Singapore

I depart Hong Kong and head for Singapore, a city known for its love of rules and order. One sign hanging over the street warns against jaywalking: "You can get around the rules but you can't get around death!" Of course, despite Singapore’s reputation as a safe “air conditioned” city, it’s easy to spot the permeable membrane between the tourist enclave and the funkier environs beyond. After catching the metro from the airport to my hotel in the city’s Geylang District, I exit the mass transit zone and face yet another wave of tropical heat. Having not developed the local tolerance for this temperate zone, I sweat ceaselessly when I venture outdoors. But the subway is never more than a few blocks from my journeys. A testament to the city's famous efficiency, the trains are clean and plentiful. I develop a passion for the thrill that comes from stepping away from one train only to step onto another that takes me further along my path. That's part of the omnitopian aesthetic, the pleasure of perpetual motion. It is the same pleasure that follows a walk through a large city. Stopping at an intersection, you does not necessarily wait for a particular crosswalk but rather take whichever path accommodates continued movement, knowing that eventually you'll get where you want to go.

The next morning, I wander the stalls of Chinatown where my cash makes close friends of all manner of vendors. Everywhere I am asked, “Where are you from? Would you like a suit? Would you like a massage?” That latter offering is an invitation to take advantage of one delicacy found in this city that is rarely advertised in the official tourist guide. After some rambling and souvenir collecting, I return to the metro and head for the Raffles Hotel, which has proclaimed itself as an essential stop for round-the-world travelers for more than a century. I start my visit at the Long Bar, famed birthplace of the Singapore Sling. The bar reminds me of something, but at first I can't quite make the connection. Then I remember: The Elephant Bar restaurant chain that is known for its rows of mechanical fans that hang from the ceiling and rhythmically sway from side to side. I remember one disappointing visit to a San Jose Elephant Bar particularly for its high priced, bland food, its screaming children, and its indifferent service. Even with its hint of the "exotic" British Raj, the place was nothing less than interchangeable with any other themed restaurant. It's pretty nice to be in an original to the many copies I've seen.

Given its location in a city that's notorious for its clean sidewalks and high fines for littering, the Long Bar advertises itself as perhaps the only place in Singapore where you can toss peanut shells on the floor. After splurging on a couple drinks, I move to the Long Bar Steakhouse. A manager sizes up my tacky camouflage pants and sweat-stained t-shirt but admits me anyway. A delicious steak with leaks and rice anchors the meal, but the real treat is the buffet that surrounds the room: gigantic shrimp (with eye stalks), fresh breads, dozens of desserts, and sumptuous coffee. The service is unrelentingly pleasant and professional; I never do quite get used to people pulling my chair for me. The entire meal, minus another Singapore Sling and service charge: $50 in local currency. Their museum sells replica luggage labels and Singapore Sling glasses.

In the afternoon, I take the metro to the station nearest the district known as Arab Street and visit the Masjid Sultan, the first mosque I’ve ever had a chance to visit - just a few hours after seeing my first Hindu temple in Chinatown. I remove my flip-flops and wander the building's inside perimeter. The main prayer hall is restricted. As I take my circle, I walk by four guys lounging on the floor. We make eye contact and I notice suddenly a blast of cool air rushing in from the window facing the outside. I smile and whistle at the natural air conditioning, a relief on a hot day. We then laugh together. Later I drift toward a kind of souk, but with none of the high-pressure tactics I experienced this morning in Chinatown. The afternoon heat is oppressive but inevitable given the tropical latitude this city-state occupies.

I duck into a dark and narrow coffee bar and order my java, iced. Turns out, this is a hostel. The music is western and the occupants are checking email on computers. I find a corner and practically lie down in pillow-covered chair. My window looks out on the street and I can barely see the spires of the mosque beyond. A couple of twenty-somethings are sitting next to me negotiating a house rental and arguing about bank procedures for credit card fraud protection. It's relaxing for a backpacker's hangout but all the talk about banker's algorithms saddens me a bit. I head out in time to hear the call for late afternoon prayers. Stopping at a plaza to listen, open my computer to write this, thinking of the odd contrast of religious place and placeless technology. Then, my computer beeps that it's found a wireless connection. So, now I'm placeless and wireless too. For a while I write, listening to the husky chant of the muezzin who calls the faithful to pray.

Another trip on the metro and I’m in Little India. Walking along a narrow road, I am asked by a fellow sipping a beer at a table, "how long did it take you to grow that beard?" Yes, my instincts suggest a con, but I've never heard that question before, and I'm intrigued. I tell him, "a few weeks, I guess." He seems shocked; that short a time? He then asks my job. I tell him that I'm a professor and he quickly invites me to join him and his friends for a beer. Perhaps this is one of those quirky moments when you get a chance to relax with "the locals," just for the pleasure of doing so, yes? He beckons and a beer appears, a big one. He offers a cigarette and settles in. He then asks, "How did you get such broad shoulders. You work out?" As out of shape as I am, I can't help but laugh. "I don't work out", I reply. "You lie? You work out, yes?" I laugh again and down the first glass. He pours a second and shakes my hand at everything I say during our chat, inviting me to shake the hands of his colleagues too. We clink glasses and I offer a cheer for National Day, the celebration for Singapore's independence that took place two days ago. Brows furrow and expressions grow grim. "Not a good day," he says. Then he decries war deaths that took place that day, blaming them on American aircraft. He then says, "Osama bin Laden is the world's greatest man. Bush is an asshole. You tell him that for me." I think carefully about his moment. His statement is no mere commentary; it is a challenge. His stare burrows in, intense and ready for my answer.

"They're both assholes," I reply.

He smiles widely. "You're wise. I agree. They're both assholes." He shakes my hand again. "I'm a tailor. I make you good suit." Well, there it is, and here we go. I demure, saying that I don’t wear suits generally and I don't have much money anyway. He knows that I'm lying. Clearly I must be fairly well off if I can afford to be here. He presses on and I pull back, still smiling but getting antsy. "You good guy. I make you suit for free." Even I know there's no such thing as a free suit. Free beer, maybe. But no free suit. Then, surprisingly, he gets up. "I go get my brother. Wait here." The spell is broken and I'm alone with one of his friends; the other got up a few minutes ago. Perhaps he senses that I'm not a sale. A few minutes pass and I follow my host. I can't accept a free beer without thanking him. Foolish, I know, but I just can't do it. I enter the shop and attempt a graceful exit after offering my appreciation for the beer and the chat. He bores in. "Buy something, at least. For luck?" I can use all the luck I can get, but I'm afraid that once my wallet appears, I'll uncork the full treatment once more. I thank him, shaking his hand. An opening. "Shake my brother's hand too!" He points at a fellow further in the shop. I know that this will get me further within his grasp, but a free beer reminds me to be polite. I step forward and shake. "Buy something from my brother! Very lucky!" Now, I'm committed to get out without being surly, but I will leave. I salute them both, an odd gesture but the only one I can consider. In Japan, I could bow at least. I turn and head out, relived that no one follows me.

***

I plan to spend the next day in Changi Airport, sleeping over night. Changi is justifiably known as a world-class airport for tourists who don't want to take their chances on local hotels. But be careful, all those amenities are available only "airside," beyond the immigration checkpoint. So, if you don't have a boarding pass, don't expect to reach this traveler's paradise. I learn this the hard way. Turns out that despite my noon arrival, my airline will not open its desk until four the next morning. Some airlines offer 24-hour early check-in. United, in contrast, allows two hours maximum. However, the airport boasts a friendly hotel reservations desk. There, I find dozens of options organized around increasing price ranges. I select a center-city hotel that looks great on the brochure, one with a drawing of a tourist couple craning their necks upward to shoot a photo of the edifice. Not another building in sight. A tourist mirage, I will soon learn.

But first I have to get there. Most folks start off with a taxi or airport bus, but the subway is much, much cheaper (about $1.20 American), and each entrance brings you past an information booth with attendants who are actually patient and courteous about even the most clueless tourist questions (I tested this myself, of course). Upon my return to the city, I drop into the Long Bar once more. On my second trip it was even more clear: meals downtown are a sucker's bet. You can spend seventy bucks (Singapore currency) for a meal that costs one-seventh the cost in the city's funkier areas. It's true: spend more than ten Singapore dollars on a great meat and rice dish - along with a couple mugs of Carlsberg Beer - and you spent too much.

After lunch, I head for my hotel. While I would have preferred Raffles, I managed to get into the Metropole next door at about a ninth of the price. Of course, with its dingy 60s-era accommodations, utter lack of internet connectivity, and absence of outlets to recharge my electronics, the price break isn't much of a bargain. Downstairs, during one of Singapore's many unscheduled "rain breaks," I enjoy some Chinese floral tea in the hotel's karaoke bar. They offer "English Tea," but I can't imagine why I'd order it here. While I let the fragrant tea steep, I enjoy a surprising floorshow. I've stumbled on a meeting place for forty-something housewives (I'm later told) who gather here on afternoons to rumba and cha cha to romantic ballads sung in the inimitable Chinese style. A few invite me to join them, but I can’t muster the courage.

The next morning, I grab a taxi and begin a 20-minute drive back to the airport. The driver selects a highway that is unexpectedly covered in overhanging trees. This is a major traffic artery, but Singapore planners decided to invest in the foliage as a way to ensure clean air. At one point, the overhang gives way to a long line of palm trees located in the median. These palms are planted in boxes. The driver explains that the architects of this road designed the boxes to be easily moved should the airport need to convert this highway into an impromptu airstrip - most likely in the event of a terrorist attack.