBYINVJDBsmTlMcq7IMoY4IOOlnf5B_PgY0arucIJzl6x_4zIssgmLtvHJ0Vv23ojABgL/s320/manel2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Hawker Center for dumpling and noodles</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">We envisioned a young, demure, quiet girl from Latin American, but what we got was a hotshot, corporate lawyer from </span><span class="s2">España</span><span class="s1">. All I can say ladies, if you are on the hunt for a handsome man, grab the nearest flight to Barcelona, or if your daughter is slagging on the couch with a wanna-be rap star, with his pants down around his knees, kick him to the curb and get your girl on "the rain in Spain, stays mainly on the" plane.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXU_9zFLQRk9SlRb2RJYMpCzhmfV6IvaOO2_sxHfMogFGtCTGoK8yXywIc0GFrSSEnXl1QgAhDmWn9aQXFjmRwXShmMXSzEG7mnlTK6qH381vuwXfFLh_iqa_ZZEYRSkKIf4ggHEj1E-sV/s1600/manel3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXU_9zFLQRk9SlRb2RJYMpCzhmfV6IvaOO2_sxHfMogFGtCTGoK8yXywIc0GFrSSEnXl1QgAhDmWn9aQXFjmRwXShmMXSzEG7mnlTK6qH381vuwXfFLh_iqa_ZZEYRSkKIf4ggHEj1E-sV/s320/manel3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What? Never eaten Corn On The Cob?</td></tr>
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Man arrived from Spain, toting two huge suitcases filled with his worldly possession that will keep him occupied for the next nine months in Singapore while he learns extensive English. Like a true Singaporean, I wanted to show him some of the beauty this city boasts before he started school. Within the first few days of arriving, we played tour guide and attended a concert in the Botanic Gardens, clued him in to Hawker food, bought live fish at the Wet Market watching as the head was hacked off, and this was only the beginning. I introduced him to his first taste of Corn On The Cob and almost burned his lips off with Bird's Eye Chili. I gave him VIP tickets to attend Zouk nightclub, one of the premier discos in Singapore, thanks to my writing. When he became throughly tired of the big city, we raced bicycles up and down the beach. I showed him the reflexology paths you see in various locations scattered throughout Singapore, so his feet could experience the sharp rocks that Asians adore.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4CU3iD1xQntg6hiAkWhQl64X-9Kd34jJAuVfU2v63way4UcVWJrG_ldUpMRkZ47JLovapaGBukCRJ7_gi8-DtMapn5KCaNSDocVxVxtw9cz65y3VrXClxbnzoy7wW_cjWs2xpDUTQPbrG/s1600/tere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4CU3iD1xQntg6hiAkWhQl64X-9Kd34jJAuVfU2v63way4UcVWJrG_ldUpMRkZ47JLovapaGBukCRJ7_gi8-DtMapn5KCaNSDocVxVxtw9cz65y3VrXClxbnzoy7wW_cjWs2xpDUTQPbrG/s320/tere.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A friend from the UK trying the foot paths</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">When I thought Man was down and out for the count, he rose like a phoenix from the ashes when R2 staggered in from the Formula 1 racing event and said, "Tengo un boleto gratis a Katy Perry si quieres ir," which translates to, "Dude, get your 25-year-old rear outta the chair and hit this Katy concert." Man jumped up like his calzones were on fire and sprinted out the door. I think he forgot his first day of school was at 9:00 a.m. but that is the life of the young.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So far, the arrangement has worked out well. He will water my plants when we travel, I am speaking more Spanish than anyone thought possible, and Man, well, he will do well in the corporate world with my flawless command of the English language. You never know when "Get outta my face," will come in handy.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There are days I think I have died and gone to heaven with two handsome Latinos in the kitchen whipping up Spanish Paella and Mexican Sopes. I sit like a lady of leisure as they wash the dishes, take out the trash and all I have to do is make a sweet pitcher of Sangria. Often my mind will daydream that I am in the middle of a Harlequin romance novel. Fabio and his trusty sidekick are in the kitchen, luxurious, flowing locks in a hairnet, sweating over a wok, while the damsel in distress lays on the couch with the remote control all to herself. Well, a girl can fantasize can’t she?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Our newly adopted "Sun", as I call him, is making headway to becoming my favorite child. I told Number One daughter in God's Country, Alberta, Number Two son in Bring Cash, B.C. and Number Two Point Five stepson in the Great State of Texas they might have to rock, paper, scissors to see which one of them can remain in the family unit because four is too many for me to manage unless they all take up cooking and dishwashing.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com24Singapore, Singapore1.352083 103.8198360.33596249999999994 102.55640849999999 2.3682035 105.0832635tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-2518383020007413142012-10-13T05:44:00.000-07:002012-10-13T05:44:22.590-07:00Every step - a Kodak moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
How can I describe India except for insane chaos as you try to dodge around traffic and bewildered-looking animals in poverty stricken, foul cities? You will witness children playing in pool of filthy water and walk barefoot where farm animals defecate and men urinate at free will in the streets. You will be scammed, you will be ripped off and yet amongst this frenzy, you will find a colourful, Kodak moment at every corner. As much as I hated India my first trip, on the second trip, I learned to embrace the madness and enjoy my time; maybe I am used to Asia. These are some of the photos we took as I was hounded, followed and asked to pose around Bangalore and Kovalam. For larger images, click on the photos.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local artists painstakingly makes marble inlay plates</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amber (Amer) Fort and Palace in Jaipur - magnificent</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It took most of the day to investigate Amber Fort</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selling nuts on the streets of Bangalore (Bengaluru)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiXBASnMFULwX8xKXb2pmxKZFB2I7JF9tezTXfclR0SCEHDemS0C38mznH_FaS0ClcrS4bqfge6wwNzk1-Jj2kNX2dJarW7Vvs1WM2Fd100ipK8nh-bLXZkMA1uhP2K_grsCwAKNLUSzm/s1600/IMG_2026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiXBASnMFULwX8xKXb2pmxKZFB2I7JF9tezTXfclR0SCEHDemS0C38mznH_FaS0ClcrS4bqfge6wwNzk1-Jj2kNX2dJarW7Vvs1WM2Fd100ipK8nh-bLXZkMA1uhP2K_grsCwAKNLUSzm/s320/IMG_2026.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ganesh welcomes you to Shiv Mandir Temple in Bangalore</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGBi5mtvpr4i1fL2cdVwlwIhH9CxREjmrYEE-uPaa6OaTnATsV_y3ixSNRNHyZqOq0sGYlUYfY3C43JHIKc5D_e5VMl1qy39FI1Uupqp35WXKC_IgUzrNN0axAkE7IIVgM0kbCzYUwoOC/s1600/IMG_2048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGBi5mtvpr4i1fL2cdVwlwIhH9CxREjmrYEE-uPaa6OaTnATsV_y3ixSNRNHyZqOq0sGYlUYfY3C43JHIKc5D_e5VMl1qy39FI1Uupqp35WXKC_IgUzrNN0axAkE7IIVgM0kbCzYUwoOC/s320/IMG_2048.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Planting grass by hand in Lalbagh Garden</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQb45IHcsKY_wB3rX3Tcz8Mu233rE2YXGMn01K44SUzCCWEAQp-1psCsxdwapFlbGGZMmkCiQyXRopOLnwgMknT7T4HwOl5vwwdvmS8j9h91NHojN9M5kKX1fi3HV8TkcfRrXWsTix6CJ/s1600/IMG_2058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyQb45IHcsKY_wB3rX3Tcz8Mu233rE2YXGMn01K44SUzCCWEAQp-1psCsxdwapFlbGGZMmkCiQyXRopOLnwgMknT7T4HwOl5vwwdvmS8j9h91NHojN9M5kKX1fi3HV8TkcfRrXWsTix6CJ/s320/IMG_2058.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People who asked for my photo in Kovalam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_t-bY0-rYxHWPc8nwz9FpxTj8_T5ygTgWqDOUGW8m2WtK90rWloC0y1Af0YS7kJsk4rsTumj9xZL0zJYHqLYtJvm983iZkDAHQuomz3uWOONgKjf8ZYqbzmMWJZA46iDdne8LTLC7ngh/s1600/IMG_2084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_t-bY0-rYxHWPc8nwz9FpxTj8_T5ygTgWqDOUGW8m2WtK90rWloC0y1Af0YS7kJsk4rsTumj9xZL0zJYHqLYtJvm983iZkDAHQuomz3uWOONgKjf8ZYqbzmMWJZA46iDdne8LTLC7ngh/s320/IMG_2084.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More photo takers so I asked for theirs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSY1z-iRpVEYbHA_8B4qL4Efn_Lbt92maPtL1kyssmYDwpVE1JJ6Ukx3W_EAzdLGdqSvwQ4YA-Ktb5uJUtRWFnXihyjA-ElQ_WQgiL6n5Yj4XN7-uPaJslMeh4BVMC2rTA5HssF6fdqjNw/s1600/IMG_2097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSY1z-iRpVEYbHA_8B4qL4Efn_Lbt92maPtL1kyssmYDwpVE1JJ6Ukx3W_EAzdLGdqSvwQ4YA-Ktb5uJUtRWFnXihyjA-ElQ_WQgiL6n5Yj4XN7-uPaJslMeh4BVMC2rTA5HssF6fdqjNw/s320/IMG_2097.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trusty driver, Rafiq</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRV4-bYA3wzsbmWBR0FNqxr5rOFRKzKk7BxqXxGObqhxsh2Lt3LrqS774zHhDnNHepJkFZzCt0KkhAXX43kY_h7OegU9X_VSe0_4F83t_xIZ9guSprknWkxMxXlN1WoWZnPLOx1IyuncC/s1600/IMG_2168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRV4-bYA3wzsbmWBR0FNqxr5rOFRKzKk7BxqXxGObqhxsh2Lt3LrqS774zHhDnNHepJkFZzCt0KkhAXX43kY_h7OegU9X_VSe0_4F83t_xIZ9guSprknWkxMxXlN1WoWZnPLOx1IyuncC/s320/IMG_2168.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always watching</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSOjyoURcD8HK13PKBqVaQ1qHr-Vx-oQB5P1djkEZnSp6blP777NocrKYR3B_Bh9NQpYWytpp0y7In4gn2Bg_3nslGobjCAdgqX3cvXAKavyIDkgXQfWSovIi0z0KiALGCh5nh-6YkhF3/s1600/IMG_2184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnSOjyoURcD8HK13PKBqVaQ1qHr-Vx-oQB5P1djkEZnSp6blP777NocrKYR3B_Bh9NQpYWytpp0y7In4gn2Bg_3nslGobjCAdgqX3cvXAKavyIDkgXQfWSovIi0z0KiALGCh5nh-6YkhF3/s320/IMG_2184.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old man outside the Masjid (Mosque) in Kovalam</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IfVaprPdVgwvc-WP1VmQca54oNJOjWxci09ZI2t6Cnnn6nSsH6BBURDy19gKKhBXiNPphc1Cm-3IIkDDVJVITPf771BNrXwJWCFzKMtoY8Ag2hdmAzyMe1HQDZbZahwEnVcyY6UtPxET/s1600/IMG_2190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IfVaprPdVgwvc-WP1VmQca54oNJOjWxci09ZI2t6Cnnn6nSsH6BBURDy19gKKhBXiNPphc1Cm-3IIkDDVJVITPf771BNrXwJWCFzKMtoY8Ag2hdmAzyMe1HQDZbZahwEnVcyY6UtPxET/s320/IMG_2190.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Every person is photo worthy in India</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5pk5B5-fZcfEyj54sQSquCgl8NAhcwIOb6Wer3t069xkVet-7oEzfYYeoIbe_qCXbYN7FtzTk4M0o3UE_fysspJr5Y4WUIA8xElvmFHRnUfWT_Im1AJg6PSueF4xiysaMzEbLgqJJ_Sb/s1600/IMG_2188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5pk5B5-fZcfEyj54sQSquCgl8NAhcwIOb6Wer3t069xkVet-7oEzfYYeoIbe_qCXbYN7FtzTk4M0o3UE_fysspJr5Y4WUIA8xElvmFHRnUfWT_Im1AJg6PSueF4xiysaMzEbLgqJJ_Sb/s320/IMG_2188.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Thiruvananthapuram City</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAKwW2RYRy-v0RGkmGbSgLGC2UmA3ZIUt7zXtTfeqbYwQbcpBRq8lVmHuDvmSWVvah6vRVmXpjkHl1SXco5R8qcI-TCdcVqUIQf-TGghodYgKDDRR2OVlKoAWgrb1cgn3nHyXlq01Z-p2/s1600/IMG_2186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAKwW2RYRy-v0RGkmGbSgLGC2UmA3ZIUt7zXtTfeqbYwQbcpBRq8lVmHuDvmSWVvah6vRVmXpjkHl1SXco5R8qcI-TCdcVqUIQf-TGghodYgKDDRR2OVlKoAWgrb1cgn3nHyXlq01Z-p2/s320/IMG_2186.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reflection at Kovalam Beach</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpsQVR3YGoWMckiSKD8OQbWFRSxr991cEs5qXrNmnDsgPuLwMyQ9E8f3UnLa3NRHSA7u9A5MQXTSD2KuHLCxrrnaMEyN-TyxAZNEkiZQou9yCKaQXYKjl9UD49TwotSm1l53bfvHHGL5l/s1600/IMG_2195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHpsQVR3YGoWMckiSKD8OQbWFRSxr991cEs5qXrNmnDsgPuLwMyQ9E8f3UnLa3NRHSA7u9A5MQXTSD2KuHLCxrrnaMEyN-TyxAZNEkiZQou9yCKaQXYKjl9UD49TwotSm1l53bfvHHGL5l/s320/IMG_2195.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colourfully dressed women leaving the temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosoJUvO17YUkWtaBB9N0PrFcVkzGZlbRaVDaVmYyxXJAnGayyqbpLW7cZMtsZn736V78mipBpFDTv81mg8DAp0nvPdFfSS96ZqrO3oL404E0LXzFFNKxdrlYQSv1sWSRB_Qrt4XJVKgvX/s1600/IMG_2202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhosoJUvO17YUkWtaBB9N0PrFcVkzGZlbRaVDaVmYyxXJAnGayyqbpLW7cZMtsZn736V78mipBpFDTv81mg8DAp0nvPdFfSS96ZqrO3oL404E0LXzFFNKxdrlYQSv1sWSRB_Qrt4XJVKgvX/s320/IMG_2202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selling instruments outside the temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dkBbeoTGKl5zt5ndePnj6NzzLlPM89YsBibVvRC04mH1DMw4PyQyymTXhtb_9dUDG2XLd_t91SCa58fbsQ1GtLRaz7yQFD72gHfz977etLhRosAEQ_QqPxIAKCtkUkEF1-DFB9Y4VDOJ/s1600/IMG_2208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dkBbeoTGKl5zt5ndePnj6NzzLlPM89YsBibVvRC04mH1DMw4PyQyymTXhtb_9dUDG2XLd_t91SCa58fbsQ1GtLRaz7yQFD72gHfz977etLhRosAEQ_QqPxIAKCtkUkEF1-DFB9Y4VDOJ/s320/IMG_2208.jpg" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dress for men in the temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq9_VpBFGnlYbyvZZmpIxJjY5JYv4rQ_7HPcU66ABVynE1f0gJ88DAdY7bGwr5_Zb-UVZ2Duh0i3a1LV0ejasUHXPSjAcmsP0T49xNxtUfvNBtprkWC5OFH35_HdNk_rTbYGfdiKkf3hb/s1600/IMG_2211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguq9_VpBFGnlYbyvZZmpIxJjY5JYv4rQ_7HPcU66ABVynE1f0gJ88DAdY7bGwr5_Zb-UVZ2Duh0i3a1LV0ejasUHXPSjAcmsP0T49xNxtUfvNBtprkWC5OFH35_HdNk_rTbYGfdiKkf3hb/s320/IMG_2211.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 with local IT girls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYf5iJ6eZj5-vhnDURlLdrq4V750qSKnqly_0nfKRsloy6ykIDfXXH6V21UOYgaaqQayulHLMMQxlr-0j9cBhh6ZJsyQ__U_ENWwnCfN_3COjJtmbaiQ2VjGA9eKOu68n-Q4PpQi_bVt1/s1600/IMG_2223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvYf5iJ6eZj5-vhnDURlLdrq4V750qSKnqly_0nfKRsloy6ykIDfXXH6V21UOYgaaqQayulHLMMQxlr-0j9cBhh6ZJsyQ__U_ENWwnCfN_3COjJtmbaiQ2VjGA9eKOu68n-Q4PpQi_bVt1/s320/IMG_2223.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleaning their feet before entering the temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8BtFNoaiDUfYZtM_mMwurqWvvGOKu4s5AyxkBd3VJxxzSDoa2QMqgnZXAccR-4PPryFBxG8BlXo_jvhQUW1mtr2rAIYhL4EwWl6jrusJyIknXmvoOnjGfsBfbE6edQ01OneEnJAhFz3q/s1600/IMG_2226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT8BtFNoaiDUfYZtM_mMwurqWvvGOKu4s5AyxkBd3VJxxzSDoa2QMqgnZXAccR-4PPryFBxG8BlXo_jvhQUW1mtr2rAIYhL4EwWl6jrusJyIknXmvoOnjGfsBfbE6edQ01OneEnJAhFz3q/s320/IMG_2226.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for business</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzjTWtSD0yBiy8dXL547i89mbt6zdMazTROtk8UnU8SaOjQ0wwLOy9Gg_h75VjJ3lvdTlfrc7H7T-8wHDHQDRi9C6e1RZciNRhZmGPzBpEkpqm0Em8a3SNPLZnWm3tDj2cmeSXIq_WVAi/s1600/IMG_2238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghzjTWtSD0yBiy8dXL547i89mbt6zdMazTROtk8UnU8SaOjQ0wwLOy9Gg_h75VjJ3lvdTlfrc7H7T-8wHDHQDRi9C6e1RZciNRhZmGPzBpEkpqm0Em8a3SNPLZnWm3tDj2cmeSXIq_WVAi/s320/IMG_2238.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is a carnival atmosphere outside the temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fxgm8DMT6ogiTIT3PmER77fuP-MQo6rdsu8dLUVk_snKCOK3xmidmfvtgjcjoB03CkmIj9KJ2e2sySfsns8FCfRN-vArbpt5SyJGs3m7ZBLFkwq870xVH2xSpxqOszQV0WiwiEjUl5kB/s1600/IMG_2241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fxgm8DMT6ogiTIT3PmER77fuP-MQo6rdsu8dLUVk_snKCOK3xmidmfvtgjcjoB03CkmIj9KJ2e2sySfsns8FCfRN-vArbpt5SyJGs3m7ZBLFkwq870xVH2xSpxqOszQV0WiwiEjUl5kB/s320/IMG_2241.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone needs a drum, don't they?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNvvgjsID8r1Nz5DoGXABwMVaObkt8LUxYkCR7pfby-vsd7u4V7USUcXjWF2haz-O7yKpuz350Jn6_WxhwvrFZYuEfvC5g0wuEmFRfTCU-wT8n60VPb-OPW3fhPuSQoHlH7_f2KuSO3p3/s1600/IMG_2250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWNvvgjsID8r1Nz5DoGXABwMVaObkt8LUxYkCR7pfby-vsd7u4V7USUcXjWF2haz-O7yKpuz350Jn6_WxhwvrFZYuEfvC5g0wuEmFRfTCU-wT8n60VPb-OPW3fhPuSQoHlH7_f2KuSO3p3/s320/IMG_2250.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">India's answer to Facebook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvu6EeRRp_hKkBOTCot2sMsHh-Iga35yz9aP8Xu_vSkL3NSOyqrg315c7ZF0bBivCLP-fo5jOHssROhEkfdWAtYhbxDFwEj4Ukv-X1YrAu_rXucFDKACQhMzb0NZWB671fK6MU2fPA6NwM/s1600/IMG_2264.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvu6EeRRp_hKkBOTCot2sMsHh-Iga35yz9aP8Xu_vSkL3NSOyqrg315c7ZF0bBivCLP-fo5jOHssROhEkfdWAtYhbxDFwEj4Ukv-X1YrAu_rXucFDKACQhMzb0NZWB671fK6MU2fPA6NwM/s320/IMG_2264.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Strolling in the Botanic Gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J3i6Y3jsN_bHvU71KpZySoBY2dDBrkFzAQyjDLp-Qnos4dAt4RxAwAjctDL2lg-KR4jPF06dG1jN59O8EN7-8SKIta2S7CADLcDOf9_upA_8w_ydd13jt-fOXQExSNypryuOs7IJdP7i/s1600/IMG_2265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8J3i6Y3jsN_bHvU71KpZySoBY2dDBrkFzAQyjDLp-Qnos4dAt4RxAwAjctDL2lg-KR4jPF06dG1jN59O8EN7-8SKIta2S7CADLcDOf9_upA_8w_ydd13jt-fOXQExSNypryuOs7IJdP7i/s320/IMG_2265.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This woman wouldn't stop watching me. Maybe my face was dirty.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju5-1kjy0jwEUFQt2xcpjvQLfyCoF2IuYF-xQ4hjF5TAOSXGgDfldZjYOLtNAHeEr-_KHIyfLXqH1aQ9TeIva8egd0ZAfIRk2jzv-NbGF3CgDUuQd-niOWaeHSYIoKpVU_F7WBXCdCBk0/s1600/IMG_2277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhju5-1kjy0jwEUFQt2xcpjvQLfyCoF2IuYF-xQ4hjF5TAOSXGgDfldZjYOLtNAHeEr-_KHIyfLXqH1aQ9TeIva8egd0ZAfIRk2jzv-NbGF3CgDUuQd-niOWaeHSYIoKpVU_F7WBXCdCBk0/s320/IMG_2277.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R2 found a swing but it was too high for me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1XXwAUG1TFGNmzgQ9HGZQWXJi56tMLUfDhU4B81G_jAbUWA4kOJxaHFDuaNPZ8gsv8fyJt30DSYtm7mGBHRCJdLIgIhX3VGn0_PQ2FQqoSNK5pqyDhlA8WJtjq537PSQ1XHGz4zFlBqD/s1600/IMG_2293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1XXwAUG1TFGNmzgQ9HGZQWXJi56tMLUfDhU4B81G_jAbUWA4kOJxaHFDuaNPZ8gsv8fyJt30DSYtm7mGBHRCJdLIgIhX3VGn0_PQ2FQqoSNK5pqyDhlA8WJtjq537PSQ1XHGz4zFlBqD/s320/IMG_2293.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many locals on the beach in Kovalam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhRoL809VzPO-fasAlwTWpiClCimYCinwshji66pFn0MVBdvSO4nwdgDYg_BJSb0eJtl68S8HFXpHTTMkhBJiQPS6aAW6Hlk7ua0nbMw9f-JDSRmqi7o33nJST5r_xs0AaUNCWcs8r08fl/s1600/IMG_6425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhRoL809VzPO-fasAlwTWpiClCimYCinwshji66pFn0MVBdvSO4nwdgDYg_BJSb0eJtl68S8HFXpHTTMkhBJiQPS6aAW6Hlk7ua0nbMw9f-JDSRmqi7o33nJST5r_xs0AaUNCWcs8r08fl/s320/IMG_6425.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our resort was breathtaking with local statues</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6xpRWJ_LQyUEf_bf0DNOp7AzujwooKoxtiSfa9t5VDkmp8m_J0jtCWwxDk8-3mwo_3OVDQWNCz3ZShPYboNyFOKrX2k4QRbcJ_lTdTPmtIqniCkFimW2NdqFBzy0l-qNxQd02P1kxu2f/s1600/IMG_6458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6xpRWJ_LQyUEf_bf0DNOp7AzujwooKoxtiSfa9t5VDkmp8m_J0jtCWwxDk8-3mwo_3OVDQWNCz3ZShPYboNyFOKrX2k4QRbcJ_lTdTPmtIqniCkFimW2NdqFBzy0l-qNxQd02P1kxu2f/s320/IMG_6458.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Darga Sherief Mosque, Kovalam, India</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com10Kovalam, Kerala, India8.400923 76.978838.3695065 76.939348 8.4323395000000012 77.018312000000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-54685010350279560432012-10-01T00:18:00.000-07:002012-10-01T00:18:14.766-07:00Oh, Canalah?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPATdi7aAa2bIct46ps8X_umwEVXhyphenhyphen5zI198x_AiQRpLXnb6APX7x94NIv8rC-WHdf_jL_cVAtYwagEAqXjKyaJTBppUSQhxFykjy1U3drMgQ8ctNdQ6MsuocctDLm6eNeoTOxWhVGF9vM/s320/IMG_0398.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't lose your head over the small stuff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPATdi7aAa2bIct46ps8X_umwEVXhyphenhyphen5zI198x_AiQRpLXnb6APX7x94NIv8rC-WHdf_jL_cVAtYwagEAqXjKyaJTBppUSQhxFykjy1U3drMgQ8ctNdQ6MsuocctDLm6eNeoTOxWhVGF9vM/s1600/IMG_0398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPATdi7aAa2bIct46ps8X_umwEVXhyphenhyphen5zI198x_AiQRpLXnb6APX7x94NIv8rC-WHdf_jL_cVAtYwagEAqXjKyaJTBppUSQhxFykjy1U3drMgQ8ctNdQ6MsuocctDLm6eNeoTOxWhVGF9vM/s1600/IMG_0398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There is a variety of reasons the days fly by and I seem to get nothing accomplished. When my children were babies, it was the same, except I was waiting for a baby to wake, waiting for a baby to sleep, waiting for a baby to eat, and finally waiting while my puke-stained clothes washed. In Singapore however, I seem to be waiting for the sun, waiting for the rain, waiting to chat with my Canadian friends, waiting to tell my Singapore friends about my Canadians friends, and finally waiting while my sweat-stained clothes wash.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">One in every three days I am held up by an almost identical conversation when I do manage to get to a store. The conversation almost always goes like this:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GsXYl4sRyZrvzmw7m1piY3sXRGscmO9DmIdTuqo6OEOz4u_g-IHS_yf9Je_fyGAMov_mdiThTc9ylb0s5_J9EXTqq86JovVgSfLO-TrzF3BXQXwPCYgGvuFifchPmD2ml6lfJoSg-XCJ/s1600/IMG_0540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_GsXYl4sRyZrvzmw7m1piY3sXRGscmO9DmIdTuqo6OEOz4u_g-IHS_yf9Je_fyGAMov_mdiThTc9ylb0s5_J9EXTqq86JovVgSfLO-TrzF3BXQXwPCYgGvuFifchPmD2ml6lfJoSg-XCJ/s320/IMG_0540.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where are you from, lah?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>Me</b>: "Do you have minced chicken?" I learned the hard way not to ask for ground meat because they invariably look down at the floor and wonder why I want chicken from underfoot.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>Them:</b> "No, lah. Where you from? Australia?"</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>Me</b>: "No, guess again," to which every country is named and I shake my head back and forth until my brains start to rattle.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Them:</b> "England, lah? Sweden, lah? Scotland, lah? New Zealand, lah? United States of America, lah? Germany, lah?" And on it goes. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I start to lose my patience and sweat drips from every crack, crevice, fat roll and pore onto the ground beneath me, I finally reply, "Canada, for the love of God, Canada." I really don't say the God thing, but in my mind I am screaming. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Canada always gets a quizzical stare and when the lightbulb goes off, they repeat, "Ayio, Ka-<b>NA</b>-da!" because I am certain I have been saying Canada wrong for all these years. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-T9H1_IfG5aZ5uxcOYxLCtywjIhFNMRCWiZ1rbHUa7dcJ63ucmyYC2ST3HMzT4fEoxAePYxBCeX-YSoqqizBe2yWJpRJzZbT8Qg4rk2Ik09ExsLGBMXsDFdyuesMOkV2oISokMfng0z0J/s1600/IMG_0401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-T9H1_IfG5aZ5uxcOYxLCtywjIhFNMRCWiZ1rbHUa7dcJ63ucmyYC2ST3HMzT4fEoxAePYxBCeX-YSoqqizBe2yWJpRJzZbT8Qg4rk2Ik09ExsLGBMXsDFdyuesMOkV2oISokMfng0z0J/s320/IMG_0401.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you from Russia, lah?</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Then the game concludes:</span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 100%;">Them</b><span style="line-height: 100%;">: "Toronto, lah? Vancouver, lah?"</span><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><b>Me</b>: "No, no, Sa SKAT chew wan."</span></div>
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<b style="line-height: 100%;">Them</b><span style="line-height: 100%;">: "Oh, never heard of it lah, and no minced chicken for you, maybe tomorrow. Next!"</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Off I glow to another store and the Country-lah game begins again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Like the game, and why they say lah at the end of most sentences, I am as curious about Singaporeans as they are about me, but Canadian manners prevent me from asking. I don't ask how much they make, if they work, how much their house cost, what the rent on their condo is, if their spouse cheats on them and if they have a sports car. These are only a handful of questions asked of me since I landed on the Little Red Dot. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4FI3YklhzQT9kD8nYkg4urKTS54En_MjS6U6Jd1qU5OwTiiBf8J1vTJ8ygjoR2ok0EHDFKLDNn7SvZjNTeRWLACFt-UGLw-QaGcvy_2m-fzxam0HiCn6SjOxFquGYohFTNkQb6ZxF8XG/s1600/IMG_0479.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4FI3YklhzQT9kD8nYkg4urKTS54En_MjS6U6Jd1qU5OwTiiBf8J1vTJ8ygjoR2ok0EHDFKLDNn7SvZjNTeRWLACFt-UGLw-QaGcvy_2m-fzxam0HiCn6SjOxFquGYohFTNkQb6ZxF8XG/s320/IMG_0479.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Merlion, not my neighbor</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">One of the most burning questions I have is of a mysterious neighbor and his guttural sounds. Try as I may, I can't locate the source of this disturbance, but without fail, I know he is nearby every morning at 7:30.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Some people have the luxury of waking up to dreamlike music, some a buzzing alarm, and some even have a real-time rooster crowing for that back-to-nature experience. Oh, but not Layna and definitely not R2. We are the unfortunate conferrees of waking to, well, the only way I can describe the noise, is your college roommate after 12 beers, two tequila shots, a plateful of greasy pizza and a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Yes, that is the sound, every morning at 7:30. It isn't just one Tilt-a-Hurl either. It is an ongoing series of spew-induced cacophony that goes on for five minutes or more. I am not certain how he manages the noise and what his weapon of choice is. I have heard that toothbrushes make a great bulimic upchuck tool, but in this case, it is so loud, I think he is using chopsticks, or perhaps a plunger.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Something smells on this Metro, Luc, is it you?</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">R2 and I have run to our rooftop garden and hidden amongst the Lipstick Palms trying to locate the retching, to no avail. We have stood in our bathrooms and imitated the sounds in stereo with the hope that the "offender" would get the hint. No such luck; so now we have just learned to live and let growl, and appreciate the wake up call. I now scoff at those softies that have the gradual light, muzik, hippy-guru alarm clock for a peaceful transition to consciousness. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There are many mysteries of the Orient that we will never understand. I can understand the "lah" because as a Canadian, I am proud of my "eh." I know clothes will never fit my 5’9 frame. I can handle the inquisition about where I am from and why I am here but I just can't get past the hawk tooeying, the lack of personal space, the smells on the metro and the wake up call to end all wake up calls. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIq0QS3UIo5wDni0nj4438E5hR3h7TaV_gcalX5bxsw4dWBgMi6VCAZQH-88R-Mlihn_lrMpacisrtgPnkM3KFnGZU-GWuJdL_7v7pgTWJ_YVwMNzh03LWkA8EL5IW_npUJgVAk2za5e9/s1600/IMG_0510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAIq0QS3UIo5wDni0nj4438E5hR3h7TaV_gcalX5bxsw4dWBgMi6VCAZQH-88R-Mlihn_lrMpacisrtgPnkM3KFnGZU-GWuJdL_7v7pgTWJ_YVwMNzh03LWkA8EL5IW_npUJgVAk2za5e9/s320/IMG_0510.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You ain't from around here, is ya?</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I am married to a "self-proclaimed" White Beaner from Mexico. There are times when the frijoles run amok in our house after a bean burrito feast, but I can assure you, we don't broadcast our orchestral bodily function sounds from the rooftop as this mystery man seems to enjoy sharing. Until we can return to Canada, I must embrace Asia, for the clangor, the confusion, the never-ending traffic and the inquisitive people. At least I am warm!</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-89886800798196234912012-09-25T18:10:00.000-07:002012-09-25T21:43:18.183-07:00You say Thiruvananthapuram, I say Thiruvananthapuram, let's call the whole thing off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You don't always get a chance to redeem yourself but that is exactly what happened to me in India - Part Deux. Let's say there was no love lost between India and me, the first time I went. The second time, we are bosom buddies, in fact, you could say, I fell in love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE0xX5nBVGSaenxFSdfrrrq3OWKp9o-R62ZCjLLgj7JMNczhplYOXg4Lv2oHNrpMhup9PQ-y_cNP4pvHaitm4sYHyX1ivnGHTO6dkR6yioNWxFln2SPZ9aQc5MpZG3UAg3ZI3IVhDZm-5/s1600/IMG_2265.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixE0xX5nBVGSaenxFSdfrrrq3OWKp9o-R62ZCjLLgj7JMNczhplYOXg4Lv2oHNrpMhup9PQ-y_cNP4pvHaitm4sYHyX1ivnGHTO6dkR6yioNWxFln2SPZ9aQc5MpZG3UAg3ZI3IVhDZm-5/s320/IMG_2265.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is a photo every step of the way</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">When R2 was summoned to work for a week in India, I could see the desperation in the text he sent, "Mi amor, I have to return to India....I will understand if you can't come," was what I read. What I heard was, "You better get your Canadian tukus on that plane with me and save me from Delhi Belly, if you want to go to Maldives, or any other exotic holiday, for that matter."</span><br />
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Who can argue with that logic? My bags were packed before he crossed the threshold that evening.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beaches, to die for</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">We decided to make the best of this trip and began quizzing friends that I have met in Singy for the best place to relax and enjoy a little R&R. I heard the same answer many times over, "Go to Kerala in Southern India." My mistake; last time we only went north and missed the sprawling beaches and miles of coastline. Every person we spoke to talked about the ocean, the scenery, the breezes, and the SEAFOOD....did you say seafood?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only skirts are worn in the temple by men</td></tr>
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The trip began with business in Bangalore, led by fantastic dinners with 16 Starters before we even got to the Mains. I had no idea what I ate in all of those courses, but I know I rolled away from the table and gasped when our guests enlightened us to the fact we had merely just begun to eat; only five more courses until the end. This type of eating went on for two nights, so needless to say, the old mumu bikini came out of hiding when we reached Kovalam, Kerala. Now I know why I see so many burkinis on the beach, not only is modesty an issue, but also what eating all those carbs for hours at a stretch does to a girlish figure.</div>
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<span class="s1">We landed in the state's capital city of Thiruvananthapuram; I know, say that fast five times, and drove along the coast noticing picturesque beaches, mosques and shops until we reached our secluded villa at Surya Samudra Private Retreats. I don't want to turn this story into a Trip Advisor review, but "wow" was all I could say. Once again, the tall Latino knocked one outta the park with picking these digs. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">After a cool coconut drink was brought to us, we were led to a seaside villa, atop a cliff, overlooking the Arabian Sea. Quite swank for this prairie girl, but with you people that grew up with an outhouse, you may wonder why I was so excited about the outdoor shower and loo. It was a little intimidating to bathe for all monkeys' eyes to see, but I am no Kate Middleton so I think I was safe amidst all the coconut trees.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9Wzth0-DLmZZ61bCLavVX6LRIL8lntjn_SLSMCgCDjDwcJNyso_KQnww_HL_zrxbjXoj091hjiiGp8nBTQTr0s6N6BcewSNORrrfsJAU0wD3FEkN3VhnwDhIfDJgtKkQ8hvy4PNcgmir/s1600/IMG_6458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ9Wzth0-DLmZZ61bCLavVX6LRIL8lntjn_SLSMCgCDjDwcJNyso_KQnww_HL_zrxbjXoj091hjiiGp8nBTQTr0s6N6BcewSNORrrfsJAU0wD3FEkN3VhnwDhIfDJgtKkQ8hvy4PNcgmir/s320/IMG_6458.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mosque (Masjid) on the cliff</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">R2, still not accustomed to the poverty and filth, decided the best course of action was to hire a car and enjoy India from the luxury of air con and four wheels instead of three on the auto rickshaws. The Samudra Retreat was on top of everything, and lo and behold a splashy SUV picked us up to tour around as we pleased. We had a brilliant time photographing the arresting scenery, people and animals we encountered along the way. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Again, the local people were not used to seeing the western dynamic duo, so we were stopped several times to have our photos taken. This time, we took many of the locals’ pics, and they happily posed. The mosques built on cliff tops with the sea crashing down below had to be a highlight of the trip. However, what was most fun about the journey was a group of girls that jumped from a rickshaw and started to blow kisses my way.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I enjoyed the locals this time around. As we would pass the neighborhood tailor, he would greet us with, "Hello, what is your name, where are you from, look at my stuff," and give us a friendly wave. The lady selling fruit from a shack would peek out of her dwelling each time we strolled by, giving us a huge, gummy grin hoping we were in need of a lovely bunch of coconuts.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old man outside of the mosque</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Between the intriguing photo ops on every street corner, the shy people and the stellar treatment we received at Surya Samudra, India became bliss in my world. The mornings were tranquil, only being disturbed by a distance rooster cock-a-doodle-doing, and R2 squashing another ant in our outdoor biffy. The afternoons were shaded under an umbrella or spent lazing in an infinity pool that overlooked the sublime Arabian Sea. The evenings ended with spicy-infused ginger cocktails, watching the sun slowly sink into the blue-green waters of Kovalam.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Oh India, how you charmed me. I have become a Lover, not a Fighter. Not once was I shaken down for more money, taken for a drive down a back alley to "buy something from my brother," or lose three kilos in one day from flaming dysentery acquired from fresh vegetables. I left that vacation refreshed and rejuvenated. Lord knows I need it, with the formidable task of going to Thailand in less than a week. I could get used to this life.</span><br />
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<span class="s1"><i>To read my review on Trip Advisor, <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.ca/ShowUserReviews-g311295-d446942-r140141279-Surya_Samudra_Private_Retreats-Kovalam_Kerala.html#CHECK_RATES_CONT" target="_blank">click here</a></i>.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com22Country Spa Rd, Kovalam, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India8.400923 76.978834.352355 71.925119 12.449491000000002 82.032541000000009tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-91781078245597771812012-09-14T04:13:00.000-07:002012-09-14T04:13:06.685-07:00Besieged in Bangalore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selling fruit on the road</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">What began as a normal day in India turned into a paparazzi circus and I felt a kinship with Lady GaGa and The Biebs. After my previous experience with taxis and tuk tuks in India, I grabbed a brain and hired a driver to show me the sites. Rafiq was eager to show off his knowledge of Bangalore.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5hcW4IaUhlIzfwj3ScD2TQx1giF2zxEyspcvgvUaI0UzLMuhpTLz6ifLsMMibeKhOmzhldkRNR5jW8tfTh0UCwVpoXyXBCO9gG7I8TAhdK3yLDYBluEwDtd6meVY2DDI4bu5wHRIT9Ze/s1600/IMG_2022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq5hcW4IaUhlIzfwj3ScD2TQx1giF2zxEyspcvgvUaI0UzLMuhpTLz6ifLsMMibeKhOmzhldkRNR5jW8tfTh0UCwVpoXyXBCO9gG7I8TAhdK3yLDYBluEwDtd6meVY2DDI4bu5wHRIT9Ze/s320/IMG_2022.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Devotion to Ganesha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I didn't have much time and the traffic is a hinderance but Rafiq took me to Shiv Mandir Temple where I chanted Om Namah Shivaya 108 times during Archana, performed Abhishek and ended the ritual with Havan. In other words, I poured milk for purity, repeated the mantra for dedication and devotion and finished with Havan, circling the fire three times for fulfillment of a wish, while connecting to God. I had no idea what I was doing but it was interesting to watch, listen and learn.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Bangalore is concrete, construction and confusion. I wanted to escape the commotion to where I always feel at home. I asked Rafiq to drive me to Lalbagh Botanical Garden to find a piece of serenity. I was well rewarded with the lush green 240 acre park, smack dab in the middle of chaotic madness.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOephXs-DmOqsWQGJvAbSw3Ge9EW3jkQdwbucrwOKXhaLeijsVsda82sAeZ9hO7479YmFvTqV_ZM7rKQUUMgTjFOvjBsdu27YKgTEEguUJEj8CUjEEuOuYufN3SwDzj4XwuE9sO0jQPxkH/s1600/IMG_2058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOephXs-DmOqsWQGJvAbSw3Ge9EW3jkQdwbucrwOKXhaLeijsVsda82sAeZ9hO7479YmFvTqV_ZM7rKQUUMgTjFOvjBsdu27YKgTEEguUJEj8CUjEEuOuYufN3SwDzj4XwuE9sO0jQPxkH/s320/IMG_2058.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am not this modest...</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I know in India, there is a need for modesty and discreetness. I try to not draw attention to myself but it is hard to contain this hair of mine, especially with the wind and dirt that covers most surfaces. It makes for a tangled mess. I wore a baggy T-shirt, knee-length skirt and trainers for all the walking I planned to do. Seemed low-key to me; just a woman out taking photos, like any other foreigner.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn096rmEYSei8yFzfUQPKrtj82xsBJpY8dllTSAtglfZHA4de5a54fcrgukLr60KOuw-CN68ZyW4HHmjn_rMFvNjIakve3B5AD8UaeOTdMTq14pr_EXQk3LJMzQ1nZKZdjMdDvFwnNuZeo/s1600/IMG_2051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn096rmEYSei8yFzfUQPKrtj82xsBJpY8dllTSAtglfZHA4de5a54fcrgukLr60KOuw-CN68ZyW4HHmjn_rMFvNjIakve3B5AD8UaeOTdMTq14pr_EXQk3LJMzQ1nZKZdjMdDvFwnNuZeo/s320/IMG_2051.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking photos in the park</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the park, I was minding my business, trying to sneak photos of the captivating people, when two men approached me, carrying a young child. He shoved the baby into my arms with no warning and asked to take my photo with the kid. Before I could say no, the toddler started to wail in protest. "Hey, I know I look a fright in this wind, but no need for waterworks." The man showed no concern for his traumatized daughter and whipped out an old school cell to take photos of me and his snot-soaked kid. I quickly handed back the kid and got out of there but not before another man approached me and pushed his wife beside me for another happy memory. Magically, four cameras materialized and he was snap-happy.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY5aJG0pmgkqpo7e9i4Qx0iGTCMdxxVbOGtFUGVfBtlMSPAShoBGPpkrPNje25wIg4FWfCYxENfkxr5cc7hcxzntla7u2CXW5qS5sspVd2SmklRCVxb5YvDvwOCISJQ8yTPbhcMwsvD91/s1600/IMG_2050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNY5aJG0pmgkqpo7e9i4Qx0iGTCMdxxVbOGtFUGVfBtlMSPAShoBGPpkrPNje25wIg4FWfCYxENfkxr5cc7hcxzntla7u2CXW5qS5sspVd2SmklRCVxb5YvDvwOCISJQ8yTPbhcMwsvD91/s320/IMG_2050.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The blatant stares I received</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"What is happening?" I wondered. I have experienced other cultures wanting Westerners photos and I have been approached before but never to this extent or persistence. I would like to say it got better and I was able to enjoy quiet time but the photo taking became more insistent. I told a crowd of men, "No," and they were almost begging as I hastened away from them. I got out of that situation as quickly as I could. I could hear R2 in my mind losing his marbles when I told him this story and him telling me I am too friendly and naive.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I made my way to the exit and found Rafiq waiting patiently for me, with the door held open. This 23 year-old man was a true gentleman. He told me with the traffic we had time for one more stop so he took me to an Aviation Museum. I have less than zero interest in museums or aviation for that matter, except to get me from Point A to Point B but he was so eager for me to enjoy, I couldn't say no.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bWKZn_1445tiCukp5PLSioY1jJXEPXNYC0bIrAgEf0U3JU8wVQBKSJN5111pVl26VzOJTX_3iyFffarqXrmIdEPh_WuU5Wdsm7Bn2MbYNx2Wpiet2f6u0MSGEeHAgWo3BJCrOVmHgg8A/s1600/IMG_2065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bWKZn_1445tiCukp5PLSioY1jJXEPXNYC0bIrAgEf0U3JU8wVQBKSJN5111pVl26VzOJTX_3iyFffarqXrmIdEPh_WuU5Wdsm7Bn2MbYNx2Wpiet2f6u0MSGEeHAgWo3BJCrOVmHgg8A/s320/IMG_2065.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She wanted money when she realized I took her photo</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He dropped me off and reminded me I had 30 minutes before we hit the traffic to deposit me safely in the hotel for a business dinner. And R2 was worried about me leaving with this stranger!</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There was a huge line up for the museum and I didn't think I would be able to get in with the time allotment but I paid my 20 Rupee entrance fee (35 cents CA) anyway. The security guard told all the Nationals to make way for me and I was brought to the front of the line, while the queue waited.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The museum was very old-fashioned compared to the glitz of the Singapore galleries so I made a perfunctory circle around the exhibits. Little did I know, I was soon going to be an exhibit.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_SXPIdLaNlsOrumb77LrmBlCJGnPjAk2soIdBP3lU5JLYRJFQCodvmjX-in7U00Ra6Hrl67CRgEfrCeafveq4nF46N09TpGSvOEo_v3PFBvdE1qHvQSZ163upwBoUMeyuMNE-3ubax_s/s1600/IMG_2085.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_SXPIdLaNlsOrumb77LrmBlCJGnPjAk2soIdBP3lU5JLYRJFQCodvmjX-in7U00Ra6Hrl67CRgEfrCeafveq4nF46N09TpGSvOEo_v3PFBvdE1qHvQSZ163upwBoUMeyuMNE-3ubax_s/s320/IMG_2085.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crowd of people with many camera!</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A small group of young men approached me and wanted my photo; again with the photos? I told them it was strange and creepy to take a stranger’s picture but that didn't deter them. They were so insistent I said, "Just one."</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Dozens of people must have been watching this exchange of fake smiles and when I moved to the safety of a display, I was suddenly surrounded by dozens of girls shoving cameras in my face, jumping into the frame, shouting at me to look at them and touching my hair. The crowd started to gather and before I knew it, I was backed up against the walls with people gibbering in a language I had no way to understand.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The security guards came to try to break up the crowd and he told me to just smile, smile. I guess this was the only way he could contain the crowd, but not before he whipped out a cell phone and had his photo taken with me. He said something in Hindi and the group groaned as I scurried out of there like a beaten dog, tail between my legs. I frantically looked for the exit and noticed the crowd was now following me. I had gone from being a celebrity to the Pied Piper of Bengaluru.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I dashed upstairs, caught my breath, managed to shove my camera into the bag and compose myself before heading outside to find Rafiq. I didn't tell him what happened because I didn't want to offend him by not enjoying the museum, or to make him think he brought me to a place where I was uncomfortable. People in India take their roles seriously and get offended if the service they provide isn't up to a high standard.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmDqQBDhuLI2vUyzH8dgwkAW09A5x5qjwe_PW6X2kk34Mt403v1K-CqdrF8veawDdqT4_JSQ3kVg-j-tGTvjLx7zwnMZ40VOkR0aSDMbhe3WBQ8PyZlNdsM4DRowO16TUglZssLVCt9mg/s1600/IMG_2061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRmDqQBDhuLI2vUyzH8dgwkAW09A5x5qjwe_PW6X2kk34Mt403v1K-CqdrF8veawDdqT4_JSQ3kVg-j-tGTvjLx7zwnMZ40VOkR0aSDMbhe3WBQ8PyZlNdsM4DRowO16TUglZssLVCt9mg/s320/IMG_2061.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back to the safety of the car taking photos</td></tr>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I searched the crowd to find Rafiq but not before teenagers in school uniforms started pointing, staring, and saying, "Wow, white woman." Now I know how the new pandas at the Singapore Zoo feel.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It was great to be back to the safety of the hotel before we met R2’s colleagues. I told the story to some of the guests we entertained for dinner. They explained that often many Indians have next to no chance to see white foreigners. Many TV shows and movies are not accessible to many regions and often seeing a white woman on the street is a photo they want to show their friends to say they "met and spoke" to you.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The next time I go out, I will turn the tides and ask to take all of their photos. Should produce some interesting results.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-48223278891525316322012-09-05T06:37:00.001-07:002012-09-10T05:36:30.324-07:00Three Blind Mice...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">There's a rat in me kitchen what am I gonna do? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">There's a rat in me kitchen what am I gonna go? </span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><i>I'm gonna fix that rat that's what I'm gonna do, I'm gonna fix that rat." </i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoD9UFvrrKfgR0LKuEsS-ubagzxCcgBJGGjB-rY29qBek4iYyo_q0K0kSH0PmCJ3laWS03sG4MzNF16WXX4WKM1neVbjnBoHYPNsbIw6IddgpA-y-UE-icOXgscpSrFt8f2oD1IfxH3lDS/s1600/rats2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoD9UFvrrKfgR0LKuEsS-ubagzxCcgBJGGjB-rY29qBek4iYyo_q0K0kSH0PmCJ3laWS03sG4MzNF16WXX4WKM1neVbjnBoHYPNsbIw6IddgpA-y-UE-icOXgscpSrFt8f2oD1IfxH3lDS/s320/rats2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quit bringing your rat family to see me</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">My apologies to UB40 but I swear if I see one more rat in Asia, running solo, in herd or gaggles, or whatever they gather in, I am going to go "Three Blind Mice" on their ass. I have seen rats from India, to Thailand, to Singapore, to Australia (well, technically, they were possum and OZ isn't Asia, but close enough). My latest venture with the pests was in Melaka, Malaysia with my sister Lori, and R2. It doesn't get any easier seeing these vermin running through the streets or dangerously close to where you are dining, no matter how often you see them.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">We took Lori for a final trip in Asia before she went homeward bound because we wanted to jam in as many countries as we could. It was her first trip to Asia, and after all the bats, rodents and lizards we saw, hopefully not her last.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">We took a luxury coach to Melaka; the only way you can get to this UNESCO Heritage Site city. The term luxury was a mystery because it was a normal bus with your typical tourist that cracks open a Tiger Beer at 8:00 a.m.and continues to pound five before 11 a.m. Once we crossed the Malaysian border, we stopped for a bathroom break, to the ultra luxurious squat and dip toilets; Lori was not amused.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">R2 sprung for superior rooms with huge beds, a monstrous pool to cool down from the August heat and a lounge where we relaxed, away from general population of history seeking tourists. So far, so good.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9q7WRYndUw82kBBNskVJMeHQTnoBIwdOrggborIKdVYVnJJenWJFuV88fA0wc1w4DXYmoWYc8BAwZbsMZqW7NO6iQ71_dWoZQfdoHuryOFzkElTJh52kuQ2WEEP3ieFj8eZAwVkTmlRxR/s1600/IMG_6260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9q7WRYndUw82kBBNskVJMeHQTnoBIwdOrggborIKdVYVnJJenWJFuV88fA0wc1w4DXYmoWYc8BAwZbsMZqW7NO6iQ71_dWoZQfdoHuryOFzkElTJh52kuQ2WEEP3ieFj8eZAwVkTmlRxR/s320/IMG_6260.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the cemetery in Melaka</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px;">Melaka is a charming city, filled with forts, tombs, museums and bygone days. Let's be honest, we were there for the massages, food and a boat ride along the river. We also wanted to escape Singapore because it was National Day which means traffic, people and confusion at every corner. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">We had heard the military practising the fly-bys so often, I thought Singapore was under an air strike and we didn't get the memo.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2lq5CtFpsLtUWThFISollyD3GclOZf0g8lZU9PN2c9EVLDCh5cZuqNFl8V-RhzUgRT5w-7CBk1Bq3ERDWObkUQnnG0EOaMxGDxIFzeMJc-QGfVZfFxD0O1gHQjtuMw6swvL5AQDo9Pino/s1600/IMG_6156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2lq5CtFpsLtUWThFISollyD3GclOZf0g8lZU9PN2c9EVLDCh5cZuqNFl8V-RhzUgRT5w-7CBk1Bq3ERDWObkUQnnG0EOaMxGDxIFzeMJc-QGfVZfFxD0O1gHQjtuMw6swvL5AQDo9Pino/s320/IMG_6156.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The romance tuk tuk ride</td></tr>
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<span style="line-height: 20px;">One activity that I thought would be great for Lori was the manually driven tuk tuks, decorated in every imaginable way. The tuk-tuks are different than I have experienced as they are bicycles that chauffeur you around. We found a couple of men willing and eager to give us a ride to the river. Most of them want to give you the entire city tour. Little did we know R2 and I got the honeymoon tuk tuk and Lori got the disco tuk tuk. It was all great fun, and the added history lessons we received from the driver was a bonus.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In Melaka, we didn't do anything we haven't done in any of the locales we have visited in Asia: we drifted on the river and pretended it was Amsterdam, we noshed in a bistro and pretended it was France, and we escaped the intense Malaysia heat at the busy pool and pretended it was Mexico. We people watched, we looked at historic Malay sites, we took our lives in our hands trying to cross the road and we fought the never-ending crowds along the street. Pretty much what we do in every place we visit. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dragon all alone in the ghost town</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">On one sultry evening we took a stroll to find that Melaka is a ghost town unless it is a Friday night. No one told the sewer rats to stay home; I don't think they were interested in the ubiquitous karaoke. It wasn't bad enough I had to listen to R2 and Lori scream through not one, two, or three rats, there were four rats running near the gutter on a deserted street. I knew this trip was going to go from bad to worse if we saw more.</span></div>
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Often, if I didn't have any bad luck, I would not have any luck at all when it comes to the flying and grounded vermin and roaches. My worst fears were confirmed as we walked down another creepy, darkened street the following night, on the hunt for a decent reflexology treatment. I saw the rat, the rat saw me and it was Mickey Mouse go-time. He went scurrying down the gutter towards Lori like a bat outta hell, but I kept my yap shut and my inner screams stifled. I was hoping they wouldn't see what I saw for fear of having to revive them both from a case of the Vapours. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous river - where the rats band together</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was in the clear; the disgusting vermin made a beeline for the garbage heap and they were none the wiser. Oh no, as with monkeys, if you see one, there are fourteen more surrounding you; same deal with the rats. All of the sudden, the tick-infested, nasty rat made an attempt down the fifty yard line, right past Lori, and between R2's longs legs."Game on, Rat," I thought. Lori's screams could be heard in Indonesia and R2 tried to kick that rat for a field goal, up the middle. The attempt, like the Saskatchewan Roughriders, was unsuccessful, but I imagine it felt good to try to punt him like a futbol. So much for an enjoying a quiet foot massage with Lori and Arturo screaming, shouting and carrying on like school girls from the latest Ratcsapade.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We boogied back to the hotel and had a shower (not together) to rid ourselves of the rat image. An early night was probably the best after two nights of the cheeky buggers. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The next day, we had a long ride back on a crowded bus to Singapore through two borders, a beer drinker and immigration officers from Dante's Inferno. I just hoped none of the rats jumped in our luggage because getting into Singapore Customs is tough.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-23034062797135473312012-08-27T23:49:00.001-07:002012-08-29T23:44:39.558-07:00Monsoons and Motor Scooters <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The color of the Andaman Sea in Thailand</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is a reason we respect safety signs: "Dangerous Curve Ahead", "Biohazard Area, Stay Out” or "Hard Helmet Area" are signs posted for a purpose. So why did my sister, Lori and I not heed the "Monsoon Season, Dangerous Riptides" advice generously displayed everywhere in Phuket, Thailand? Perhaps because we were there for action and excitement; it was our first vacation together and we were in a place that cried decadence and adventure.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: normal;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It was my mission to provide "THE Beach Experience" for my sister and I wanted more than the overcrowded Karon beach outside of </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">our rustic hotel. We decided to snorkel and see</span> <span class="Apple-style-span">what all the fuss about Thailand's heavenly beaches was about. We found a southern tour that would take you to Raya Island for one thousand Baht. At this secluded island, we were promised we could snorkel from the boat, look for tiny sharks and rays and then chill on the other side, enjoying the aquamarine water, white sand and sea breeze. What I didn't take into account was the dangerous, rough water we would have to navigate to get to the destination. All of this, led by a sun-baked man named Tiger, and a boat full of Russians, Mainland Chinese and two hick town women from Canada.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Packed like Sardines on the boat</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We were shuttled to the ferries early in the morning and herded into a canopied shack to wait for our turn to board the rickety speed boat. While waiting we were told by Tiger that under no circumstance should we take off our lifejackets onboard, and that on every boat he commandeers, someone throws up their noodle breakfast. He handed out anti nausea pills like candy and I wondered what I had got us into as I popped pill after pill. No way were my eggs coming up with a boat load of people that didn't speak English.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We were ushered to the boat and due to high tide and rough water we had to board from the beach, through the murky sea. We were handed life jackets that were either too large or too small and told to make sure they were secure. They loaded the boat so tight, we were stuck together from our sweat. Body odor was starting to emanate. "Move it people, let's get a breeze going."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I should have kept that thought pushed further down because within minutes, we were on the way to Raya, through monsoon waves. As Tiger explained, "During monsoon season, we get waves all day, we get waves all night, we get waves every day." Why didn't we listen to him before we boarded, why, why?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The trip to the island is usually 30 minutes but with the three meter swells pummeling the packed boat, it was over 45 minutes. We were completely drenched as the water tried to overcome the craft.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitesurfing on Karon Beach</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What I learned on this trip is that Mandarin, Russian and English speakers all scream "Wooo" the same way. The woman beside me must have had bruises from me clutching her leg when the boat became airborne. I am not sure she understood, "Sorry" but she just smiled and patted my hand. My sister was the only person on the boat not nervous. She sang Bob Marley songs to keep me from pitching a fit, as I prayed to Buddha, Allah and did Hail Marys until the ocean subsided.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Finally we got past the bucking waves to calm, crystalline water and all was forgotten. I couldn't get on my "cheap, Made in Taiwan" snorkel gear fast enough. Hey, those were Tiger's words, not mine, as I exited the boat. Tiger also insisted on giving us more racial stereotyping before we all jumped. "Chinese are not allowed to drown on my watch, because Chinese can't swim." This old bugger was less than politically correct.<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">He was kind enough to snorkel with me and help me locate a Sting Ray hiding amongst the colorful coral; the highlight of the trip for me. Swimming with Tiger was not. All of his spitting and hacking from his strong Thai cigarettes into the pristine water, was less than appealing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Soon it was time to venture to the other side of the island for relaxation and lunch. We were chauffeured by an incredibly classy tractor pulling a flatbed, but only if you were female. All the men had to hike in the blazing sun to the other side, past the meandering Water Buffalo, just in time to lay down for a late morning siesta.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">What a sight to behold, monsoon or not, on the other side of the island. Finally I got to see the white sand and dazzling water I had read so much about. Keeping to a tight schedule we scampered over to a large shack on the beach that was disguised as a restaurant. We literally had to scramble over rocks and sand bags to get to the entrance. Safety, be damned in Thailand.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scrambling over the rocks to the restaurant</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I was warning my sister that in Asia, queues mean nothing, when three women tried to bypass her in line. Her piano teaching instincts took over and she informed these rogues "budders" she was next. The chastised women slunk to the back of the line, HA! We were rewarded with Tom Yum Soup, and unidentifiable deep fried veg, plantains and pineapple.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We still had to return to Phuket, and I would like to say the waves had subsided, but that would be wrong. If nothing else, the boat was more jam-packed and the waves were higher. I am not certain how we managed to bring more people onboard, or where they came from, but this time, there were not enough life jackets for everyone. Tiger tried to tell me I would be fine, to which I told him, "Not bloody likely." He miraculously found one for me and then tried to entertain the green passengers with brain twisting puzzles.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ladyboys are everywhere in Phuket</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">The rest of the trip was a whirlwind of Ladyboys, dancing, cheap booze and hot, hotter, and hottest days. Nothing out of the extraordinary happened if you don't take into account that women that once used to be men proposition you every two steps, and you see nasty, old Western men with "Younger Than Their Grandchildren" girlfriends. While this may seem strange to some, it is perfectly normal in Thailand. It is Vegas, but 95 per cent more insane, naughty, wild and raunchy all rolled into one.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On the day we were to leave, I had organized a taxi to pick us up for our early flight on Tiger Airlines (Yes, everything in Thailand is named Tiger). Of course, the taxi didn't show, and the thousands of taxis you see during the night were all sleeping at this ungodly hour. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I had security, and workers all running up and down the street trying to flag down a taxi, when a man on a motor scooter flew by, jammed on his brake and yelled, "Taxi?" I told him to hurry because we needed to get to the airport. He looked at the luggage, then Lori, and told me to hop on. I roared off, leaving her with the bags on the side of the road, while we located his taxi. In just a few short minutes we zoomed back to pick her up and blaze through every red light in Phuket. I ended up paying him almost double what I would have paid the airport taxi, but at this point, I would have paid him anything.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Selling crepes on the street - yummy</td></tr>
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When safely ensconced in Singy I spilled the adventure beans to R2, who challenged me with, “Darling, you will not know travel until you go to Phuket with me, so brace yourself. We will take in Ping-Pong Shows, serpent entertainment, and Hunt for The Red October.” He is probably right, traveling with the Mexican whirling dervish will provide stories that are highly censored in the puritan society of Singapore. I guess I will have to wait until October when we make another visit to Thailand: The Land of Smiles.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com15Nok Ta Kaeo, Si Sunthon, Thalang, Phuket 83110, Thailand7.9843109 98.3307468-20.7364901 57.9010593 36.7051119 138.7604343tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2516526430270378013.post-65181083958199771992012-08-21T01:59:00.000-07:002012-08-21T02:00:29.212-07:00From No-tell Motels to Putting on the Ritz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Former Sisal Plantation - now a resort</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It occurred to me that I have stayed in some unique lodgings since I began this travelling journey called, "<i>My Life</i>”. I have stayed in unmentionables to forgettables to memorables and everything in-between throughout dozens of countries. Often they meld into one, however there are times they are extraordinary and not always in a positive way.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">On a recent trip to Thailand I booked a budget hotel. Not expecting much, except a white sand beach across the road, I got what I paid for. What I didn't pay for, was frequent visits from wretched rats in the pool area. We tried to explain the rat situation to the neighboring Russian tourists with charades and hand gestures. It wasn't until we said, "Mickey Mouse" did they understand and started to scream on our decibel level.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best resorts - always Mexico</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When I travel with R2, I am usually in for a treat. His entire life has been hotel rooms and suitcases so he makes certain a king-sized bed (not always an easy find in Asia) with a decent mattress and plush bedding is in the room. Me, I prefer wifi. When I can't connect, my head starts to spin, my eyes roll back in my head and I begin to froth at the mouth. Not being connected to friends and family is not in the realm of my techno-world. Heaven help the On-Duty Manager if I can’t find wifi in the hotel.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cant resist dinner at the Four Seasons Langkawi</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">His frequent traveling has garnered him status in many hotels so as the "tag-along" spouse, I have to admit I enjoy the Platinum Perks. I have come a long way from the wooden shacks on the beach I used to afford, to the Four Seasons Resort in Langkawi. We have been upgraded to a suite so large in Sydney, Australia, I sent out an All Points Bulletin on R2 because I lost him in one of the rooms. Turns out he was in the gargantuan sunken tub, testing the bath salts and water temperature.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When we travel with guests we tend to pay, so the accommodations are not quite as swank. When my son Lucas visited with his girlfriend, Sam, who could forget the "upgrade" in Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia that looked like bullet holes had peppered the ceiling, towels so threadbare you could almost see through and a bathroom door that you could see through. Not much privacy for four people.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bintan, Indonesia - cottages on the beach</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There was the cabin on the beach in Tioman, Malaysia where the double beds were so small, R2 and I had to stay motionless all night for fear of landing on the sandy floor. We had R2's son in the bed next to us so the snoring between two men was in stereo for my listening enjoyment.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We took a three week holiday from the Caribbean Sea to the Gulf of Mexico a couple of years ago. We stayed in a lodge in Chichen Itza, Quintana Roo that was in the middle of the jungle with no phones, TV or...gasp...wifi. What it did have was a healthy herd of scorpions. I wondered why R2 told me to check my shoes before I put them on. What he didn't tell me was that he was pulverizing scorpions in the porch before I fainted dead away.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Also on this countrywide journey, he booked us into a five-star transformed Hacienda in Temozon that used to be a working Sisal plantation. The Hacienda was Colonial Mexico at its finest from the swinging hammocks in the room, to the outdoor private tub filled with hibiscus flowers. The only detraction at this locale was the swimming baby bat in the infinity pool. The drenched black vermin put a damper on my need to dip in the water, no matter how hot I was, in July, in Mexico.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beverly Hills is THE place to people watch</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><i>Dinner for the Schmucks</i> was a Rotten Tomato bomb but I didn't care when we stayed in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It was the Premier of the movie at this famous hotel and Steve Carell and Paul Rudd held the elevator for us. I tried to play it cool until they left the elevator where the media and other celebrities were gathered. That is when I began my celebrity-spotting dance and shouted, "The 40-Year Old Virgin" just held the door for us and told us to “Have a nice day”. So much for being calm, cool and collected.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I have stayed in rooms with canopied beds which always leave R2 with a bruise when he forgets, stands up, and bashes his head. I have lain awake at nights listening to crickets and geckos you know are in the room with you. I have luxuriated in bathtubs so large, a family of four could live in it, and I have sat on balconies to watch the most magnificent sunsets on over-the-top tropical properties. I have also killed spiders, mosquitoes and chased lizards from the “not so nice” resorts we manage to find ourselves, on occasion.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">India was interesting for accommodations. We had a lovely suite in Bangalore however, right beside the hotel (one that had armed guards checking every vehicle that entered the facility for bombs) was a slum with shoeless children begging and rummaging through the rubbish, next to the rats. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our private pool in Jaipur - amazing property</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">We went to several cities in India and luckily R2 made certain the accommodations were livable. We stayed in the Tree of Life, outside of Jaipur that without a doubt was the most heavenly property I have stepped foot on. Sadly for me, in Agra the day before, I managed to eat something that gave me a two week stint of what the locals call Delhi Belly. I did appreciate the massive, marble bathroom because that is where I spent two days, lying on the floor, hoping someone could put me out of my misery.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Many people I talk to, think what R2 and I do, is strange, or exotic. People often tell me how lucky we are to be on this quest. After living in Asia for seven months, my life is not much different from the hundreds of thousands of expats in Singapore, and beyond. Twenty or thirty countries is nothing compared to many people I have met. We are newbies at this life even though R2 has been at this game for over twenty years. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How big of a bruise will I get? Rothenburg, Germany</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It really makes no difference if the accommodations are quaint and rustic or if they are grand and opulent. Either way, we manage to find an adventure. In the five years we have been together, three of those were spent apart while he worked afar and I got up each day for my government job, so if he puts us up at the Ritz Carleton or the Roach Motel, as long as we are together on this traveling expedition, we are contented and home. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now can someone please tell the rats, bats and creepy, crawly things they aren’t welcome?</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06529566352907935039noreply@blogger.com10