writing, here and there

We set off yesterday for a morning jaunt to Malaysia, to the city of Johore Bahru, the capital of Johore, just a long causeway away from Singapore. (Each country paid for its half of the bridge.) It was pretty much a standard tourist rip-off. We drove around the town a bit and stopped at two places that had Malay touristy stuff for sale. At one we got a cookie and some interesting cinnamon tea for our efforts. Gay bought a large scarf or a small shawl from one, a nice silk and cashmere mix.

I was tempted to buy a bandana -- I wear one around my neck, bicycling in the winter -- but decided to just keep my eye out in normal venues, rather than shell out $11.

We did drive by a Malay cemetery, which would have been interesting to see, and visit the governor's palace, at least the outside of it, and the huge Royal Abu Bakar mosque, which any of us who were Muslim might enter. I didn't try. I know that they ask for the password, and if your accent betrays you it's off with your head. Both were nice big buildings, a little dusty from new construction. Malaysian government and religion seem to be thriving businesses. Same the whole world over, different labels. Same busloads of cash-lightened tourists.

We had a good lunch back at the hotel -- I had the restaurant's specialty, a fiery hot Nonya Laksa -- "king prawn, fish cakes, quail eggs, shredded chicken and bean sprouts, finished in spicy coconut gravy," twenty bucks and well worth it. Not quite hot enough to give me hiccups, which is my signal to back off.

Spent the afternoon in the National Museum of Singapore, across the street. It's very well laid out, but perhaps over-organized. You're given a sound device as you enter, and you push buttons to hear a commentary as you go from exhibit to exhibit. Of course more than half the time, the interpretive voice tells you much more than you want to know. After about an hour and a half, we started skipping -- almost in desperation! I'm not sure what happened to Singapore in the twentieth century, but it sure went by fast.

At the café, I was served a delicious new drink, lavender tea. It's an infusion of sugar water and lavender in the bottom of a glass of strong iced tea. And I bought a writing notebook in the museum shop, an irresistible spiral one with light brown paper.

In the evening we met Kiruthiga Mahendran, the woman who had invited us to the conference. An attractive young woman, she took us into Little India, through crowds that were literally shoulder to shoulder, front to back, and led us to an unprepossessing restaurant upstairs over the madness of the market. The food was very good, though not remarkably different from an Indian restaurant in America -- I suppose if we'd asked for something challenging we could have gotten sauce that makes vindaloo seem bland. I just got the day's special, though, and a salt lhassi. It was a seasoned mess of yellow lentils rolled up in flatbread, presented with various sauces. Very good. Only one sauce, an innocent-looking white puddle, was actually lethal.

I should note that the Little India market is probably a glimpse of the future, as the Earth's population inches toward ten billion. Moving from one place to another you are in intimate physical contact with several people at once, mooshed up together like a football pileup -- or a lentil stew! -- moving along by a kind of Brownian motion. Lots of nice soft girls, so I didn't mind, but I can only imagine how people who shrink from physical contact with strangers, especially if they're at all homophobic, would feel in such a scrimmage. Screaming panic!

Coming back home was not so bad; after a few minutes it was merely crowded, and then when we went down into the subway system (where, it occurs to me, no one without money will go) it was not crowded at all, and two trains took us smoothly back to the hotel in relative quiet air-conditioned cool. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

Got up about four and went down to the hotel lobby to work on mail -- no wi-fi in the room -- and when the sun came up like thunder, not quite six, I took off in search of coffee. Actually, I'd seen an intriguing student joint a couple of blocks away, in a neighborhood that's probably perfectly safe, but through which I was reluctant to walk in the dark. I encountered one drunk and a few young couples who looked like they could use a room.

The coffee place, Mr. Bean's Café, looked agreeably funky and studious, with a sign saying it was open 24 hours. The one customer left right after I arrived. Good ambient light and no music. A good place to work until I got the bill. Coffee was $4.50 (as opposed to $1.00 where I had been working) and there was a service charge of 15% even though I carried my own cup to the bar for refill. A twenty-buck session, with a piece of apple crumble. Guess I'll go back to the one next to the hotel.

Gay found a lovely John Cleese talk on creativity, at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGt3-fxOvug&feature=player_embedded. Much of what he says is so familiar I felt like I was listening to myself talk. Find a place and time where no one will bother you and go there the same time every day. Make sure everyone knows not to disturb you. Find your existential place and let yourself play. Don't be ashamed to call it play.

Joe

(Admittedly, I work in a lot of venues that are far from that ideal. The price of gathering life to write about, I suppose.)