During all the adventures and wanderings since my arrival, there have been underhanded workings and rumblings to locate a place to live. I was collaborating with people to hire an individual to seek out appropriate lodgings that would be sufficient for our combined budgets and commuting needs. Today was the day I met these people and was finally introduced to the individual and we finally started viewing houses. HDBs to be exact - which are government funded housing (that are usually bought up and then rented out at high prices to foolish foreigners like me. Sucka fish!).
My partners in crime, otherwise known as flatmates, are two unique characters. Damn it if I didn't feel fortunate to be sharing an apartment with them. Twenty-six year old Nevil from New York City and thirty-five year old Michael from Moscow (although previously from Vermont, USA). We finally came face to face in front of the Little India MRT entrance after days of emailing and sending messages over Facebook as we tried to negotiate how and where we would live. Within moments of introducing each other in person, we started testing each others character through jokes and side comments and general chit chat - weighing the value of the responses by level of wit and humor.
The individual, our contact, aka realtor, was a tense Asian woman in her 40s named Ginny. She, like most Singaporeans, spoke her English quickly and with an unforgiving accent. Upon meeting up with my two other comrades outside of the MRT, I was given specific directions to call realtor Ginny. She was waiting in her car to ferry us to our first showing - an HDB flat located across the Raffles Hotel, the birthplace of the Singapore Sling. Of course, when I called Ginny, I had trouble understanding her rapid fire instructions to find the taxi stand where she was parked. I initially started heading the wrong direction with Nevil, and Michael, following me. Our mistake soon became apparent and we doubled back to the MRT station, of course to find out the taxi stand was right in front of our eyes, as well as an impatient Ginny.
The first HDB we saw, near City Hall, did not impress. The supplied furniture looked like a hodge-podge of random things discovered in thieves markets and thrift stores. There was a tiny cot that could be from India, a standard twin with a flat mattress, and finally, a double bed with a sweet faux leather comforter. The couches were a cluster fuck of ottomans situated around an empty mount where a TV once hung. I moved around testing each one to see which was the most comfortable. The apartment also had supplied desks and those, too, varied in size and durability. Some looked like full office desks from the 80's and others looked like they were taken from a fundraiser at a local school.
The furniture could be forgiven - there is always Ikea. In actuality, the rooms and kitchen were alright - the kitchen most of all. Not only was it big, but it had a large kitchen table, tons of shelve space, full gas stove and even an oven! An oven is a rarity in Singapore - baking is not part of the cultural tradition. You got bread and pastries from the store - not your kitchen. However, the one thing that killed the place as a potential new home was the bathroom. There was no toilet. Instead, there was a porcelain squatting hole, with foot pads so you don't slip. The thought of shitting like when your backpacking did not really appeal to me. The first thing that came into my head was, "What if I'm hungover?" Holy shit! Can you imagine? Trying to squat over the poo hole while fighting nausea and a headache? That was a recipe for a messy disaster - I was bound to slip and fall and scream every curse word I knew with a mighty rage. Upon walking out of the flat, and thanking the gracious hosts, I turned to Ginny. "I'm a pretty culturally open-minded guy. I will try and accept most things that are foreign to me, however, as much as I wish I was ... I'm not quite ready to squat." She laughed and agreed - "Me too!"
Ginny had no other showings for us that day - just the one. So she left the three of us to our own devices. Michael, Nevil, and I decided to go into a Starbucks to sit down and get to know each other better. We shared information about our backgrounds, our schooling, our hobbies, and our interests. We were in that Starbucks for an hour or two before deciding food would be a good idea. I recommended we check out a hawker stand since Michael had just arrived and Nevil had yet to venture into the cheap and delicious fare. Unfortunately, on the way to the hawker stand, Nevil was summoned away by the lady putting him up, so it was just Michael and I.
We found ourselves in the financial district at a hawker food center I had previously walked by on one of my earlier explorations a few days back. Most of the stalls were closed, but we did find an Pakistani place that served more delicious roti prata, murtabak, and chicken briyani. I opted for the chicken briyani and a side of roti prata while Michael was influenced to try a chicken murtabak. My food came up fast, but poor Michael had to wait and wait. I started eating, offering to share my food with him, which he joyfully did. The chicken briyani was delicious - with a whole chicken breast on top of rice. Michael had a few scoops of rice, and half my roti prata, before finally getting his steaming, greasy mass of a meal known as murtabak - fried bread wrapped around shredded chicken and then dipped in a dark curry soup. He dove into his food with a ferocity that didn't stop until he hit a bone at 2/3rds through. We were full, satisfied, and slightly sick from the greasy mess we called dinner.
Michael and I wandered around for a bit in the twilight before finally parting ways. I wanted to make sure Michael knew where home was since he had only been in the city for less than 48 hours. Both of us regretted our hawker meal and each sought the safety of our lodgings. Michael, I later heard, had to purge his dinner later that evening. As quickly as he was introduced to hawker stands, he abandoned them. Poor bastard - I should have started him off with chicken rice.
As I came into The Beary Good Hostel, Rosie and Erica were stepping out for dinner (as it seems always to happen when I run into them). They asked if I wanted to join them since they were heading to the movies to see "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" after their meal. "No to food," I told them, "yes to movie." But first I needed to lie down and help this damn food digest - this wonderful, cheap, evil fucking food.
I almost didn't make it to the movie. I almost gave myself away to sleep in that small hostel bunk bed, but I rallied. I swung my feet around, put on my shoes and hat, and walked out the door towards the MRT station. I believed I had located the theater that Rosie and Erica would be attending for the film and got there within two train stops. As I was coming out of the station, I texted Rosie (or sms'd, as it is known here) that I was outside the mall and heading towards the theater. Then a funny thing happened - Rosie texted me they were waiting for me inside the said mall, but the mall she was named was different from the one I was at. It occurred to me that I had indeed the right movie time, but the god damn wrong mall! I texted Rosie my mistake and she laughed. "You coming over here?" "No," I responded, "I'll just watch it here. Stupid me!" "We'll compare notes in the morning," she responded.
I didn't go see the movie, however. I was a little irritated to be in the wrong place and the thought of spending money to watch a movie by myself, when I could be among friends, just seemed to irk me more. So I went back to the hostel, got back into my bunk bed, pulled out my laptop, and loaded up Netflix (via my special anonymous IP software). To my surprise, "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" was available to stream! Look how things work out. So I enjoyed the movie in the comfort of my bed, although it was a little awkward during the rape/sex scenes with my bunk bed roommates peering towards me and the debaucherous chaos going on on my computer screen.
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