Suddenly I See! I’m not one for posting song lyrics on my blog, just because I used to think I was too proud to have someone else’s words express my feelings. But this song has been my mantra all semester long, it’s the song that plays when I wake up, put my shoes and make-up on, catch the metro to McPherson Square, run to 15th and L, and put on my game face for work. It will always be one of my DC songs, and more than ever, especially at this point of my life, with the work that I’ve enjoyed dedicating myself to for the past 15 weeks, while I figured out who I want to be, came to realise that there is a spot for me in the world, and why the hell busting my butt here in DC means so much to me: Her face is a map of the world Is a map of the world You can see she’s a beautiful girl She’s a beautiful girl And everything around her is a silver pool of light The people who surround her feel the benefit of it It makes you calm She holds you captivated in her palm Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) This is what I wanna be Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) Why the hell it means so much to me I feel like walking the world Like walking the world You can hear she’s a beautiful girl She’s a beautiful girl She fills up every corner like she’s born in black and white Makes you feel warmer when you’re trying to remember What you heard She likes to leave you hanging on her word Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) This is what I wanna be Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) Why the hell it means so much to me And she’s taller than most And she’s looking at me I can see her eyes looking from a page in a magazine Oh she makes me feel like I could be a tower A big strong tower She got the power to be The power to give The power to see Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) This is what I wanna be Suddenly I see (Suddenly I see) Why the hell it means so much to me giving & receiving i packed my heart in a bottle and sent it out to sea and it came back to me last weekend in the form of a long-, no actually medium, distance phonecall. a crackling hello?can you hear me? and i was once again connected to rays of sunshine. i didn’t envision the bobbing bottle coming back to my shores with a message attached, i was perfectly happy just to have given my thoughts away–content with watching the proud shiny emblem of unentangled affection swim its way to its own destiny. but the sea had other plans. alive! Riding in Nikki’s car and belting out Summer of 69 and random Def Leppard songs, I realise how much ecstasy I really am in. I work hard all day, love and believe in the work I do–something which I never believed I could feel–, excel in school and still manage to have a kick-ass time discussing Middle East politics over a hookah session. I am here, with the most amazingly talented, diverse people I have ever met in my life having the craziest, most random laugh-out-loud, sing-till-you’re-blue, cry-without-any-remorse time. I am tripping over Tocqueville, relaxing to Rawls, diving my nose into Nozick, getting down to Game Theory and having late night conversations about Serbia, Eastern Europe and being an American-Japanese-Lebanese. I’m coming home with a Kentucky accent, a Californian smile, an Alabaman laugh, a Romanian skepticism, a Lebanese joie-de-vivre, with my heart divided between two little twin babies in Atlanta and a military base in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. precious i want to write about you, but nothing seems perfect enough. Home & Away Ths beautiful building houses my delicious self, three fabulous roommates and three other apartments of TFAS-ers. Our gorgeous rooftop with a breathtaking view of the Capitol–this is the scene of the crime for many parties/dinners. And of course, the quintessential Washington picture. too much ewww in the loo i don’t understand american toilets, i really don’t. the cubicles are separated from each other by doors that do not actually close– when they are shut there is a sliver of opening between the partition and door. basically, you can see that there is someone in the cubicle, and even make out their general appearance. so whenever i walk into a toilet and the first cubicle is occupied, it’s “WHOAAAAA” ok, I did not need to see that. So now I have learnt not to look, but even if i don’t make an effort to peep or peer closely, walking past is good enough for a cursory glance at too much visual un-stimuli. Why the heck is it done this way? If it’s to alert people that someone’s in there, why can’t there be a little sign that says “Occupied” which appears when the door is locked? Why subject all and sundry to the stinging terror of seeing too much of your boss, colleague, friend or even some random stranger? I’ve adapted. I go to the loo very quickly, stand sideways while I get undressed and dressed up again and dash out the door after I’ve washed-and-soaped. It’s funny how in the capital country of the notion of privacy, there is such little space for bathroom decency. Maybe that’s why it’s so important to them, privacy, because there are such tiny little spaces to navigate and claim as yours, without being exposed and vulnerable. i (heart) DC If America is full of bullshit, then Washington, DC is the capital of delusions to drown in and I am revelling in all its mucky, throttling indecisiveness. I live in the centre of it all. My beautiful brownstone apartment building (in which I have a tiny slice of privacy divided with 3 other wonderful powerful go-getting women ) is 10 seconds from the Library of Congress, 5 minutes from the Capitol Building and down the street from the Senate Offices, not to mention some of the world’s most boastful memorials, standing proud, erect and virile.  There is a thick, invisible smog of power and the irrepressible stench of ego mingling with a waft of hopefulness and optimism. It chokes me every morning as I hop onto the sidewalk, two seconds before a pinstriped, khaki-panted staffer says “hey baby” way too lasciviously for pre-coffee conversation. Some moments I’ve had have reminded me how Fresh Off The Boat I am, albeit in a perfectly legal sense. I’ve had a man stare at me for ten minutes while I ask him, continually, while clutching a bagful of cotton buds and toothpaste at a pharmacy, (”drug store”) if I was in the right queue(line). Suffice to say, I’ve learnt how to say things like “lift” and “trunk”. And, sadly, while I hear twenty-two years of strict English language training flush itself down the drain, how to say “like” and “yeaaaah, kinda.” Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore DC. Being in DC is like being in Disneyworld for any political-science-current-affairs nerd, complete with the political sideshows (free protests and spectacles to observe, conventions where I’ve hyperventilated about meeting Jesse Jackson, Hilary Clinton and my hero Barack Obama, bars and pubs to “bump” into important staffers), but I feel my confusion surmounting not only at awkward phrases that are alien to me, but to general conundrum of choice and double-speak that I have to acquaint myself with: why are there 25 different types of chocolate chip cookies in one supermarket? why do people say “shut uppppp!!!” when they really want you to continue with a story? is hanging out really hanging out or is it a goddamn date? i suspect noone really knows. maybe it has something to do with the beauty of democracy, which i obviously have no experience with: overwhelm the public with a barrage of choices, hide what your words mean and be as ambiguous as possible. i suspect, that with all my cultural escapades and persistent perusal of intricate american life (last sunday, i had a burger and watched football with my “buddies” for two hours) that i will be the next alexander de tocqueville, minus the illusions of grandeur and feverish french glamourisations.  i suspect, also, that the sense of direction in my step–honed by jogs around the National Mall, powerwalks from the Metro to work–will veer me off the path of despondent decisions and sacrificial settlements when i return to the singapura–a thought i refuse to even entertain, for longer than a minute, in this breathless adventure in america. on being a “Random and Rampant Liberal” A friend of mine coined that phrase in 2005 during one of our most heated pre-Worlds debate training sessions. The issue before the house was something about gay marriages, I think, so friend x thought it clever to link homosexuality with the frivolity of randomness and rampant freedom. Being on the opposing team, I took on the prejudice of the semantics very strongly. But didn’t really think about what it meant. A few years on, I’m beginning to discover the real depth of how incorrect his little phrase is. Being a liberal isn’t about being random or rampant, or about stampeding, free-wheeling free speech, or about chest-thumping idealism and cripplingly sympathetic welfare mechanisms. Liberals aren’t flower children, anti-capitalists, ganja farmers, or artsy people who eat tofu burgers and date reincarnations of Hare Krishnas, or less dramatically, the bourgeois with working class routes and aspirations to traverse South America, Southeast Asia India.  All of us, the most daring, most outspoken ones included, have fears, prejudices, worry about taxes and jobs as much as equal opportunity and rights and representation. It takes effort to be a liberal–to reinforce why these values are good, why our prejudices are unfounded, to look for solutions that complement our assumptions. It takes more effort to be a liberal than to shout “small government” in the face of unknown questions where lines between rules and rights get blurred. More effort than saying immigrants shouldn’t exist, or that meritocracy really does. the honest truth is almost always blemished Lately i’ve been getting impatient with people who say “honestly” and “to tell you the truth”. Honestly what? Tell me which truth? When? At the risk of sounding pitifully post-modernist about facts, and without deconstructing the reality of perception, and questioning the basis of our epistemology and other really bullshitty ways of saying “it’s complicated”, I think anyone who says they want to know the truth is lying and anyone who says they are being honest is telling you only one side of the story–the side they perceive to know.  Most folks already have an idea of what the truth is and want a confirmation of it, and “being honest” is probably a way of re-packaging fact into neat little shortcuts of the grand old long story. Noone likes nuance, just like how very few are able to detect the bouquets and textures of wine (myself included)–people want factual chicken mcnuggets. Fast food snippets of occurrences and pancake-mix versions of intricate personalities. Spill the beans and stir it in a pot in 5 minutes, serve while hot. The “truth” is almost 5, 10, 15 years in the making and we only have 30 minutes, and then it’s on to what’s hot in the stock market. Dissect and dice. Next. Maybe it’s my unequivocally optimistic view of people–I think everyone’s good inside and at the most, have poor ways of managing difficult situations. I’ve always rushed to explain someone’s good side, always rooted for the underdogs. Maybe that’s why one of my favourite characters of all time is Iago–Shakespeare’s villainous traitor. Othello’s dimensions were easy to figure out, but there was always something about Iago–his anger, jealousy, boldness yet also at the same time his insiduous frailty, his skepticism and scheming, his malicious vulnerability. There was something about him I pitied, something I hated vehemently, something I couldn’t help but be captivated with, with copious amounts of guilt. And when the story is over and the audience weeps for Desdemona the dumb (in my opinion) and Othello the insipid (again my opinion), noone wept for Iago who was lost in the pinnacle of destruction he constructed and which consumed him too. Irretrievably. being on a diet sucks, particularly at 11:58pm, when you’re too lazy and it’s too late to go to the shops, and McDonald’s will only arrive in an hour, and all you want to do is tear open that packet of Maggi mee and gulp down that Snickers bar, but self-restraint reaches into your fridge and hands you a slice of cheese instead. email blasts from the past The best friend’s been looking through her old hotmail account, perhaps in celebration of the last desperate hours of freedom before school started for her today. She found our old emails, back from when we were awkward teenagers with embarrassing skin problems and poor fashion coordination abilities, and we’ve had such a good laugh looking through them. Particularly the ones we wrote when I was in Paris for what was truly the highlight of my teenage years–a month in the world’s most beautiful city learning French. Boys, little fruit-punch parties where we’d have to drag down the heavy stereo from her room to play CDs manually, growing up in a girls’ school that was sometimes vicious, family, ambitions and sometimes wayward dreams, crazy geography teachers, sneaking to town after school to have wedges at Dome and the excitement and trepidition of so many “first times”. I laughed, cried and cringed at my awful spelling (somedae, alwaes) and realised how I have found a treasure trove of memories. There are few things about me that J doesn’t know. Actually, I wonder if there are really any secrets we keep from each other, because somehow, whenever I feel like I’m breaking the silence and spilling the beans she seems to know instinctively what I have to say, and she seems ready for me to say it. 10 years and she knows me like a heartbeat. I wonder what it’ll be like in 20. This from the girl I didn’t actually like when we first met, the girl I thought was a bit of a snob for coming to Secondary One a few days late because she was “on holiday”. We grew up together, battled the bitchfest that was sometimes secondary school, made our own fun our own way. She’s suffered me through thousands of bad emo poems, bad hair days and even worse boyfriends. Funny how you look every where for what you think might be deep, fulfilling, engaging unconditional love. When you had it all along. post national day coital bliss/blunder Yes, I am out of hiding and so is this blog. I locked it for awhile because I was getting spammed, I was writing junk and then a week ago the privacy of my emails and some other personal accounts was compromised, wrongfully accessed, insert-politically-correct-term-for-virtual-breaking-and-entering. For awhile, all I wanted to do was exist in oblivion, which naturally, isn’t possible when you live in little ole Singapore & your friends know you’re back and when you have cable TV and are as compulsive a BBC/CNN/CNBC watcher like me. So after a week of sordid over-analysing and emotional ping-pong, I have officially decided to snap out of oh-woe-is-me mode. And i’ve awoken from my slumber to the rousing rhetoric of the National Day Rally, aka Singapore’s version of the state of the union address.  Since I was still in deep denial when I arrived home on National Day, and could only react to recoil at peturbing renditions of a song that put the world’s greatest cities and wonders in the same league as Singapore, I must say that I sat and kept my mouth shut while watching the live telecast of the rally. As it turns out, my prime minister has a pretty decent sense of humour and I am most impressed by his ability to speak to the people. I liked him tonight. Which is, really, the most positive thing I’ve said about the you-know-whos in a long while. Then, after the speech was over, when they played that dastardly Dare To Find song–”Will you make this island amazing in all ways?” and its twin terror, There’s No Place I’d Rather Be–“There’s no place I’d rather be, You’ll always be a part of me”, I have to admit I nearly stood and sang along. Thankfully, the cat was sleeping and the threat of being bitten on the face seemed like an unattractive prospect. But still. There I was, vacuum-packed pillow stuffed into suitcase, 2 weeks ago from my own city of dreams, and I was close to putting my fist on my chest and declaring my love out loud. Damn you, National Day. Were you also the reason I packed sambal belachan and chicken rice mix into my Washington-bound luggage? So I’ve made a silent deal with Singapore, since it seems I can’t help but consort with the enemy in this insiduous political intercourse. It will stop f**king with my mind and making me cry during horrid national music videos depicting cheesy half-truths (eg the most racially diverse Chinese wedding I have ever seen) and I will keep coming home from where I am to do something about the things that make me cry during those tasteless musical abominations. You know, the reasons I love the darn place and seem to spasm in delight when someone tells me a horrible Singapore joke or speaks Singlish to me when I’m abroad. I will go to D.C., move away when I graduate, come back and be smart enough to be a productive member of “society”–and that way I would have paid enough penance not to have my heartstrings cruelly pulled by insanely grotesque marching/gyrating/tight-coloured-clothes-wearing displays every single national day. Right? Right? a breath it’s been a long time since i’ve been able to plummet head first and still emerge intact. one full breath, and the view from the plunge is…spectacular. distance, discovery and d***do It was another sultry Hong Kong night. I was sweltering, in jeans and what my mother would call a “grubby” t-shirt, while meandering my way through Temple Street market. It was indecently hot and I was running out of ways to keep cool–the crowd, the haphazard bazaar stalls and the still night air were squeezing away all remnants of my patience. The guys had also gone quiet; the group’s chatter had died down to “Can I have a sip of your coke?”. I only had my impregnable sense of crazed consumerism to sustain what was beginning to seem like a long hot march in hell. Then, siezed by a sudden jolt of ingenuity, I thought–let’s get portable handheld fans! They’re selling them every where here! Propelled by my own sense of remarkable achievement, I plunged head first into a dimly-lit stall stacked with row upon row of portable handheld fans. This place has everything! I’ll get the biggest one, it’ll be a laugh, I thought. I gesticulated excitedly at B and S, asking them to come over. How much? Can you fix the blades for us?  By then, B had started looking at me strange. You’re just jealous that I came up with the idea! I whispered confidently. He looked at me and said, “I didn’t know you liked…” And when he pointed to the box which had a naked woman holding a “portable handheld fan” I began to realise why the “blades” weren’t fixed. OH CRAP, and I bolted. Leaving a trail of friends keeling over in shock and laughter. I still have no idea what possessed me to mistake the, erm, instruments for fans. The cylindrical shape, I suppose. And a smelting puddle of brain guiding erroneous visual interpretations. My month-long sojourn in Hongkong was filled with many firsts and shall I say, discoveries. I lived, grew comfortable in, and began to fall in love with the relentless, maddening, schizophrenic vertical world which I’ve identified as an invitating village enveloped in a sophisticated neon spectacle. I’ve met people I hope will feature prominently in the rest of my life–new friends, old acquaintances, partners in thought and a brand new platoon of people to sit and have quiet or rowdy drinks with, stumble home at 3am, and still be in class at 9am sharp, debating policy and making a jingle out of “how undemocratic, how federal.” crowded mind for some reason, i can’t write. i’ve been staring at my screen for the longest time and still, i am at a loss for words. i’ve been trying to start, but i just keep stopping. maybe it has something to do with how the past 2 weeks have been intense, exhilarating, challenging, fatiguing, and emotional in myriad ways.  that i don’t have half the cognition or the clarity to sieve through all my experiences. i haven’t had time to sit and think–running from class to class, adventure to adventure, and navigating through crowds and classmates while at the same time trying to think about me, and what i want and how i should love. most of the time i am speeding ahead and trying not to amble along. Marriage “Marriage is about saying yes to being asleep in a houseful of sharp objects with another person.” guns “Guns are a feminist issue. Guns make women stronger or equally as strong as men, and that’s a good thing.” home and away many things back home make sense when you’re away. many things don’t. while i’ve been running from one adventure breathlessly to the other, and relishing in the newness of things, i’m beginning to wonder if the thirst for the adventure will someday overtake my ability to  sit down and settle. i wonder if that’s a bad thing. cultural exchanges, part 2 it took a bunch of us singaporeans(all 5 of us)  three half-hour sessions and several walks back home from campus to finally string together what is now a semblance of a “cultural” presentation. definitely some soul-searching to do. cultural exchanges, and then some. me: I need to go to the loo. American friend 1: Who’s Lou? Is that the Vietnamese American guy? American friend 2: Where’s he? I haven’t seen him for awhile. Did he come to class today? me: Did who go to class today? I think everyone did. Which Vietnamese guy? I thought his name was Ly. American friend 1: It’s Lou, man. Why are you going to talk to him anyway? American friend 2: Yeah, are you guys going out or something? me: Who’s going out where? American friend 1: You. and Lou. me: Who’s Lou, it’s Ly. Anyway I have to go to the… me: Oh. Ok. American friend 1: What? me: I’m going to the BATHroom, you twits. The bathroom, the loo, the water closet? American friend 2: You’re weird man. Whatever. newyorklondonhongkong? my first night out in Lan Kwai Fong was a veritable BLAST. i’m not one to use words like “blast” but it seems hanging out with a gaggle of american and korean university students has had an effect on me. the first thing that struck me was…whooooaaaa, this place is so…white. ang moh. gwai lo. i’m standing here wondering if i left the city unknowingly and had been transported to new york. or london. there wasn’t a single asian on some street corners. just white men, young and old, in business suits, fashionable white ladies smelling like luxury and a few gorgeous pan-asian chicks tilting champagne glasses to their made-up lips. suffice to say, i felt a little out of place in my flip flops. the conversations i’ve been having have been amazing…unparalled to those i’ve had in any classroom, workplace or social setting i’ve been in. grandmothers are the same everywhere they feed you till you pop. I’ve spent the morning gorging on all the dim sum i can fathom. L’s mom insisted i try at least 7 types, and was thrilled that i knew what chee cheong fun and har gow were. Positively thrilled, so much so that she grabbed my arm and shook it, smiling. My foodlust has come in handy, it seems. I’ve realised just how much Mandarin I know. All this latent talent waiting to be uncovered. Amidst the gesticulation, broken English and helpless nods, I’ve been able to have short conversations with L’s mom: about the food, my family, Hong Kong, shopping and my friends who’ll be here and who’ll come down in the later weeks. Not the stock market or foreign policy, but I’m working on it. such great heights everything in hongkong is…well, tall. at this very moment i am staying on the 34th storey of a building. surrounded by other tall buildings and a breathtaking view of the glittery lights that has made this city the jewel of the orient, and a picture postcard perfect city. i feel incredibly….well, short. i’ve barely passed my 4th hour here and already i am semi in love and giddily seduced. by my 50th minute, i had already stuffed myself and was sitting around the mongkok  street stall with a happy grin on my face. and right now, i have what really feels like family–an older friend to fuss over me, her mother and father stashing lychee and longan into my backpack. all i can do is grin sheepishly and manage a string of hand gestures, smiles and hugs to convey how wonderfully pleased i am and how touched i am to have folks who have thought of practically everything–Octopus card, SIM card, heck even toiletries–to make my month-long escapade in a city that (at the moment) mutes me, great. and you, this city has your name on it. come and get it. ngoh yao sek fan all my bags (yes, plural) are packed and i’m ready to go. i’ve left instructions with Sophie for our evil plot for world domination. and i’ve eased myself into stowing my secret only-child behaviour for the upcoming month: waking up dancing to The Killers in PJs my mother swears to throw away, drinking a whole pot of coffee on my own (before it’s even eleven o’clock), watching the West Wing three episodes in a row with a bowl of instant noodles in hand, and insisting on having at least 5 hours of strict alone time–meaning everyone is locked out– to read and well, to just be alone. i am armed with all the cantonese i need to know: sentences relating to food, where i can find them, how much they cost, and thank you. so i’m all set. under lock and key All this talk about the “talent angle” to terrorism, the new “skilled” (meaning white-collar, aka doctors, engineers,etc) terrorists, the dangerous and previously under-the-radar professionals-turned-terrorists worries, annoys, frustrates me. Firstly, it irks me how terrorism is the du jour sexy topic that everyone tries to reinvent when it has existed, in many many forms, throughout all civilisation. but when something new happens, there is a “sudden change” in strategy and a “new profile” that has arisen. Noone pays attention to history, heck, noone pays attention to even the organisations that exist in the NOW–Al Qaeda itself, as many a wise man has noted, is staffed with and was started by highly-educated, skilled, affluent folk. What about the IRA and other secular/non-”Islamic” terrorist organisations? They too have champions who would easily fit into the middle-class profile. Yet, noone made immigration and foreign employment for Irish or the Tamils or any other nationality or ethnic diaspora or religious affiliation difficult any where around the world.  There is, however, a profit to be made in the current war-mongering, a macho battle to wage and muscles to flex. It’s outrageous that the idea of profiling and monitoring highly-educated Muslim immigrant workers even arises. To say the least of the violation of human rights it entails, the bad policing it will create, the lack of intelligent intelligence it will encourage and the false sense of security it will engender. It’s frightening to me, as a university undergraduate and a prospective post-graduate student with the dreams of working overseas, making a difference in the world and exploring with the ease that I deserve.  It saddens me because the outside world was supposed to be my ticket out, my antithesis to Singapore, my alternative and adventure–now it’s turning out to be just the same, or, the most spirit-crushing idea at the moment– even worse. the wisdom of sophie my cat can smell a rat when she sees me packing. she eyed me suspiciously as i unravelled my 75-litre backpack, and wound up clawing through the Guardian pharmacy plastic bags I’d strewn aside after stuffing my bath soap and shampoo into the teensy tiniest remote corner of my luggage. Sophie finally found her way into my bag, settled in and looks completely satisfied–nestled by my tshirts and PJs. Success is sweet–now I can’t pack nor can I bear to move my little princess. a vision of government From Edmund Burke’s Speech on Conciliation with America, March 22, 1775: Is it not the same virtue which does every thing for us here in England? Do you imagine, then, that-it is the Land-Tax Act which raises your revenue? that it is the annual vote in the Committee of Supply, which gives you your army? or that it is the Mutiny Bill which inspires it with bravery and discipline? No! surely, no! It is the love of the people; it is their attachment to their government, from the sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which gives you your army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal obedience without which your army would be a base rabble and your navy nothing but rotten timber. America through the paper work You’d think I were writing a new constitution if you saw the amount of paper work that currently litters my desk. I’m sure there are about at least 1000 printed words congregating in a table-wide manifest destiny of hellishly obfuscating my attempt to apply for a J-1 visa. This amazing nation I am dying to visit, the great America of James Madison and the Federalist Papers, of Abraham Lincoln and the Gettysburg Address, of Martin Luther King and I Have A Dream, of Pharell Williams and the poetry of the Neptunes, and many other inspirational applications of the written word, is blinding me with English from the middle ages and sections, sub-sections, parts, semi-parts of forms with as many hyphens and alphabets as there are numbers and letters. So I’m alternating between my coursework readings and the Visa forms. I’ll read Madison’s biography and the articles of the Constitutional Convention so I don’t lose sight of why I’m writing and re-writing my forms and preparing what seems like every document that pertains to my existence–kindergarten grades included. The (s)Tans Overheard at Tuckshop, a chic little cafe in Tanjong Pagar with an exceptionally good ear for music: Me:  Hey, you know what would be cool? If my surname was Tan, I’d be able to name my kids after Central Asia. Uzbekis and Afghanis, or Kazakhs even. Like, Uzbekis Tan, and Afghanis Tan. Poppy: Not forgetting Baluchis. Baluchis Tan. Me: Yeah, doesn’t it have a nice ring to it? Zee stares in utter disbelief. Me: And you guys can be their god mothers! Cool huh. Poppy: Yeah, we could be the Soviet Union. US, and SR. sexist academics and strenous cab rides Today, while we were discussing human trafficking and the sex trade in Asia, an Italian professor–whom I assume is quite acclaimed in his field given the prestige of the publication hosting the event–made two of the most audacious comments I’d ever heard with full sincerity and conviction, and without an ounce of irony: ” People buy pears and apples, we trade everything these days, so if people want to buy and sell orifices, trafficked or not, legal or illegal, why shouldn’t they?” “Perhaps we should look at the location where the sex trade is more prevalent. Like maybe Venice. Men work so hard, all day, every day, they want everything fast–fast food, fast sex. Fast sex because they have no time for relationships.” At which point, one of the organisers looked uneasily at me, and shifted in his seat. Fortunately for Mr Personality, he dashed off as soon as the conference was adjourned, before any one could have a go at him. A small congregation of us agreed we’d tell him he was out of line tomorrow. I noticed though, how there had only been four female academics at the entire conference, apart from three grad students and me. I shared a cab home with a colleague whom I just found out lives ten minutes away. The taxi driver, in his overzealous friendliness, pointed out how each and every driver who tried to overtake him would surely be a female driver.  He was right two out of four times. He then went on to tell us how he was originally from Indonesia, and how he was glad that he was now a Singaporean citizen, given that Indonesia, in his own words, was so screwed up. The Indonesian Chinese driver then told us how the Chinese  people were smart and hard-working but the Indonesians were lazy and jealous. Thus the problems in Indonesia. My colleague and I looked at each other, weary from the day, and smiled. I noticed how I’m unusually placid during cab rides. There’ve been a couple of times where I’ve sat through some terribly idiotic sermons about “youngsters nowadays” and “Malay people ah, they only talk among themself”. I’ve let them all pass with a simple “hmmmm” or a louder “HMMMMM” if I was really annoyed. Usually, I just look out the window and count the minutes till I get home. Today, maybe it was because I was tired from hearing things like “eschew the fundamentals of theoretical orientalism” and “spacio-terresterial identification systems” that I had exceeded my quota for Words Per Day. But on the whole, I think a cab ride is just too short a time for me to be questioning someone’s belief systems and debunking their assumptions. Call me a defeatist, but I just want to get home. It may seem elitist for me to want to point out the error of a professor’s way, and not a cab driver’s, but there is just a time and place for everything. 15 minutes from NUS to Shunfu would be too quick, too jolting a debating schedule, but too long for a painful crossfire with the guy with whom your life depends.