An Eastern European Easter

In the United States, Easter tends to fall low in rank – somewhere between MLK day and Cinco de Mayo I'd suspect. Not even as anticipated as Fourth of July, this step-child holiday comes and goes without outrageous commercialism or holiday-time parties. But in Eastern Europe, the Easter Season puts even our Christmas celebrations to shame.

Krakow’s Easter Market engulfs the main square. Towers of flowers decorate for festivities and reach high above the Easter crowds. Banners announcing Easter concerts invite even the most apprehensive to join the celebration. Piles of handmade baskets pour out of vendor stalls enticing buyers inside, while neighboring stalls sell anything from ceramics to woodwork to crocheted egg toppers. Even the malls take part in the celebration with Easter displays and decorations strategically placed in windows, stores, and common areas.

Palm Sunday Mass is no small production either. With organ-led melody, the Passion is recited in solo song with two choirs (in the choral terrace and behind the alter) volleying in strategic accompaniment. Carrying braided straw decorated with ribbon (instead of our traditional palm sprigs), Mass attendees vie for standing-room-only. Those lucky enough to find seats must still be herded slowly from pew to portal at Mass’ end.

But end of Mass doesn’t mean end of celebration. Reenactments of Christ’s Palm Sunday procession head toward the main square while Krakovians join along in traditional dress holding torch-like flower arrangements above their head. Easter music floods the square, and local vendors offer a spring-time specialty, Ocsypki – salty, grilled ewe's cheese served with a side of cranberry sauce.

Prague joins Krakow’s Easter celebration with as much eagerness or more. Church bells from the hundreds of Catholic, Hussite, and Orthodox churches announce Easter Sunday Masses. St. Vitus, Prague's national cathedral, invites celebs like cardinals and bishops to conduct the sacred sacrament. Full choirs sing angelic praises and low timbre organ music makes you think the Lord himself is entering, vibrating the pews and the people in them. And staying true to Prague international reputation, the Cardinal welcomes the congregation in four different languages and translates his homily into three.

Prague’s own Easter markets speckle main squares around town selling handpainted eggs in every color and design imaginable. The sweet smell of baked dough and almond (from spiraled, sugary pastries) fills the air. Local men (and tourists, too) purchase straw whips for their Easter Monday tradition – whipping the ladies in exchange for Easter eggs, candy, or brandy.

You haven't truly celebrated Easter until you've seen it in Eastern Europe.

City of Fantasy: Part II

It's not just the architecture that exudes fantasy in Prague. The cultural and artistic heartbeat of the city historically leans toward the surreal.

Though his name may not seem familiar to some, his work and style are. A native of the Czech Republic, Alphonse Mucha is the father of Art Nouveau. In the same vein as Gaudi's fantastical architecture, Art Nouveau is noted for taking the hard and fast lines of neoclasicism and softening reality with curves and flow. So much was Mucha's style celebrated in Prague even the national cathedral, St. Vitus, displays a Mucha-made stained glass window.

Like Mucha, Franz Kafka pays tribute to his home city of surrealist fantasy through his writing style. Most famous for his book The Metamorphosis, Kafka utilizes stylistic devises akin to magic realism. He blends a realistic atmosphere with magical elements and explains them as normal occurrences (like waking up as a bug). Even Prague's Kafka monument reflects this seemingly normal yet magical style:


Today, Prague still nurtures a bit of surrealness for its lovers of the arts by offering performances in the historic Estates Theater. The white neoclassic facade and roman columns pose a dominating air as one looks up. Inside, the creaky stairs that are far apart and a shallow grade give away the buildings true age. And the theatre salon itself appears much as it did when Mozart's Don Giovanni premiered in 1787.

Truth be told, Mozart felt more at home with audiences in Prague than his homestead. And who wouldn't with a theatre like the Estates. Its powered blue velvet chairs, overly ornate gold accents, and a chandelier that drips crystal over the center audience gives an air of aristocracy and wonder. Leaning over the velvet sided balcony rail and peering down onto the stage where Mozart himself conducted, the anachronistic surrealness of the experience overwhelms.

Through time and space, Prague has managed to maintain this artistic surrealness – a surrealness only fit for a City of Fantasy.

A Little Night Music

Since Warsaw seems to be the city of music, I found it apropos to attend a local concert one evening while here. As luck would have it, I happened upon the Frederic Chopin University of Music en route to the Chopin Museum (closed for renovations). The Music School's information desk attendant didn't speak English and I speak no Polish. So between hand signals, a couple of in-common words, and the universal language of numbers I was able to gather the following:

1. There was in fact a concert to attend that evening (I think "concert" is a Polish cognate).
2. It started at either 5 or 7 o'clock (she held up 5 fingers and then slowly brought up two others on her unoccupied hand...not sure what that meant).
3. And it was free (rubbing two fingers on my thumb – the universal sign for "money" – cleared that up).

I wasn't quite sure what I was in for, but I was pretty certain it would be good. Gambling with the time, I opted for a 7pm start. But upon entering the university building, I immediately got the feeling I misread the situation entirely. There were as may children as there were adults, and the long lines at the candy machine seemed to indicate an intermission of sorts. Well shoot...I missed half the concert, but perhaps it was for the better. After all, it seemed to be a family recital night and I'd probably hear more squeaks and squeals than actually notes being played. If I hadn't been a former band geek I probably would have left. Boy I'm glad I didn't.

The first group to perform was a cello and two-violin trio. The oldest couldn't have been more than 10. As I thought back to my beginner bassoon lessons, I closed my eyes and braced myself for the blow. But "blow" they did not! They weren't just good; they could have beat out college trios I've heard perform. Not only was intonation and technique there, but the oldest violin player had clearly been coached in the performance-end of violin playing...acting out her music in movement.

And it just got better...a solo trumpet that missed only one note; a flute, clarinet, and piano trio that performed technique beyond their years; and five guitars playing classically (not strumming) in complete unison. Just when I thought the performances couldn't be topped, out walks a full sting orchestra followed by an 8-year-old. The young girl greeted the first chair violinist and cellist with handshakes then proceeded to not only play, but to lead the entire orchestra using her movements as cues.

At the end, the prodigy received an encore ovation, and floral arrangements and bouquets were presented in honor of her grand performance. Apparently Warsaw not only eats, drinks, and breathes classical music, but even the kids play it damn well!

A City of Music

Never have I visited a city where music is so much a part of the everyday. Both in concert and improvisational, you can’t wander too far in Warsaw without hearing piano concertos, violin solos, or melodious ensembles. Even Warsaw’s airport pays tribute to this fact, having been named for its famed composer Frederic Chopin.

Taking the Royal Walk along Krakowskie Przedmieście shoves you right into the musical world of Warsaw. Benches inscribed with tidbits about Chopin’s life play recorded piano music upon prompting. Chopin even left a tidbit of himself on the Royal Walk – his heart is in the left-side pillar of Holy Cross Church under the biblical inscription "For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." At the end of the Royal Walk you’ll find the home of probably the most ornate (and ostentatious) organ you’ve ever seen. Dominating the choir coral at the back of St. Anne’s Cathedral is a gilded silver and gold organ (the picture, compliments of nzorgan.com, just does not do it justice). Visit St. Anne’s for Mass and you’ll be pleasantly rewarded with organ and solo tenor duets throughout the service.

The Royal Castle also celebrates the city’s love of the classical by frequently offering chamber music concerts within its royal walls. The palace’s Great Assembly Hall instantly transports you to a time when composers were like gods, white wigs were the fashion, and the luxuries of the rich were celebrated without reserve. Concertgoers are seated in velvet cushioned chairs surrounded by gold trimmed mirrors and marble columns. Twenty gilt bronze scones strategically line the walls between mirrors and crystal chandeliers delicately light the chamber. With seating for just a small crowd, it shows the audience how chamber music gets its name. Despite the room's "large" name, listeners sit in close quarters with room for just a couple hundred. The acoustics of the room, assisted by its small size, delicately swirls the music of small ensembles above, around, and between listeners as it is isolated, blended, and resolved. Listening to chamber music in situ is an experience that truly can't be replicated.

But music isn't just isolated in concert halls and royal palaces. Just take a walk around the Old Town and you'll see what I mean. Out of a second story balcony, a woman hangs her laundry as recorded orchestra music floats out from French doors. Music students lay violin cases street-side while playing Vivaldi’s Spring in exchange for tips. And out of a basement window, bassoon and trumpet warm up chromatically while the strings of a violin whine as they are tuned.

For the many tourists and locals, music is what makes the town. But perhaps it is possible to have too much of a good thing:

Wanderng About Warsaw

It didn't take long, did it. Less than 6 months back in the States and wanderlust got the best of me. Truth be told, I had a conference to attend. That's what brought me to Warsaw. But why not play tourist for a bit while I'm here, right?

I'm not sure what I expected to see upon arrival in Poland. Perhaps a bit run down, yet functional? Maybe a bit depressing, yet still potential for a good time? After all, the devastation seen by Warsaw and its people is only recent history. But the city has come back with avengeance. Despite being "razed to the ground" during Nazi occupation, almost a third of its population being killed, and decades of post-WWII communist leadership, Warsaw is worth your time to wander.

Diversity of architecture is an understatement to day the least. Old Town reconstructions and cobblestone streets pay tribute to the buildings that once were, and scattered among these are communist-era "quick-fix" buildings that still stand tall. Both stand side-by-side with modern shopping malls that could challenge (in both size and construction) those found in the States.

The city is impeccably clean. Rubbish lying street-side is practically non-existent, and the street cleaning crews (who obviously take their jobs very seriously) meticulously scrape gum residue from sidewalk surfaces as part of their jobs. Aside from the more obvious graffiti found on old and new buildings alike, Warsaw could claim rank with cities like Singapore for cleanliness.

Cobblestone streets add to the Old World atmosphere, but crossing them can be a game of chicken: it’s a challenge of wills between driver and pedestrian with the drivers winning out most of the time. But with a little boldness (and a lot of guts) you can safely travel by foot to almost all the attractions in Warsaw.

First stop for any visitor must be the towering Palace of Culture and Science. Built by the Russians during their Eastern bloc reign, it was meant as a gift to the people of Poland and is the tallest building in the country. Though the inside houses nothing of significance, the outside causes even the most unobservant to stop and pause.

But perhaps dominating more than this Russian-style "palace" is music. Part of Warsaw’s tradition, history, and passion (and something that couldn’t be destroyed by the Nazis), Varsovians embrace this art form with alacrity and you can't wander too far in Warsaw without being swept away by it yourself.

The International Terminal

The lopsided, deliberate gait of an African woman catches my eye as I wait in line to check bags. Averting her eyes from the happenstance gaze of others, she slowly comes to a halt and patiently waits for her husband. He is wearing black leather shoes with cuffed pants that are a little too big. His two large canvas suitcases have the words “Port Harcourt” printed on paper and taped to the suitcases’ sides. As he lifts his leg to the baggage belt for footing I see he wears no socks. He stands like this for a moment, watches for the weight to register, and begins to shake his head.

An attendant beside this man signals for me. It is my turn to check in. I only have one bag for my 3-week trip and my load is light. I hand over my passport as I hear the soft yet full-timbred voice of the man in leather shoes and no socks. He tries to negotiate an extra 5 kilos for his canvas bag, filled no doubt with gifts and goods hard to come by in Nigeria. My passport is handed back to me and the African woman looks at nothing as I walk toward the security gate.

In front of me in the security line are two women, friends, both dressed in black. The woman closest to me wears tight plaits in her coarse hair which are pulled back halfway allowing for the plaits to hang low down her back. Her friend wears a high pony tail or bun, I can’t tell which, nor can I tell her hair color. The scarf she wears over her head is unnaturally pushed up in the back, like a bustle, concealing the details of the hair I cannot see. She caries a North Face backpack over one shoulder, but soon slips a silk-covered arm through the unoccupied strap. Her scarf is caught underneath. The woman with plaits touches the head scarf with perfunctory movement and pulls it from the tangle the backpack has caused.

We pass through security and I look for my gate. The waiting area is large and I choose from the more secluded seats behind a partial wall at the back. A final call for the flight before me is announce in Mandarin. I listen to the announcement, only understanding the Chinese numbers, then wait for the English translation. I watch people come down the escalator into the waiting area for my flight. I can tell which passengers are American and I see the Nigerian couple from Port Harcourt.

I am distracted from the escalator by movement behind a nearby pole. Another passenger, a man, has slipped into the same secluded area as me. Paying me no notice (or perhaps not noticing me) he begins to kneel, then falls prostrate. The direction the man faces seems skewed within the infrastructure of the surrounding room. I look away since there is no prayer room to offer him privacy.

My flight is announced in German, then English. Boarding pass in hand, I approach the attendant at the jetway. He thinks I’m German and exchanges the appropriate pleasantries then points me through the door. My trip has begun.

Cultural Revolution

San Francisco's Chinatown has been a centerpoint for Asian culture since the late 1800s. Only recently surpassed by New York's Chinatown for largest Chinese population outside of Asia, it has maintained its diversity, culture, language, and way of life for a century and a half. So how has Chinatown managed to resist both assimilation by its residents and gentrification by other neighborhoods? History may give us a clue...

The major influx of Chinese immigrants began in 1848. California's gold rush brought not only pioneers from east to west but enticed folks from the Far East as well. Jobs were thought to be numerous, and many Chinese intended to get rich quick then leave. With plans to return home soon, the attitude, mentality, and need to "fit in" just weren't there.

Well, we all know how this story ends. Few found gold in the rush to get rich. And like the locals, the Chinese immigrants found themselves with empty pockets and homes too far away to afford the return ticket. But the rich Chinese culture stayed as did the resistance to the American culture that surrounded them. And the minute you set foot on Portsmouth Square, you'll see exactly what I mean.

Benchsitters read Chinese newspapers, groups of men coop together for gambling matches, and English conversation seems a world away. It literally could be a square in Pick-Your-City, China. With firecrackers popping for the Chinese New Year and laundry hanging from windows and balconies, the only clue that you haven't been transported yourself are the financial district buildings peaking in the skyline.

Perhaps it's camaraderie. Perhaps it's population density (10-times San Francisco's average). Regardless, Chinatown's population has managed to maintain reminders of home. Wet markets with cheap produce and fresh fish line the sides of Stockton Street. Dim Sum and tea are the consumables of choice. And in true Chinese entrepreneurial style, the San Francisco-born tradition of Fortune Cookies (that's right, they're American-made) can be purchased and photographed for nominal fees.

Despite its proximity to San Francisco's commercial and financial centers, Chinatown's cultural revolution has managed to hold its ground for over 150 years.

Shopping for the Exotic

If you are like me, any visit to a semi-exotic place includes an obligatory visit to the local market. From live squirmy things that we don't even keep as pets, to beautifully rich and colorful vegetation, to local tchotchkes taunting tourists to purchase, markets are often where we go for a bite-size glimpse into a foreign culture and land.

But as I headed out today to run my own local errands, it occurred to me just how exotic the unexotic may seem. For many, farmer's markets are summertime novelties, and visiting them is considered an "outing" rather than an errand. In Northern California, however, marketing is a way of life for both the farmers and consumers.

Northern California's climate is not just desirable for its residents, but its resident vegetation as well. And the variety of local produce and numerous farmer's markets attest to this. Offering both fresher products, a more eco-friendly infrastructure (it is "local" after all), and more reasonable prices than the grocery store, it's not a surprise how many Bay Area residents rely on them and their products. With our own WindMill Farms closed only from mid-December to mid-February, fresh, local, and organic products of top-notch quality are available practically year-round.

And even though our local market doesn't sell tchotchkes, I'm sure any foreign visitor would find a bit of the exotic right here in California.

Make It, Or Break It

For the past two weeks, I (and probably everyone else in America) have been mesmerized by the Olympics. Speedskaters being disqualified, the Canadians most revered sport ending in upset, and America's first medals in a sport dominated by Europe for 86 years. But along with the actual competitions come the stories: stories of strife, stories of disappointment, and stories of dreams coming true.

There's Tugba Karademir. A figure skater from Turkey who is the first to represent her country in her Olympic sport. But it did not come without a price. Her mother left her job as an engineer in Turkey so her daughter could train in Canada. Both parents now work menial jobs, and could not even land tickets to watch their daughter perform until an unknown benefactor stepped in.

There's Olympic ski crosser Chris Del Bosco, who has struggled with substance and alcohol abuse. After being stripped of two US national titles and being found drunk in a ditch with a broken neck, he entered rehab. Now being clean and sober, he is one of Canada's finest.

We, as Americans, love these stories of tribulation and triumph. But elsewhere in the world, they are not so revered. I remember a conversation I had with a friend before I left Singapore. His upbringing was less than stellar: his grandmother raised him, being abandoned by his mother. And the mother–son relationship today barely deserves the label "relationship." He has had to make success for himself, with little support from others. When I heard his story, I thought "that's a story that American dreams are made of." But according to him, Singaporean stories of struggle don't boost, they blemish.

When he opened my eyes to this fact, I thought back to my time in Nigeria. Not only were stories of tribulation and triumph not appreciated, they were the stories of everyone's lives. It's not just the poor, it's not just the middle-class. Everyone has trials, everyone has tragedy. And having money or an advantaged-life doesn't preclude you to a life without them.

So last night when I opted for American Idol instead of Olympics and the stories began again, I felt a little less sensitive. The story of Andrew Garcia whose parents were in gangs and they only sought a gang-free life for their son. The story of John Park whose family has struggled with money their entire lives. The stories were as much a gauge of success as the performance itself.

You see, here in the United States, our "stories" often make our success. Who knew that elsewhere they might break it.

Dressing for Dallas

Have you ever noticed how pretty people in Dallas look? Like the city in which they reside, Dallasites portray an air of groomed casualness that is all there own. It's not fancy, but manicured. It's not formal, but deliberate casual. You see, Dallas attire (and attitude for that matter) makes casual look formal and formal look casual. And the Christmas season makes this all too apparent.

Everyone who's anyone in Dallas has professional pictures taken for events and milestones: engagements, first babies, and yes, Christmas cards. But a Walmart sitdown session for 12.99 just will not do. No, no. Blurred backgrounds, creative clothing color combos, and looks of candid blissful perfection are musts. It's the glamor shot look without the off the shoulder dresses, caked on make up, and, well....glamor.

Perhaps the Reata (a true Texas restaurant inspired by southern flavors) epitomizes this unique DFW style to a tee. My sister calls it "cowboy fancy." While atmosphere and cuisine indicate upscale dining, there is still room for the casual cowboy. Calf fries (a Texas delicacy made from the more sensitive calf parts) are deep fried chicken style. Gourmet elk sausage sits atop a down home favorite - cheese grits. And those are just the appetizers.

Dining attire also reflects the duality of farm yard formal that epitomizes Dallas. Waiters don Wranglers and formal black Western-wear shirts bedecked with silver accents. The clientele show up in anything from suits to boots (or both). Jean, t-shirts, blazers, ropers, and Stetsons...all wear is welcome.

So when dressing in Dallas, just remember: it's one of the few places you can wear jeans to a wedding (but you better have some boots to scoot).

Ignoring Culture

It's easy when living abroad to focus on differences. I myself am no exception as you've probably read in many of my blogs. Differences are interesting. Differences make for good conversation. Differences are acceptable explanations for things that may go wrong. But what I've come to realize is that our friendships and courtships do not depend on accepting differences, ignoring differences, discerning differences, or being "culturally sensitive." They depend on embracing similarities.

It is not necessarily similar upbringings, but it can be. It is not necessarily similar religious or ethical beliefs, but it can be. It is not necessarily similar cultural backgrounds, but it can be. My point is that often "culture" gets in the way of knowing the person as they are away from the cultural backdrop that might or might not influence their lives.

I think of my friend Esther as I write this. Chinese-born but living and studying in Singapore while I was there, she quickly became a very good friend. Sure, there were times when I did something that I knew was culturally awkward in her eyes. But she knew my character and I knew hers. We both valued education, were hard workers, valued friendship and loyalty, respected family responsibilities, and depended on each other more than I think either of us knew. You see it wasn't despite our cultures that we became friends; culture never was a factor to begin with.

I realize that it's trendy to be culturally sensitive, and I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. But at some point we should tread softly on the fine line between "culturally sensitive" and "culturally obsessive." When we meet someone of the same culture, we automatically assume a certain status quo. If someone is late, rude, or cheap, it's just who they are. But what if they're Latino, American, or Jewish? Well then, it must be "cultural." You see, culture is all well and good until you start focusing on it, assuming the presence of it, and choosing relationships based on assumptions that go with it.

When culture is the same, status quo is very often ignored. So maybe that's how we should approach all our relationships...even the intercultural ones.

Einsteinian Esperanto

In light of some of the recent comments regarding Esperanto, I feel I should digress a bit and address the issue. While comments have been made regarding Esperanto as the future for a worldwide lingua franca, I for one submit to a more Einsteinian approach to language use and evolution: language cannot be created but can be destroyed, and certainly can change to other forms.

Esperanto is a feat in its own right. With vision for a language which could "foster harmony between people from different countries," L.L. Zamenhof completed Esperanto in the 1880s. Since then it has acquired between 100,000 and 2 million speakers, has seen the publication and translation of literary works, and has a passionate following that remains strong today. (Thank you, wikipedia.=)

That being said, many of my blog readers have hit some very important points. As a student of culture, I have been consistently taught that language and culture are inextricably linked. While Esperanto presents a good option for communicating in the multinationally influenced world we now live in, it lacks the naturally evolving culture that goes alongside. From this perspective, language nor culture can be created.

Also, with Esperanto's use of a modified Latin alphabet and the associated phonetic counterparts, there seems a large portion of the world left out of the mix...namely those using various Asian spoken and written forms. One may say that an alphabet of some form had to be chosen; but why the Latin alphabet and the primarily Western-based grammar? After all, by wikipedia's average estimation, almost twice as many people worldwide speak Chinese than English (the most common Latin alphabet language) followed by Hindu/Urdu (whose alphabet is based on Sanskrit). Esperanto clearly has certain socio-political influences, which could not only favor certain languages and cultures over others, but potentially hinder or destroy those from non-Western nations and cultures.

Finally language is not something you can force upon someone. Even during colonization, when English or French or Spanish was brought to other areas of the world, the lingua franca did not evolve in its original form. Pidgins, creoles, and full-fledged new languages were born and evolved into their present-day counterparts. And this didn't happen just in one place, it happened almost everywhere, in places separated by oceans and terrain. As a property of language itself, language (and culture) cannot be created...it can only evolve to different forms.

As an aside, I welcome any and all comments to my blog. But please, if you have political affiliations related to particular topics, I do ask you identify yourself properly. As much for the informational purposes of my readers as for the integrity of the blog I write.

Is Singlish a Sin?

As an English speaking visitor to Singapore, don’t expect to understand everything that is said. Though most Singaporeans do speak English, the Chinese-esque grammar combined with tones and pronunciation unfamiliar to the Western ear can make communicating a bit tricky. But is Singapore English, known as Singlish, a sin? According to the Singapore government it is.

For 6 years, Singapore has tried to play language police through its Speak Good English movement. Web pages, blogs, and teaching and vocational materials promote “standard” English as the preferred form. But as a student of language and culture, this particular topic strikes too close to home. The official stance of the movement is “to encourage Singaporeans to speak grammatically correct English that is universally understood.” Being universally understood is important; after all, what is the point of communicating in the same language if you can’t actually communicate. But "grammatically correct"? I'm not buying it.

In my experience trying to understand and be understood in Singapore, it was never the grammar that stood in the way. I quickly caught on to the shortened affirmatives (like “can” instead of “yes, you can”), and since Singlish mirrors the simpler Chinese grammar it’s actually easier to understand than the convoluted and repetitive “standard” English grammar. More so, different accents, pronunciations, and idioms were the cause of communication troubles. So why the big movement for speaking grammatically correct?

Singlish has a stigma: the uneducated, the working class, the foreigners who come to work there for a pittance all speak perfect Singlish. As I see it, wiping out Singlish is not a matter of being universally understood; it is a political and socio-economic statement put forth by the government. It elevates the educated to “preferred” and reduces the uneducated to unacceptable. It brands the upper echelon as “standard” and the working class as deviant. It blatantly states who and what practices the government finds acceptable and unacceptable.

Much like the English-Only movement in the United States, which often ostracises or in extreme cases punishes people speaking Spanish in vocational or educational settings, in Singapore Singlish has been dubbed a sin by the powers that be.

A China Town, No Doubt

Though Singapore claims a healthy mix of cultures and backgrounds (Chinese, Malay, Tamil, Eurasian), the Chinese heritage is by far the most pronounced and has affected Singaporean culture in both big and subtle ways. From food, to tradition, to speech, Singapore is a China Town, no doubt.

To give a bit a of background, the major influx of Chinese immigrants to Malaysia occurred during the 15th and 16th centuries. Formerly being part of Malaysia, Singapore also welcomed these Chinese traders and travelers well before its independence in 1965. In fact, many a Singaporean claim not a Malay but Peranakan heritage – a mix of Malay and Chinese ethnicity and tradition. This insurgence of Chinese culture that started centuries ago today remains strong in Singaporean daily living.

Chop sticks and angular soup spoons are staples in Hawker Centers and Food Courts (though I've been told to only use chopsticks when given a bowl; forks are used for plates). Hawker Centers' menu displays are written in Chinese and pinyin (the roman alphabet version of Chinese pronunciations) and with less frequency in English. And of course the cuisine itself, though some is uniquely Singaporean, includes the basic rice or noodle and soup mixtures we've come to know as "typical" Chinese.

The Chinese language dominates conversation as well. As much (or even more so) than English, I hear gossiping, business, and pleasantries exchanged in different Chinese dialects. On more than one occasion, I've needed to "find" an English speaker to help out with purchases and requests. And perhaps most revealing are the signs in Little India...there are more written in Chinese than in Tamil! Even Little India's grocery store has an automated machine saying "ni hao" ("hello" in Chinese) as you enter.

Though Chinese is by no means a necessity here and Western foods abound, visitors will leave knowing Singapore is a China Town, no doubt.

Baba-Nyonya Pride

I'm not so sure our Indian friend from my previous blog would vie much better in Malaysia. While Chinese–Singaporeans prefer to deal with their own in business relationships, Chinese–Malaysian (known endearingly as Baba–Nyonya) are among the most successful businessmen and Malaysia's richest residents. As evidenced by Melaka's Baba–Nyonya house-turned-museum, its sheer size and international flare on display leaves little doubt of Baba–Nyonyas' influence, affluence, and stories of success.

Malaysia's population has been influenced by and integrated with other cultures for centuries. From the Jawi (Tamil–Muslim Malay) to the Chitty (Tamil–Hinu Malay), mixed heritage is a reality for many living in Malaysia. But it is quite obvious which Peranakan group lays claim as the "true" people (or at least the most prominent) of Malaysia, even more so than native Malays – the Baba–Nyonya. Literally translated as "Grandfather–Grandmother," Baba–Nyonya tradition dominates much of Malaysian and Singaporean culture. Identifiable by their batik sarong kebaya (the nyonya's attire of choice) and famous for their multi-cultural cuisine (fusioned flavors which include coconut milk, pandan leaf, and lemon grass to name a few), Baba–Nyonya heritage is easily identifiable and loudly pronounced.

And prideful they are! Even here in Singapore, the local television network broadcasts a weekly comedy that spotlights, plays with, and exaggerates the uniqueness and stereotypes that come with Baba–Nyonya pride. Sayang Sayang (meaning "dear" or "love" in Malay) follows one Peranakan family as they compete for the family business, challenge each others' "Nyonya" skills in a kueh chang-making contest, don traditional Baba–Nyonya batik, and even publish a Peranakan dictionary (Chinese Peranakan of course).

Though Peranakan refers to people of any mixed ethnic origin, Peranakan pride means Baba–Nyonya on the Indochinese Penninsula.

***The first picture above is courtesy of Singapore's Peranakan Museum. The second picture displays kueh chang, Nyonya rice dumplings.

Hierarchy of Business

As an "outsider" living abroad, it's difficult to know and often even harder to understand the rules of engagement for your host country. It might be the business card ritual that catches you off guard (a necessity at meetings, with the 2-hand exchange being as important to the meeting as the business at hand). Or it could be rules for treating someone to a meal (still haven't figured that one out). But what I didn't expect were the rules of hierarchy...rules that at home aren't as pronounced as here in Asia.

This unofficial (or maybe it's official) caste system of the high-wage, low-wage variety first came to my attention at my place of residence. One of the restaurant staff, who was working as an intern, had to return to the Philippines. He couldn't find a job; they were only hiring Singaporeans because of the economic downturn he told me. Made sense, but this guy was a hard worker and seemed more capable than some of the full-time Singaporean staff! It seems there is a certain respect and advantages that simply come with a Singaporean passport.

And for the non-Singaporeans who do get hired, often the less-than-desirable jobs with less-than-desirable pay are what awaits them. My husband recalls looking out his window from the 26-floor and seeing at eye-level Indian construction workers building a nearby skyscraper. When he commented that he wouldn't want that job, a co-worked replied that you wouldn't find a Singaporean doing that work. Live-in help from the Philippines, Malaysia, or Indonesia don't fare much better. Though perks are included (like room, board, and trips home), the standard wage is about USD 300 per month.

Even among the Singaporean "elite" a business hierarchy exists. Our residents cafe not only serves as a breakfast nook but with the same frequency as a venue for businessmen vying for contracts. As such, I often overhear tid-bits of the dealings. Recently, I witnessed an Indian man being let down easy by an Australian business contact. His Chinese clients, the Australian said, "they like to do business with Chinese...you might have a better chance in Malaysia." The conversation ended with the Australian suggesting Indian contacts might also be a better option for his non-Chinese companion.

In the Singapore workforce, being Chinese–Singaporean is more than advantageous...it's predestinous!

My Malaysia

For those planning a trip to Singapore, might I suggest 2 no-misses while in the area. Easy to get to and quite a contrast to Singapore's cement jungle, Melaka and KL should top your list.


A 4-hour bus ride puts you right where history (or at least colonialist history) began in this area of the world. Melaka was Singapore before Singapore was Singapore as the major stop off point for those heading East to West. An active port in its heyday, Melaka was frequented and settled by Chinese merchants, then occupied by the Portuguese, Dutch, and English before gaining independence in 1957. Remnants of these multi-national influences are impeccably preserved in present-day Melaka. With its outstanding shopping, quaint small-town feel, and rich but modest historical sites, Melaka deserves a day or 2 even for self-proclaimed city slickers.

Two more hours on buses departing every 15 minutes (what could be more convenient than that) puts you up-close and personal with hands-down the most beautiful buildings on earth...the Petronas Towers. Standing like wedding day brides side-by-side, these towers dominate the KL skyline. But that's not all KL has to offer: a birdpark that "out-birds" Singapore's open-air aviary; the Batu Caves that challenge even the most fit with its 272-step climb; and Little India's weekend night market that rivals the chaos found in "Big" India.

Accessible, unique, historically rich, yet often overshadowed by close-by Thailand and Singapore, these Malaysian cities provide "quality" time for all their visitors.

Past is Prologue

In the heart of Singapore's Chinatown lies three restored shop houses that offer a peak into Singapore's Chinese heritage, both good and bad. Being a museum, I expected to get a bit of history, learn some tid-bits about the early Chinese settlers, and maybe learn a new Chinese word or two. But what I didn't expect was an unveiling of motivations behind rules, norms, and habits that are now part of Singaporean everyday life.

The museum is set up like a living archive: personal accounts and quotes paper the walls; video taped old-timers recount memories of a less cosmopolitan Singapore; and photos on display archive times past and the red-hatted samsui women who swore off marriage and worked in construction to build the Singapore we know today.

The first video I stopped to watch recounted the post-Raffles days when Singapore's port was open for free trade. Tea and silk were not the only things traded however. Another export got the best of Raffles' new-found colony: opium. Opium dens of various "grades" littered the streets of Chinatown attracting both high-end visitors and "coolies" (manual laborers without vocational skills). And seamen coming ashore en masse also gave rise to another industry still alive and well in Singapore...prostitution. But the opium and prostitution brought more trouble than business. Addiction grew rampant, especially among the lower working class, and sexually transmitted diseases reach pandemic proportions.

When considering these two new realities that hit Singapore by storm, it sheds light on present-day national practices. Drugs are now "highly" illegal. And if you don't know what I mean by "highly," just take a look at your embarkation card as you enter this city-state: "Death for Drug Traffickers" it reads on the back. Also, prostitution is regulated to the nth degree. All prostitutes must register with the government and submit to frequent health screenings, a practice which started in the late-1800s.

In addition to sailors and foreign businessmen flooding Singapore, immigrants from China arrived (and are still arriving) seeking money and a better life. Though some (tailors, barbers, etc.) came with marketable skills, those unskilled lived a hard life most apparent by where and how they lived. With little money and little free time, their living quarters were sub-par to say the least. Recreated in the Chinatown Heritage Centre is the dorm housing common for migrant workers of the 1900s.

You may wonder what closet-size dorm rooms have to do with today's housing situation in Singapore. Well, recently a Filipina migrant I know (with marketable skills, mind you) was ousted from her "apartment" after the building shut for code violations. Apparently the landlord had divided already small apartments into numerous smaller rooms, many without windows or proper ventilation. Dorm living is still a reality in Singapore for much of the migrant worker population (both skilled and not).

But perhaps my favorite historical idiosyncrasy made-present is the "spot reserving" norm here in Singapore. In the heritage museum, one account described an outing to the Majestic Theatre back in its heyday. People used to designate their seat by placing a handkerchief on the location they chose. Any present-day Singaporean knows that reserving your spot during lunch-hour rush is key. And guess what they do? Place their handkerchiefs (well, now they are mass produced napkin packets wrapped in plastic and sold street-side) on the hawker centre table of their choice.

Maybe the past isn't necessarily necessarily prologue; but it sure does hint at what may be to come!

(Samsui photo taken from http://yesterday.sg/2007/04/samsui_women/)

Crossing the Line

There is a local show here in Singapore that interviews "the new foreigner in town." On the last episode, a Korean newcomer was asked what things she's had to get used to in Singapore...her reply: "Singaporeans love to stand in line...I haven't quite figured out why Singaporeans stand in a long line for something like a free cookie." Boy did she hit the nail on the head!

In a previous blog, I described our experience at the Asian Civilizations Museum on National Museum Day. And yes, it was a free for all. Free admittance, free special exhibition entrance, free ice cream, and of course plenty of free time spent in long lines. But today Singaporean queuing tendencies crossed the line.

On my way to the MRT today, I noticed a queue wrapping around the shopping mall close to home. Amidst the crowd was a small booth with people wearing placards advertising Colgate's Sensitive Pro-Relief toothpaste. Hmmmm...a line for toothpaste? Well, I guess I've stood in line for things of less importance than toothpaste before. But this particular line was not moving; it was a standstill of close to 100 people on their lunch breaks waiting for something Colgate-esque. The time value of money concept was obviously not at play here.

I guess "the new foreigner in town" was right: Singaporeans love to stand in line, or maybe they just have more patience than most. I optimistically concede to the latter.

Mid-Autumn Moon Cake Mayhem

This past weekend, Singapore (and the rest of Asia) celebrated their Mid-Autumn Festival. As important to Singaporeans as Thanksgiving and Christmas are to Americans, Mid-Autumn Festival is a time for family and friends to gather, light lanterns, watch the moon rise (which is at its fullest and brightest), and eat moon cake.

Legend has it, Cheng'e (the moon goddess) and her husband Houyi were banned to the earth to live as mortals following the death of the Jade Emporors 9 sons at the hands of Houyi. Seeing his wife's distress, Houyi searched out the pill of immortality and once obtained placed it in a case for safe keeping. Curiousity getting the best of her, Chang'e found the pill just as Houyi returned home. Not knowing that only half was needed for her own immortality (the other half was for Houyi), she swallowed the entire pill. She floated to the sky, eventually landing on the moon, and can still be seen dancing there during MoonFest.

For those not impressed by legend and tradition, you are bound to enjoy the moon cakes. Like Christmas cookies, moon cakes come in traditional forms and creative new concoctions. With a gingerbread-esque encasement, traditional cakes are filled with anything from egg to lotus paste while their modern counterparts boast coatings and fillings of chocolate, brandy, or herbed cheese to name a few. And it's no surprise that any hotel with a reputation has their own versions to sell at a price as pretty as the cakes themselves.

So to all my friends, family, and blog followers who couldn't enjoy Mid-Autumn Fest with us, we say: 中秋节 快乐 (zhōng qiū jié kuài lè)!