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Singapore smells like foreign flowers and exotic spices. It’s just like everybody says it is–clean and safe. Which makes me wonder about what really goes on behind closed doors and within the Mediterranean-style condominium compounds with their manicured lawns and perfectly-sized swimming pools. Even though the climate is pretty much the same as the Philippines, Singapore is a walking city. Back in Manila, the thought of walking to a store a few streets away is laughable; I usually take a tricycle. Yesterday, however, I went past so many blocks, tall buildings, and train stations, with nothing to propell me forward but my own two feet.

There is much to do in this city, but only if you’re loaded. If you thought Manila had too many malls, clearly you’ve never walked down Orchard Street. At every block, the marble facade of a high-class mall gleams in the sun, its shiny glass windows showcasing the best that European designers have to offer. Singaporeans are very fashionable, and you can tell that the clothes that garb their bodies cost a pretty dollar. I felt so frumpy in my ukay-ukay clothes and regretted not bringing anything more stylish.

My first purchase in Singapore was a pack of cigarettes. I actually brought my own packs from Manila, but when Nic and I headed out to the city I realized I had stupidly forgotten them in my suitcase. So we went inside the nearest 7-11 to get me what the lady in the counter said were “Ultimate Dunhills.” They’re ultimate, all right. Ultimate in EXPENSIVE. Three hundred pesos for a pack of cigarettes! I wanted to smash my head through the glass windows for being such an idiot. But I suppose buying a pack of cigarettes in Singapore is an experience in itself, because each cigarette pack hosts a picture of some poor unfortunate soul’s rotting anatomy, the victim of too much tobacco and nicotime. If I lived in Singapore I would probably end up quitting smoking for good, not only because I’m too cheap to pay 300 pesos for cigarettes, but also because the psychology of those pictures are definitely working on me.

It wasn’t difficult for me to resist the temptation to shop for clothes because I’m an unbelievable cheapskate when it comes to what I wear. But when Nic took me to Kinokuniya, I was doomed. Kinokuniya is this huge bookstore that spans one whole floor of the mall. The ditzy female shopaholic in me took over and I immediately began pulling books from off the shelves, checking their prices, and moaning about my financial situation. After half an hour of browsing, I begged Nic to take me away because the temptation to whip out my credit card and buy everything I wanted was becoming increasingly difficult to resist. I ended up paying an indecent amount of money for several books with the pocket money I have. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to eat for the rest of my stay here. Lesson learned: NEVER go to a book store during a vacation.

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Excerpts from my little red notebook:

“I’m sitting in a crowded little coffee shop that is the only smoking area in NAIA. In a little while I’ll be off to Singapore. I’ve been looking forward to this trip all summer, not just because I love to travel, but because I’ve been dying to get away from Manila. I find that I am at my happiest in strange airports and smoking lounges. There is a strange comfort in the anonymity that airports bring. I love watching people and guessing their destinations, people I’ll only see once and never again.

“Airports are a paradox. They are the gateway to the rest of the world, and at the same time they are a prison because you cannot enter nor leave without the appropriate documents and strangers groping at areas only lovers go while unzipping every single pocket in your purse. I had to sacrifice my sister’s gingerflower perfume because liquid substances are apparently a threat to our lives. Even the very pen I am using now was carefully inspected by trained eyes, as if I were clever enough to somehow fashion a deadly weapon that looks just like an ordinary black Pilot signpen. Perhaps I should take that as a compliment.”

“I’m in the plane now, which is taxying (sp?) down the runway. I wonder if I can get away with writing during take-off. Oh, who am I kidding. I can’t read nor write in a moving vehicle without wanting to regurgitate my dinner.

“In his novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera asks–which is better, lightness or weight?

“The answer, for now, is definitely lightness.

“I watched buildings and cars transform into yellow and white speckles of light as the plane ascended into the atmosphere. For the first time in so many months, I felt a sense of peace. This is what Buddhists must feel like when they’ve attained nirvana, or something close to it. The faster the plane went, the lighter I felt, for the distance increased between me and everything and everyone that has weighed me down with disappointement, self-loathing, and regret, if only for a few days. The city lights twinkled and winked at me in agreement.

“Manila has never looked so beautiful.”

When I’m in a strange new place, I avoid hitting the tourist spots. Instead, I pick destinations randomly from a map, or walk around and see where my feet will take me. This is how my friend and I will be spending the day. This evening, I’ll be meeting up with some Singaporean friends who’ll show us what they do for fun around here. I’m really looking forward to it!

For those of you who don’t know, Bunifa Latifah Harifah Sharifa Jackson is a poised, polite, extremely amicable African-American character from MadTV. When I feel down I always watch her videos on YouTube because nothing cheers me up like Bunfia’s antics. Before reading the rest of the entry, do take the time to watch this video just so you can get a fairly good idea of what Bunifa is like and why she is my idol (to some extent).

This morning, I went with my mom to the Bank of the Philippine Islands (BPI) branch in Santolan to withdraw some dollars for my trip to Singapore. I detest going to the bank because I can never figure out which forms are for what, and I groaned inwardly as I stepped inside and saw the horrendously long line. Well it’s either I deal with the line or I go to Singapore completely penniless, so I resigned myself to line-waiting boredom.

My mom stood in the line for me while I filled out the withdrawal slip, and when I took her place, I noticed that there was this muscular guy sitting on the bench a few feet away from me. His face had the word “asshole” written all over it and he was giving me this look that was bordering between lascivious and just plain nasty. I decided that he’s probably the kind of guy who would grab and rape me should I encounter him in a dark, deserted alley, and made it a point to avoid looking to my right, where The Asshole was seated.

When the line started moving closer to the teller, I saw The Asshole get up and approach me. Oh shit. At first, I thought he was going to make “friendly conversation” and attempt to extract personal information from me, but what he did was worse.

He cut the line right in front of me.

Nobody, and I mean NOBODY, cuts the line in front of Laurisha Faurisha Maurisha Haurisha Dado and gets away with it. *does finger snappy thing* A brutha needs to learn to respect a sista’s place in line.

So I tapped on him on the shoulder and said, as politely as possible, “Excuse me, go to the back of the line. I was here first.”

The Asshole gave me this condescending look and said, “No you were not. I was here first. I was sitting over there”–he pointed to the bench–”and I told to the woman in front of me that. This is my place in line.”

That got my blood boiling. I was standing in line for a good ten or fifteen minutes and the entire time I was there, The Asshole was slouching on the couch like a sultan waiting for his harem to cleanse his body with oil and perfume. Who the fuck did he think he is? I looked him in the eye (he was perhaps almost a foot taller than me) and said, my voice taking on a hard edge, “Still, you weren’t in the line. The entire time I was here, you were just sitting on that bench.”

“Well that’s what the waiting bench is for, isn’t it? For people to sit down while waiting for their turn.”

I gestured to the line, which had grown considerably longer since I had gotten there. “Look! Everybody is standing in the line! Do you see anybody sitting down?”

“Well that’s their fault for not sitting down and using the waiting bench. Besides, my knees hurt.”

I brushed the bangs away from my eyes. “Tough luck. My feet hurt. Everyone’s feet hurts. We’re all suffering from feet problems because this line is moving too damn slow. And just because your knees hurt doesn’t mean that you deserve any special treatment from the world. I don’t give a fuck who you are, but you can’t just sit down like a goddamn senyorito, cut in line, and get ahead of everyone who’s been standing up while waiting for their turn. Get to the back of the line or get out of my way.” *

At this point, I was practically shouting and people were staring. I was half hoping that the guy would punch me, because I’d never been in a physical fight before and I really wanted to take a sock at his mug. I’ll probably get the crap kicked out of me because this dude was a tall, muscular guy, whereas I’m a tiny little waif. But every bruise and broken bone would be worth it. Fortunately (or unfortunately), no fight happened. My mom backed me up and started telling the guy off, and he finally let me go ahead and cut in front of the woman behind me, all the while muttering, “Well that’s why there’s a waiting bench. For people to wait.”

I don’t know what made me more angry though–that The Asshole cut the line in front of me, or that everyone passively accepted the situation. I expected the woman behind me to complain when he decided to back off and cut in front of her. To my surprise, she said nothing. Nobody said anything. How could they just let this asshole cut the line and get ahead of all of them? I wanted to stand on a seat and give everybody a passionate speech about how we need to abolish the non-confrontational behavior inherent in our culture. We need to learn to speak up when an injustice happens to us, or to anyone nearby. It doesn’t matter if it’s something as trivial as a guy cutting the line. When you see someone doing something wrong, you point it out to him and tell him that his actions are unacceptable. It’s no wonder this guy’s a total jerk–he’s used to people allowing him to trample all over them with his big motorcycle boots.

I decided against doing that since my mom and I do a lot of banking at that branch, and I’d hate to have the guard drag me out of there kicking and screaming. That would just be humiliating. So I kept my mouth shut and restrained myself from turning around and shouting profanities at the guy until I finally reached the teller and got my cash.

* The whole exchange took place in Tagalog, which I am rather terrible at–grammatically and phonetically. What I said in this entry is a far more eloquent version than what I actually told The Asshole. I was tempted to intimidate him and respond in English but a) once someone talks to me in Tagalog I’m unable to reply in English, and b) using my knowledge of English to intimidate someone is such a classist thing to do. Note to self: learn verbal sparring in Tagalog.