a Coziee hostel

Having a one night's sleep at a hostel really does leave you with an experience so unlike any other that it remains firmly embedded in your memory even long after that one night is gone.

 

It has been two, maybe three years since I got a night at Coziee Hostel along Kallang, and even till now I can still remember how the little space was, how the restrooms and bathrooms were, how the place was like, and how I hardly got a wink of sleep that night.

 

We all know what hostels are like, or at least we know how the hostel culture is like. Very often they paint a picture of lively interaction between the mostly youthful guests, backpackers, towels, communal living, notebooks, papers, maps, lots of beer,  snacks, cigarettes, music, music instruments, laptops, a very hippie atmosphere altogether. These days the guests are more than the usual backpacker. I've known of founders and co-founders who stayed a week in a hostel whilst attending a boot camp here. And I've known of employees who live in hostels whilst they sort out their accommodation.

 

It wasn't any different at this particular hostel.

 

Late at night we got in- thankfully there were vacancies in the mixed rooms- so in we went, a pal and I- and the first thing we paid extra for were bathroom towels, which were thin but not threadbare. We were shown to the room. Rectangular shaped, airconditioned, no window, and built-in cubicles lining one side of the wall. The cubicles closer to the far side of the room were already occupied. There was just one upper cubicle and one lower cubicle left. The upper one was just in front of the door, right below the blasting aircon unit, and directly under the light. The lower one was in the middle of the whole row.

 

I chose the upper cubicle- because I fancy higher ground and I thought it would grant me more privacy- whilst my pal had to make do with the lower one. By the side of each vertical row were shelves where everyone placed their toiletries, small towels or whatever they wished. I laid out my toiletries there- if someone wanted to steal my shampoo then so be it- and climbed up.

It was really a three-sided cubicle with a sort of reading light at the side, a neat wooden shelf by my right, two power sockets and if I'm not wrong, one hook. There was a comforter. My clothes I folded and placed by my side. A very simple layout, a very simple arrangement.

 

If there's one thing about hostels I found out that night, it is that  people really do go in and out at all times of the night. And no one ever switches the light off in the room until everyone is back in- doesn't matter what time it is. And, technically no one shushes anyone up if they enter the room and do stuff, just so long as they're not yelling about.

I spent the night with the glare of the room's light in my face. Even a partial shade from the privacy curtain didn't help. And, as early as 5am I found myself restlessly roused from whatever sleep I was having by the sound of many rustling plastic bags. It got to a stage where I peeked down to see the guest in the cubicle below mine with her luggage wide open and her belongings strewn about on the bed as she busied herself packing her luggage....

Still, having such a hostel experience does grant you the opportunity to meet many a visitor. At breakfast the next morning in a little back kitchen upstairs, we shared the small table with an African. Over a mug of instant coffee and a slice of bread with margarine and strawberry jam, we spoke a little- I think he was passing through. There were people lounging around on the orange sofa in the communal area with laptops and phones. There were people at the computer stations downstairs. There were people drying their laundry in the dryers.

I didn't really get to speak to them. Everyone's pretty much occupied in the hostel environment.

But after breakfast, just as we were heading back to the room to pack, downstairs near the entrance, a female cyclist from Ireland was fixing up her bike in the narrow corridor. I admired her bike, we chatted a bit, and she shared that she was cycling up north to Malaysia that very day.

Okay.

Mid Autumn Festival

Tonight marks the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, and from where I sit, out of the three-panelled glass window, I catch a glimpse of the moon hanging in the cloudless night sky.

Tonight, like the night before, she is full, silvery and round, and the sight of her marks what is perhaps the only celebration of the Mid Autumn Festival for me this year.

There are no mooncakes nicely arranged on a plate in front of me.
There are no cups of jasmine tea or oolong tea for me to sip on.
There are no lanterns.
And there are definitely no pomelos.

I've finally come to understand what it is people speak of when they say they don't realize know what's going on about them. I've finally come to sympathize. Because it has happened to me too.

It isn't that I'm unaware of the decorations at Chinatown.

Neither is it that I'm unaware of the bazaar stalls offering battery-operated lanterns and traditional paper lanterns to children and adults as they're passing by.

It just so happens that for the last couple of times that I've been in the Chinatown area, I've hardly registered the sight of them bright, colourful, beautiful, huge lanterns strung strategically across Eu Tong Sen Street. 

I mean, I know they're there. I know they're beautifully decorated paper lanterns in oriental colors of pink, yellow and mandarin orange, and I even know that the star lantern marking the junction of the Lantern Festival is this huge ship complete with masts and sails.

But somehow I never lingered long enough to take a picture.

And I never found the spirit to stop and make a wander among the stalls in the bazaar to soak in the sights.

I did consider making a purchase of mooncakes- even just one- for the sake of munching on a baked mooncake of lotus paste with salted egg yolk inside, but time went past and I never got to it either.

Not's all lost, however.

I did make a quick wander amongst the booths at Taka where there were samples for the taking and a wonderful introduction of everything unusual and exotic being offered this year.

I do remember the gift of tea-infused mooncakes from TWG a couple years past. I do remember the little mini mooncakes that we had a year ago gifted from somewhere.

And best of all, I have my memories of the Mid Autumn Festival in days of childhood. There was a year where we had Shanghai mooncakes with their distinctive pastry. There was another year where we had green tea snow skin mooncakes with lotus filling. And there was still another year we had a very interesting box of ice cream mooncakes from Swensens gifted by a family friend.

I'm glad for the gatherings at my grandparents'.
I'm glad for the pomelos and the baked mooncakes on the table.
I'm glad for the bamboo pole across the gate that held all our lanterns.
And I'm glad for the lanterns that I could happily call mine.

I wish I'd taken a picture of the lanterns at Chinatown this year though. They were really quite pretty. But since I don't have any, I guess I'll make do with this.

(It's from Chinese New Year but it is the most oriental looking flower I have in my picture cache now...)

 

an Airport Pool

So I just wrote about Crowne Plaza at Changi International Airport, and I decided that since I took this fairly large number of pictures of the swimming pool near the swimming pool and at the swimming pool, I might as well plonk them all here for memories' sake, for fun, and for one's viewing pleasure. :)

 

 

 

 



the Crowne of the Airport

You know something?

 

The exterior of Crowne Plaza Changi Airport in between the terminals of Changi International Airport is worth a shout-out.

 

See, it is a design that you either love, don't love, or absolutely hate.

 

I can't say I hate it, but I can't say I love it either. I mean, it is a gigantic steel frame protecting the glass windows from the powerful thrumming vibrations of the plane engines, but what is supposed to be like a frame of steel flower petals ends up looking like a clutter of twisted Letter X's all welded together in a cold, grid-like frame.

 

And if you've got a room whose windows are protected by the frame, be prepared to peek and peer through the unpetal-like, unromantic ship propellers for a glimpse of the view outside.

 

Thank goodness not all rooms are like that.

 

And thank goodness they've got a fairly serene pool that rectifies the awkwardness of the protective frame outside.

 

  

It's an interesting pool, this one, and if there's one thing really unique about this pool, it is the view. Because you can get a calming environment, you can get blue skies, poolside tables, deck chairs and landscaped trees in many a place, but where else can you get a view that has blue chlorinated swimming pool water, tall landscaped palm trees, the Control Tower and the runway all at the same time?

 

The rooms are a flavour of their own too.

 

Designed specifically for airline travellers in mind, the rooms are done in shades of soothing green, brown, and a tinge of grey. Green- different shades of it- dominates the mood scheme of the room, and it is pleasant, always, to enter and find the necessities of toiletries, nice comfy pillows, hand towels, shower stall, bathtub, fluffy robes and bedroom slippers for the taking.

 

 

 

That might mean little on regular days, but if you've just checked in after a long flight, if you've got stuff to do, if you don't wish to go all the way downtown and are desperate for a bit of comfort.. Crowne Plaza at the airport is a pretty good place to be.

 

One has to get used to the regular thrum of plane engines though, not to mention the sound of planes flying low overhead. There's no escape from it. Day, or night, you hear it. It doesn't matter if you've got the blackout curtains pulled close. It doesn't matter if you've got a mail to type or a Skype call to make. You'll hear them at the back of your head anyway.

 

 

But if you're familiar with the roar of planes flying overhead, as I am, if you're liking the convenience of Terminal 3 technically at your doorstep with her restaurants, cafes, shops and public transport, then, hey, that's no problem at all.

 

 

a CNY of Prune Juice and Poo

If there would be one Chinese New Year in her whole adult life that she would never forget, the Year of the Horse would be it.

 

 

Because far from it being celebrated jovially with relatives and friends paying visits, far from the house being filled with Lunar New Year decor and far from the usual plastic jars of Chinese New Year goodies and bak kwa on the glass dining table, this was one with endured with frantic denial, resentful discussion, adult diapers, prune juice and an emergency trip to the nearest hospital.

 

One of the effects post-stroke was that some of her muscles, including those required for defecation, were weakened. Not only was it difficult for her to get used to go to the toilet, she was also having difficulty passing motion. In anticipation of such a situation, the hospital had prescribed her an oral solution to help soften the stools, but Miss Brown drank it once- and found it so awful tasting she refused to take it further.

 

Either that, or she took a much lesser dose than she was supposed to- a fact that only her immediate caregivers knew, but not her primary ones.

 

How many days it went on, perhaps two or three, but by the time Chinese New Year Eve rolled around, she was in great discomfort from all the faeces accumulated in her system. Her intestines felt awful, her stomach felt awful and it was very disturbing.

 

Late Chinese New Year Eve, she got so uncomfortable and distressed that her immediate caregivers staying with her assumed that the source of the discomfort was likely constipation- and since one good way to solve the issue of constipation was consuming prune juice- off one caregiver went to the nearby supermarket to get the juice.

 

Miss Brown drank one whole cup.

 

However, to her horror, instead of easing the discomfort and solving the problem, activated the digestive system and discomfort became sharp, shooting pains.

 

Not knowing what else to do, her immediate caregivers bundled her into the car and drove her to the nearest hospital. Along the way they rang her primary caregiver, told him the situation and he arrived at the hospital to find that they were already doing an enema for her. Only there and then was it revealed what the cause of the condition was.  

 

It was the first day of the Chinese New Year.

 

She was discharged around dawn, and she went back home, tired, exhausted, with a diaper on her, a bagful of medicine, and an extra diaper. For hours on the first day, she slept. Her immediate caregivers were with her. So were her primary caregivers. Around mid-afternoon she woke. Finding that she had defecated, there was a need for a diaper change. Her immediate caregiver changed one for her. But it was also discovered that the poo had somehow flowed out of the diaper and into the mattress.

 

It was all very embarrassing, and all very confusing.

 

One caregiver wanted her to move to another mattress so they could clean this one and wash it. Another felt it was better to wait until her condition fully cleared before cleaning out the mattress. Still another felt that this extra adult diaper was not enough and it being the first day of Chinese New Year, every store would be closed and so they'd better drive out to Mustafa to get some.

 

Everyone talked.

 

Everyone spoke.

 

All at the same time.

 

And there she was, still dazed, still tired, still exhausted, still uncomfortable, still with the diaper on!

 

 

 

Eventually, even though one caregiver huffed and stomped out of her bedroom back to her own, saying that "you(sic) do whatever you want", someone did make the decision for her.

 

She didn't need any more diapers after all- the hours were calculated carefully- and by early evening, they somehow managed to wrestle the mattress down to the carpark anyway..

Russia 2018

Russia  2018 was over in June, and it is the start of September. I've been late by two whole months on this.

 

Thank goodness there's not a deadline on this article. (Technically I have four years) If I were a journalist, a sports journalist, or someone writing about stuff related to the World Cup, I'd be screwed by now. :)

 

I had looked forward to watching the World Cup this year.

 

I wanted to watch it- the Cup marked the span of 4 years- and I'd even gotten The Parent a huge colourful poster from Harvey Norman with the team playoffs and the whole scoreboard.

 

But somehow I just didn't quite make it for any of the matches. I don't think I even got to watch a full match throughout the entire season, which on reflection, seems rather dumb, but that's how it went. Guess that's what happens when you don't go hang out with the crowd at bars, pubs, coffee shops or the community center. If I did watch a match, it was either a re-run (cos that was what was on national TV) or a highlight or two on the local sports channel.

Dismal, indeed.

Not that I didn't show any interest though.

I did.

I kept a tight watch on the match scores at match times in the mornings, the afternoons, the wee hours. I hit on all the HD highlights from my mobile,  and I got as excited about the scores as much as anyone else who'd stayed up to watch matches on cable did. The chatter caught my attention too, as so did the round of social media stuff which happened real time as the season progressed.

It was a season of surprises. Teams that one didn't normally expect to win, won. Teams that one expected to go through to the next rounds, exited. There were surprise victories. There were surprise disappointments. Brazil didn't make it to the end. Neither did England. Not to mention Uruguay, Mexico, Iceland and the only two soccer teams from the Asian side.

Yet there were victories to be counted for.

Iceland had their first victory at the World Cup ever. Croatia kicked their way to the near end, boosted no doubt by the rousing support of their country leadership who flew economy class and threw the dignity of her position aside by wildly cheering for her team at the stands. And the Japanese, as usual, left a lasting impression on generally everybody by cleaning up the stadium, their locker room and leaving a thank you note in English.

Of course, Russia had its victories too, both on field, and off. Sports events are a great opportunity to show off the fun side of a country's people, and Russia, as gruff as they often come across to be, tried bopping about just a wee bit more. Their song, of which I am not sure of the title but I think is called TEAM, whilst not the likes of Waka Waka and The World is Ours, did have a bit of party vibe, a bit of sexy vibe and of course, the ubiquitous street cred vibe.

Still, if you were to ask me what my most memorable moments of Russia 2018 were, I'd have to go off field from the stadium into the underground train subway, for there on social media floated pictures of the South American fans basking proudly in their full fan gear and paraphernalia as they took the subway back to their hotels, long curvy feathers, head gear and all.

And I'm not going to be soon forgetting the picture of the Brazilian fans "walking" their dinosaur balloons through the subway doors into the train, both dressed in the national colors of yellow, and green. :)

a Happy Teacher's Day

I'm not a teacher, but I have had teachers from my schooling days, I have friends who are present-day teachers, there are teachers in the family, and I have teachers who have become friends.

 

It is a circuitous relationship, no doubt, when one transforms from that of a student to teacher to friend, but it is a relationship that I appreciate, and I'd like to think that they appreciate too.

 

Someone asked me today, in lieu of it being Teacher's Day, if I had any teachers from school that I remembered fondly.

 

It took me awhile- hey, it has been a long time and I had to think through year by year- but I'm glad to say that, yes, despite the fact that I was quite an ordinary student who never scored top grades nor won the Best Pupil Award, I do have teachers whom I remember with a quiet, pensive smile.

 

There was my Primary Two form teacher. Miss L was a sweet, caring, gentle-voiced, very patient lady who held her spiritual values high and her voice low. Never one time did she raise her voice to her students, and yet, we all followed her lead and obeyed her. She was one teacher who disciplined students with kindness and spoke to them with the understanding that behind every child's behaviour, however strange or quirky it might be, lay a much deeper reason unseen on the surface. When she was told by another teacher that a stack of graded exercise books belonging to me had been found in the school canteen, she quietly spoke to me in the empty classroom. After that, she rang The Parent and explained how it had come about, and that it was okay for a eight year old to score 97/100 instead of 100/100.

 

There was another teacher.

 

She didn't teach me directly, because I wasn't in any of her classes, and neither was I in any of the ECAs she oversaw, but I knew her by name, and I greeted her whenever I saw her on the corridors. Years have passed, today Miss Y is a Principal of a prestigious girls' school, and she has also become a friend. It was a surprise meeting her at the place I worked where she had signed up as a volunteer on a partnership program to hand out bread and sandwiches to disadvantaged families. We somehow managed to keep in touch after I left the place, and we're friends still.

 

I'm afraid my memories of teachers in my secondary school are either rather dim, or not as memorably fond as I'd like them to be.

 

But there was one.

 

She taught me Geography in Secondary One, and later went on to become the teacher in charge of the ECA I joined. Our personal encounter came the year when I wanted to leave the ECA and transfer to another one. There're a lot of reasons why I wanted to do so, and despite the fact that I'd actually reasoned to myself that with only two badges to my name coupled with an unenthusiastic attitude, it would not be an issue, Miss G thought otherwise. "You've just another year to go," she told me when I approached her in the staff room, "there's no point in transferring, just finish the year and you'd be graduating."

 

Well, I stayed- and I graduated with the glorious record of (still) two badges to my name.

 

I attended three tertiary institutions in all after secondary school. (Yeah, my education's a bit complicated) 

 

The first institution where I stayed for only three months actually had a much more memorable Principal than a teacher. Any Principal who expounds on the English Language and links it back to French and Italian at 630am before School Assembly is bound to be remembered.

 

The second institution had teachers whom I remembered, and although I wouldn't quite regard them with personal encounters, I'm glad for the memories we had. After all, teachers define the lives of students, and their individual personalities certainly defined ours. There was one whom we secretly called the Grass Lady for her penchant of eating lemongrass and alfafa sprouts. There was one whom made us do countless mind maps for her lectures on Ancient History. There was one whose voice was so soft and so delicate I fell asleep throughout most of her Geoffrey Chaucer lessons. And then, of course, there was the teacher who guided me and my classmates through a presentation for what I believe was Racial Harmony Day.

Indeed, it is not easy being a teacher. The list of tasks, the meetings, the responsibilities, the welfare of the students, the administrative work, the collaborative work, the curriculum planning, the exam paper planning, the actual teaching, the marking, marking, marking....

And so, in lieu of this being Teachers' Day, for teachers past, present and future, here's a cup of coffee, and a myriad for flowers for y'all. :)