The Roaring Twenties

From the time when we tussled in the sand during orientation games more than a decade ago, I had known that we would be constants for the four very eventful years of university. It is mostly to your credit, and also my greatest pleasure, that I could be present for the biggest day of your life two weeks ago. I have saved the more intimate bits in private letters and closed-door conversations but what I will pay tribute to here is a celebration to life and love that we will all remember in decades to come.

Your choice of venue was impeccable, and you said it as much in your opening speech. While ATLAS is home to a cocktail program that ranks it as one of the top 50 bars in the world, what leaves the biggest and most immediate impression is perhaps the Art Deco architecture and how over-the-top and resplendent it all is. I could rave about the 15-minute totem of a glass tower bedecked with tincture after tincture of gin goodness. Or the giant murals plastered over the ceiling, plush velvet carpets beneath our feet and the ornate leather booths and gold detailing. Combined, one is instantly transported from the concrete, humid jungle of Singapore 100 years to the past and 10,000 km away to the scene of Jay Gatsby’s parties.

You had intended this night to be more than just your wedding. At this point, most of us are accustomed to the round banquet tables across hotels in Singapore where guests are served a ten-course meal and resign themselves to their assigned seat for the 3-4 hours of the program. From the get-go, you decided that yours would not be one of those weddings. Instead, the people from different parts of your past would mingle with one another in the present to form new beginnings for the future. All with you and your husband at the center. How else could you explain a Bingo game where guests have to find other guests who have travelled with the couple, can speak 3 languages, have been to a karaoke session with you, or have already retired? Or the adjacent rectangular tables of different groups of guests joined by a contiguous sofa contained within a leather booth?

Your menu (or lackthereof) was the point. The cheese platter at the start of program was divine and each of the tapas served during the course of the night were impeccable. But the highlight was surely the free flow of gin cocktails for the entire night. Presumably, there were only three choices including a gimlet and a martini. Though one only needs to look at a waiter squarely in the eye and order a gin and tonic before the iconic highball arrives. Suffice to say, I made quite a bit of eye contact with the waiters that night, though less squarely as the night went on.

I arrived sweltering in a tailored suit and top hat not quite designed for Singapore’s tropical climate or my hyperactive sweat glands by public transport. After re-grouping with a dear friend who had also flown in for the festivity, we made our way to the lobby and was instantly whisked away to a different world. A world that starts off with an old-world refinement and the civility that comes with it. That was how I greeted familiar faces whom I knew but were not especially close to and therefore had not met up since we graduated seven years ago.

We milled around at our table exchanging a few pleasantries before getting up and proceeding to the photoshoot area. It was a stiff shot to say the least, even more so than the martini on the menu. What broke the ice a little was catching a glimpse of you. You were ravishing, and all of us couldn’t help but gasp at your hard-won svelte silhouette which your sleeveless wedding gown fully complemented. What caused our gaze to rest a little longer was the intricate white lacy/floral/veil headpiece more effective and subtle than a diamond-encrusted tiara in proclaiming who the queen is for the day.

This is what a bride looks like in full bloom.

Back at the table, we continued with some small talk before more friends from your faculty arrived. Making way for them to catch up at long last, I siddled over to the adjacent table where a couple I wasn’t familiar was seated. He was dressed in a navy vest over a white collared shirt with sleeves upturned to reveal thick, tattooed forearms. She was decked in a loose-fitting pale pink sequinned gown and the more gregarious between the both of them. That was how I learnt that they were both from Hong Kong and that her partner is also the groom’s long-time gaming friend.

With my quick replies in Cantonese, I could see her visible excitement at being seated next to a compatriot-of-sorts. Speaking a common tongue (perhaps except for English) is easily one of the fastest ways to bond with strangers. After all, a facility in every other language almost certainly implies a common cultural heritage or a deliberate attempt and appreciation for it. She gently ribbed her partner’s inability to speak Cantonese despite growing up in Hong Kong and he grinned sheepishly in return.

Almost on cue, the emcee announced the start of the night’s festivities and we began with our first round of drinks. My go-to G&T was as refreshing as it was delicious. Then came the gimlet, and then the martini, followed by cycle after cycle of drinks. I couldn’t quite remember the order or even the number of drinks I waved at the waiter to order that night. But what I could recall were some of the snippets of conversations and some of the crazy fun we had as we relived our student days. This time with adult money, wisdom and common understanding that a night like this is perhaps once-in-a-lifetime for all of us in the bar.

I learnt about the recent break-up of an 8-year relationship of another dear friend when she came over to my table for a catch-up. Perhaps it was the quiver in her eyes but I told her to bring her drink over as well just before she broke the news to me. Then there was another conversation about another DINK friend’s solid and stable career and life trajectory and how she felt like there was no need to work if she did not want to. I congratulated her on having won this optionality in her life. Next came an acquaintance whom I embraced upon eye contact almost on instinct. With her, I shared about my desire to return to Singapore for family reasons, something which resonated with her.

There were the staple ‘yam-seng’ toasts, one of the few shared traditions between your wedding and the traditional benchmark. Surely, there wasn’t anyone in attendance who had the air supply to drag out the first note of the toasts in a single breath. What our corner of the bar certainly had enough breath for was the karaoke session which you kickstarted. If only a select few had the privilege to sing with you before that night, now everyone who was in attendance can claim that spot on the Bingo sheet.

You played all the greatest hits that we grew up with, from Taylor Swift’s Love Story to Justin Timberlake’s Sexyback to The Killer’s Mr Brightside. These were all songs so etched in our psyche that our generation did not need lyrics on a screen to sing along to. These were all songs that set all our hearts on fire when we had our bellies fuelled with booze. These were all songs that we were all belting along to with you, hands up in the air with not a care in the world.

It was without this care that I found myself clambering up the spiral gilded staircase to the stage where the resident band was at. There was a middle-aged man whom I did not know standing there but it did not matter then. (I only learnt a few days later that that was the groom’s uncle and I had essentially upstaged him oops). The resident band singer graciously passed a mike to me and next thing I knew, we were singing 邓丽君’s 月亮代表我的心 and another number from 张学友 that I heard for the first time. As we crooned one ballad after another, the crowd swayed along and at the center of it all were you and your husband. This one’s for you.

At the end of that very impromptu performance, I staggered down the steps and back to my seat possibly more delirious and inebriated than before listening to my friends take over and cover the next couple of songs. The night was getting progressively wilder, my memories progressively hazier and my behavior progressively more unhinged. If I had been more sensible, it would have been a good time to ask for water and stop indulging. But this wasn’t a time for sensibility; it was a time for decadance with faces old and new.

Towards the end of the night, a human train spontaneously formed. Just like those high-society parties in New York back in the 1920’s, what started out with civility and elegance had flourished into full-fledged bacchanalia. What joy as we put our hands on the shoulders of a stranger and chugged along aimlessly and without abandon across the bar and as the band presided above. I can’t remember the music, but I can remember the wild-eyed elation of what it is to be alive.

There was a price to pay in the coming days, but that night was worth every pain and inconvenience and then some. In post-party reflections, many of us conceded that it was the party we didn’t know we needed; we had such a great, great time. That it was probably as memorable for us as it was for you and the your husband.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

In the final line of The Great Gatsby, Nick Carraway ended with this lament about how as humans, we struggle to move forward while being invitably pulled back by history, memories and personal illusions. True as that may be, we can now say that this past now includes this wedding party you threw for us all in the final year of your twenties in the true spirit of the Roaring Twenties.

It is a past that even forty years later, with our minds and outlooks buffeted by the sands of time, we would recall with much fondness and a smidge of incredulity. That (at least) once, we all had the time of our lives.

Thank you for the love and the time of our lives

To just be

First time playing my all-time favorite board game in Japanese

Life has been taken over by work for the past couple of weeks. Even in consulting, I would burn a weekend at most for a final project presentation. But in this job, every single weekend since the middle of February has been burnt not just to meeting partner demands but also to mange internal politics and operational shortcomings.

Even after taking a red-eye flight back to Tokyo on a Sunday, I would find myself replying to urgent messages in the afternoon after a quick shower, my luggage bag still remaining stuffed with surplus Chinese New Year goodies. And on the next day, presumably a public holiday here, I would find myself working full-time hours save for a few hours spent squirreled away for a dinner at a fancy Taiwanese restaurant in Harajuku to celebrate Chinese New Year with colleagues.

For the past couple of weeks, it was all I could do to stay afloat. Cooking dinner was a luxury I didn’t have and takeout sushi became a go-to option because I didn’t even have to heat dinner up in the microwave oven. I would sleep at 1AM and wake up by 6AM and my first impulse would be to check Slack for any follow-up that transpired in the 5 hours that I wasn’t conscious for. Rinse and repeat.

This draconian schedule took a toll on me of course. Last weekend, my hands were trembling a little even when I was presumably at rest.

I knew the work wasn’t going to be easy and that I’d have to get my hands dirty but the all-consuming nature of my recent and growing commitments were never part of the deal. But there isn’t anyone who can share in my duties (at least until tomorrow).

Even in the midst of the deluge of work, I’d still try to find pockets of time to just be. Back in December, I had made plans with a bunch of Chinese friends to have a takoyaki party and board games at my place for last Saturday and I didn’t want to renege on that.

So they came over and I got to tick off making my favorite Japanese food and playing my favorite board game in Japanese in my favorite space in Japan.

Or during the next day when I showered myself with some self-care and love with gym and onsen in the morning followed by karaoke and dinner at a knockout Korean restaurant in Shin-Okubo with another bunch of close Chinese friends.

Or even during the work week when I would go for beers with colleagues after 4PM at the WeWork terrace. One of them being a Korean lady the same age as my youngest sister (happy birthday Xin!) and whom I really clicked with.

The inspiration for writing this post and impulse to capture this fleeting moment though came from a lunch and coffee catch-up with an ex-colleague in Ikebukuro. We had met last June in the same place when he helped me to save a couple of hundred dollars from bargaining down the appliances I wanted to buy for my new place.

During coffee at a classic of a kissaten a stone’s throw away from the station, my friend confided in me his concerns of wasting away during his notice period. I looked him in the eye as someone in the thralls of work and in all seriousness told him that he could just be. That the end goal is never to be more “productive”.

It’s just to be ourselves and to enjoy this short and brutish life. And to just exist and be in this moment. Savoring coffee made with care, catching up on the careens in our careers. Letting the world go by and ourselves just be without any other purpose except for our existence.

Ramen and Revelations in 2025

Along Hakusan-dori on the final day of 2025, I found myself in the queue for Ebimaru Ramen, a specialty ramen restaurant specializing in lobster bisque. It was a long queue composed of a mix of locals and foreigners and I happened to be sandwiched between two young couples from Korea and Hong Kong. Keen to distract myself from the cold and their constant banter, I plugged into my earphones and started listening to the podcast on Spotify between Andrew Huberman and Steven Pressfield entitled Overcome Inner Resistance.

I was only 20 minutes into the podcast before it was my turn to be seated. The cozy interior was decked out in warm lights and featured wood furniture from Hida Takayama. My seat at the counter had already been set with exquisite cutlery that would not have been out of place in a fine dining establishment. As it was the end of the year, the chef was serving a special New Year sardine broth ramen that came with a serving of Hida pork chashu, thin chicken and pork slices and julienned seasoned menma topped with a cross-section of a strawberry and two tiny pods of french beans. My eyes were already in for a treat before my tastebuds were.

The few strands of scallion and tiny wedge of lime did not just elevate the aesthetics of the bowl; the tartness of these condiments went a long way to complementing the salty and briny sardine essence. The accompaniments were a delight and were a symphony of flavors in their own right, not least the slab of umami (i.e. the Hida pork) which disintegrated upon contact. Short of the broth, I cleared just about every morsel of this most satisfying meal very much worth the one hour of waiting out in the cold.

It was already past 4PM when I was done; the queue outside had shortened considerably but it was still a feat considering how the Yoshinoya further down the block was completely void of customers. Right above that Yoshinoya was a Singapore Hainan Chi-fan restaurant run by Taiwanese entrepreneurs which I would still recommend as authentic. It was where I chose to host my 中文社团 (as my previous company’s informal gathering of Mandarin-speaking colleagues is known) dinner. The food was good, the turnout was better and the conversations were the best.

I had been one of the six original participants when we first met in a hole-in-the-wall Xi’an noodle restaurant along the crammed inner streets of Ikebukuro in August 2023. And as it happens, all six of us hailed from different places: US, Japan, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Singapore. We were all working on different projects so the impetus for all of us to get together was this shared linguistic ability and a desire to know one another better. This dinner would then grow into a routine where every month, one of us takes turn to host a group dinner at a Chinese-themed restaurant. Inclusion to the group was simple: one just has to be able to hold an entire dinner conversation in Mandarin.

Representatives from US, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Japan, Singapore and Shanghai (Left to Right)

Gradually, the group grew. Just before I left in June 2025, we had 20+ members show up to enjoy Uighur cuisine in Ueno. There was a lot of shouting across tables just to make ourselves heard as the live band two tables away blared away. Towards the end, I had my fill of lamb but definitely not the camaraderie I knew I would miss when I left.

天下无不散的筵席

There is no banquet in the world that does not end. The writing had already been on the wall for some time. As much as I enjoyed the company of the friends I have made at work, it did not negate my work prospects; there was simply nothing left that I wanted to do. And so in April 2025, I responded to a solicitation from a recruiter representing a live entertainment scale-up from Spain.

Upon receiving the offer the following month, it did not take long for me to decide that it was time to part ways. I loved my time at Gartner Japan, but staying any longer than I did resembled the fate and fortunes of the country as a whole for my career: a slow, steady decline. I did not know if being a Partner Manager at Fever was going to be the dream job but what I did know is that I did not want to be sleepwalking through life.

And so I hurtled into a new phase of life and work, marked both by transition from sharehouse dweller to apartment owner and consultant to partner manager. The following months were then spent adapting to these new identities.

The former was easy enough. As much as I loved Room 207 of Couverture Itabashi, nothing beats having my own space and all that it entails. No more silently stewing at midnight while housemates continue to make a ruckus while being completely oblivious to the fact that the noises easily seep through the non-acoustic wooden walls. No more cleaning up after the last user who left unwashed dishes in the sink, oil splotches on the walls and crumbs on the countertop. No more picking up the clump of hair (and other gunk) clogged in the shower drain.

Just like Room 207 however, this unit gets an unbelievable amount of light. To the point where drawing open the curtains to the bedroom window transforms the alcove from a cave to an altar to the heavens. To the point where the floor-to-ceiling balcony door serves as the foot of an inverse sundial casting a beam of sunshine that sweeps westwards from the kitchen to the common corridor as the day progresses. To the point where the angular porthole by the kitchen sink casts enough sunlight to sustain the life of a small bouquet of cut flowers for weeks by the windowsill.

A sundial amidst the scaffolding; the time was 10:58, just a little off the midpoint between dawn and dusk

There is no mandate to buy instead of rent, especially in Japan when the laws, taxes and the structure of property agent fees are very much pro-tenant than pro-landlord. Renting would also have been a lot cheaper to say the least even if two years ago I had thought otherwise (though my benchmark then was living in a sharehouse). It also definitely offers a lot more flexibility than renting too, which is not a small consideration even for a small house.

But if there’s anything that I have learnt in life in my last six years here, it’s that you should never take the days you have for granted and put your dreams on hold in perpetuity. Home ownership was one of them. Even if it did not make any financial sense, I wanted a space that I could call my own in a place which I love. It really was as simple as that. And when the opportunity presented itself, I seized it with both hands even when it came with the shackles of a 35-year mortgage.

The switching of cuffs from consultant to corporate has been much more of a mixed bag. Specifically, my current role is to serve as the main contact person for Japanese partners and for the last six months and probably a few more after, it has only just been me. For someone whose grasp of the language is still relatively tenuous and who is usually relegated to the support areas in front of Japanese clients for much of my career, this was a tall ask. This was also just half the battle too; the other half was against internal teams based in other continents around the world who have a tendency to either botch or delay my requests.

There is no sugar coating it; the last couple of months at work have been a struggle and my morale dipped to levels below those during the early days of Covid-19. I could barely contain the vitriol within me at times and it expressed itself in vituperation and other acts of recklessness. Too many times, I contemplated just pulling the pin altogether. Thankfully, having a new manager whom I could commiserate and consult with did ameliorate the situation.

In spite of how hard the work has been, there have still been some sparks of satisfaction in seeing the work I do translate into new experiences for visitors. One of which is Light Cycles Kyoto. It was already an ongoing event at the Kyoto Botanical Gardens when my company took over as the main ticketing partner in a bid to improve flagging sales.

With a complimentary ticket on hand, I squeezed time in the evening after a partner introduction to my company’s systems to attend the ongoing experience in mid-September. For good (or for bad), the conservatory was relatively empty when I arrived on a Thursday evening. Upon entering the first of four exhibition zones, I was immediately struck by the interplay of light and sound. The spotlights swirled and stopped and switched in iterations of illumination. The aural ambience evoked in us both alacrity and amusement, and on occasion a resonant tranquility. Save for the final zone, I felt that this masterful manipulation of the senses could better engage the vegetation and leverage its botanical background more.

All in all, it was a wonderful experience and I felt it there that my job was to bring this to bigger audiences. For the first time in my career here, I could feel a link between the work I do and a tangible outcome which would likely not be killed in a boardroom brawl. And while I may not be the most competent candidate for this role, I was the one who was chosen, and this was what I chose.

Our choices can make all the difference. Chef-founder MASA of Ebimaru Ramen parlayed his early training in French cusine to bring the bourgeoisie to the boroughs, with a bowl starting at ￥1,530. As a result of his choice, thousands of people from all walks of life are able to enjoy his passion from a parlor that barely seats 10. His ramen is perhaps a reminder from him for us all to live more intentionally and to make more choices that elevate experiences for the everyman.

To that, I can hear Steven Pressfield pressing in about overcoming Resistance, that powerful internal force that inhibits us from pursuing our true callings, creative projects and personal growth. The trick is to show up, do the work and regard oneself as a professional.

This blog is a creative project that I would like to put more effort into for this year and for the many years that come after. In the age of TikTok, Instagram and paid Substacks, I am well aware that personal blogs like these are part of the fringe. No matter because these writings are for myself, and for you dear reader who wants a sneak peek of the life of a Singaporean salaryman fumbling through his life here in Tokyo and trying to make sense and peace with it all.

Thank you for reading and for being with me. Here’s to a wonderful year ahead!

Not the End of the World

To commemorate a safe landing from the first-ever hot air balloon ride in Cappadocia

As I write this in my hotel room in the Uchisar Kaya Hotel in Cappadocia, it is 6.01PM, 5 July (Sat) which translates to 12.01AM, 6 July (Sun) in July. The world has not ended, contrary to the original prediction from author-artist Ryo Tatsuki. But that has not lessened the impact on inbound tourism, with bookings from travelers of nearby Asian countries down by half of what had been forecasted.

I am not sure what the impact on outbound tourism is though in my case, this has more to do with taking advantage of the 2-week lull that I get to enjoy before embarking on a new job. And so 2 weeks before the planned departure, I booked a one-week trip with a major Japanese tour agency to Turkey on a whim. Heck, I didn’t even read through the itinerary once I confirmed that Cappadocia was in it.

There wasn’t any time for that even with the demands of my consulting projects and purchase and move to a new studio apartment taking place in the same month. All happening right on the heels of my sister’s wedding in Singapore at the end of May.

I’ve got a friend who put it aptly as me having more things happening in my life in these three months (May – July) than most people would have in three years. It does feel like this, and I would have liked more time to digest each of these pivotal events and give them the limelight that they deserve.

Oh, the emotions that come from

bearing witness and facilitating the wedding of a most beloved yonger sister
committing to the largest financial commitment of my life along with its geographical implications
bidding farewell to the job in which I earned my stripes as a consultant and forged many friendships and;
embracing a new corporate identity and challenge in a completely new industry

Indeed, I could have spent those 2 weeks processing these emotions at my new abode. But instead, I chose to just launch into a new adventure. Which at the age of 31, is probably not something I can pass off as the impetuosity of youth.

It’s just impetuosity of “you” at this point.

But without a sliver of doubt, I would say that this is definitely one way that I would like to spend the end of the world. Waking up at 2AM and trying to fall asleep in my room in the world’s first curved cave hotel while waiting for the raison d’êter of the whole trip. Taking a minibus at 4AM to the launch point of the hot air balloon. Shuddering in the cold while watching the balloon inflate larger-than-life as the pilots trigger the flamethrowers at the mouth of the balloon envelope. Gasping in wonder with my fellow tourmates as the balloon bobs in its full glory above our 30-pax basket.

Climbing into the basket with the help of a step ladder. Gasping in wonder again as the basket floats tentatively above the ground. Surrendering to all wonder as the balloon ascends into the heavens and hover above the fairy chimneys which define the landscape of Cappadocia.

For the most part, everyone was busy trying to capture the moment with pictures and videos. I did my fair share of that too. But there were moments where I deliberately kept my phone away. It helped that I didn’t have my phone strapped on me and hence have to consider the very grave concerns for myself and any inopportune person directly below in the event of an accident.

For those moments, it was just myself at the edge of the basket. The chatter and hubbub of the pilot and 27 other passengers were drowned out by the magnificence of the sight before me. Unlike being in an airplane where there is always a pane (or two) of glass separating you from the skies, there is nothing mediating the view here.

It is not dissimilar to mountain climbing actually, save for the fact that you are suspended and idly bobbing around your surroundings. Free-spirited. And yet beholden to the wind.

There is only so much that the pilot could do with his purposeful maneuvering and ignition of the burner. But that much is enough for us to safely drift around the high and dry Turkish plateau strewn with otherworldly rock formations, alongside many other balloons that enhance the ethereality of the entire experience.

There is, however, no other phenomenon that captures our fascination as a species more than the sunrise.

And there the sun is, peeking between the clouds

I was among the first to spot that incandescent orb extending its golden rays across and beyond the horizon. And mindful of all the other Japanese passengers on board, uttered the words “日の出” (Hinode, which literally means Day Entrance). Just about every other head swivelled to revel in one of nature’s most beloved spectacle, that happens to be the symbol and flag of those 27 other passengers.

For that moment, all could agree that Japan is not the only Land of the Rising Sun.

A good 50 minutes after launching, the pilot directed us to get into landing position, which refers to crouching below the height of the basked and grabbing onto the holds lining the inside of the basket. All of a sudden, we went from gazing at one of the world’s most adulated panorama to scrutinizing the weaves of the ratan gondola. Save for hints strewn by reflective mirror-like surface at the top of the gondola, we were blind.

We could see the reflections of the grass patch as we glided across the fields, the balloon seemingly slowing but never stopping. Suddenly, we grounded to a halt, tilted at a 45-degree angle. For a few seconds, we remained balanced at that pivot as everyone held still and awaited further instructions from the pilot. None came from him; however, gravity broke the impasse and we found ourselves tumbling in slow motion to the ground.

The Landing Position We Were Not Promised

In bewilderment, no one moved. After the pilot told us to get up in English however, I again found myself to be the first to wiggle out of recumbence with everyone else still in tableau. After I crawled out, others followed and soon all of us were safely out of the gondola. We were now ensconced on flat land, dry bushgrass brushing against our heels and hems.

In celebration of a successful flight, the pilot popped open a bottle of champagne and the staff passed around the bubbly and cake for all to share. All the while, there were mutterings in the crowd about whether the flight/float can be considered successful if it resulted in the gondola tumbling on its side and its passengers crawling to get out.

And this was how the world did not end that day.

Pull-ups

A common sight during the much-dreaded PE classes

Next to Art and Mother Tongue classes, I would say that Physical Education (PE) ranked up as one of my least favorite classes back in secondary school. You can count on me to be walking aimlessly around the soccer field during the mandated soccer practice. Where my goal was to stay away from the soccer ball rather than to chase after it. And when it inadvertently came my way, I would make some half-hearted effort to chase it and kick it back to one of my teammates, only to have the ball carelessly fly outside the boundary.

When it comes to sports, I wasn’t a sport to say the least.

But during the school’s 65th anniversary celebration, which doubled as an Open Day for alumni, the soccer field and adjacent pull-up station were amongst the first destinations which I gravitated to. The school had prepared a massive marquee over the parade square filled with festive fare. Which unfortunately was completely wasted on the likes of someone who made a conscious attempt to depart from his friend who had invited him to the celebration in the first place.

Just because this dear friend actually maintained friendships with our ex-schoolmates and was going to meet up with them. On my end, I had decided that I did not have enough social battery to say hello and make small talk with people that I might have once been close to, but who are now the ghosts of my past from half a lifetime ago.

Looks like when it comes to friendship, I am not much of a sport at all either.

What I am though is an introverted sentimentalist clinging on to nostalgia. It helps that the school hadn’t really changed all that much in the last 15 years. The pull-up station that had weathered the caprices of Singaporean tropical climate and many strained attempts from 15 year-old male adolescents remained exactly as they were in my memory.

One of the most difficult transitions for male physical fitness tests was the change from “inclined pull-ups” to “pull-ups” when one turns 15. It was difficult enough that most of (the non-athletic amongst) us couldn’t manage to do a single pull-up. And because the overall National Physical Fitness Awared (NAPFA) result was a function of the weakest station, that also meant that most of us could not pass it.

After several failed tries, the PE teacher would allow us to jump and grab the bar, and counted the jump-assisted attempt. Mr Singh was a trim Indian man with a neatly combed moustache who was usually decked in t-shirt and shorts . He who was also the PE teacher to just about half the students in the school and surely could not have most of his male students failing the test.

Collectively, we were known as “zero fighters”, an ironical spin on the term we picked up from history classes about the fighter jets powering the Japanese military at the start of World War II.

For the larger part of my last 2 years in secondary school, I was a zero fighter. But closer towards the O-level national examinations, I started going to the pull-up bars as a form of stress relief; between my grades and my body weight, pulling up the latter was beginning to feel more realistic.

Before I realized it, 0 became 1. And from there 1 became many. Such that by the time I graduated from secondary school, pull-ups became my best performing station. My frame remained what it was though and it was hard to shake off the cognitive dissonance (for me at least) that came from trying to reconcile my lanky build and my repetitions on the bar.

Winning admiration from other guys for physical performance was refreshing but not entirely foreign; I had received recognition for being amongst the Top 20 male runners for cross-country races in secondary school as well in multiple years. But it felt different to be acknowledged for strength rather than stamina for someone who has been skinny (fat) pretty much all his life.

Am I strong?

At an age plagued with insecurities, this ability was an ego booster and an affirmation to say the least. My self-worth became intrinsically associated with the ease and frequency which I could tip my chin over the bar.

Yes, I could and I would lift my own weight.

Such that even at this age of much-fewer-insecurities, this tenet has become firmly ingrained in my outlook of life. At its best, it champions a spirit of independence and self-sufficiency. On the flipside, it implies a certain nonchalance and aloofness which I am ready to admit to. All of which could be embodied in that single-minded decision to single-handedly build a career and life in Japan from scratch where I had neither kin nor kith.

15 years ago, arms shaking and palm calluses forming from attempting my first pull-up, I never thought that my life 15 years later would be what it is today. Back then, I never had grand plans for the future and my most immediate concerns were on making the grades for National Junior College and

To be fair, I don’t know what my life will be like 15 years later. Or even 5 years later, as I bluntly shared with a crowd of potential and current NTU-USP students during an alumni panel discussion at a tea session two weeks earlier. On stage, I shared merely that I would continue to be curious and continue to engage with the world around me, regardless of where I am in the world or what I may engage in as a main occupation.

In quieter moments however, the answer is a lot less lofty but no less cherished. I will still take the effort to ensure that the dear friend who invited me to the anniversary celebration will continue to be a significant part of my life. Our paths eventually converged in the corridor outside the library where I still ended up crossing paths with ex-classmates. I exchanged cursory hellos with the ex-classmates anyway, after which I left with my friend for lunch outside of school.

On the stairway down, we brushed past Mr Singh, whose hair is much more salt and pepper than before. And fleeting as the encounter may be, we reflexively uttered “Hello Mr Singh”. The answer now includes treating as teachers those who have once offered instruction and guidance to me.

And of course, being able to do pull-ups.

Sanatorium

One of the small joys of being multi-lingual is to be tickled by nuances of words that are so easily lost in translation. One of which is the word “sanatorium”, which I discovered very pleasantly over the weekend. My original understanding of this word is that it is a euphemism for “mental hospital”, and is usually located in rural backwaters. In Japanese however, the equivalent term is 保養所, which has a different connotation altogether.

In this very specific case, it refers to a high-end holiday resort a stone’s throw away from one of the most storied attractions (The Hakone Open-Air Museum) in a historic holiday local (Hakone) in one of the world’s most highly vaunted country for tourists (Japan). The resort takes full advantage of its location along the mountain slope in its architecture which maximize the views of the surrounding forests from guest rooms and its multi-storied outdoor onsen. All while minimizing guest capacity to ensure an exclusive experience that serves the purpose of its existence: for guests to recuperate and recharge amidst the hustle and bustle of work as a salaryman (working in the Information Services sector in the Tokyo Metropolitan Area).

As such a salaryman, I contribute tens of thousands of yen in health insurance premium to TJK, the health insurance association which covers 310,594 other fellow salarymen of similar profile. Unlike in more capitalistic soceities, right to health is enshrined in the Japanese constitution when it was established in 1947. The natural consequence of upholding such a right is that health insurance premium is structured similarly to taxes; it rises as income rises. And I’ve been fortunate to be paying more and more the longer I have been here…while claiming for not much else beyond regular dental check-ups which are subsidized by 70%.

Which is why it was gratifying to be invited by a group of colleagues (and friends) to spend a weekend at the sanatorium owned and operated by TJK, the TJK Hakone Forest. The three of them, Hiro, Guilin and Maako joined the company at the same time late last year and dutifully perused the list of benefits that employees are entitled to. One of which is staying at the three sanatoriums owned by the association with the one in Hakone being the most luxurious of the three. All at the very-token price of 7,750 yen for room and 2 meals on a weekend at the heart of spring. With room referring to a 40 square-meter space with a floor-to-ceiling panoramic views of the eponymous Hakone forest that also comes with a kitchenette and a tub made from cypress bath. And meals referring to a full Japanese dinner banquet and a breakfast buffet with both Western and Japanese cuisine and locally-produced kamaboko (traditional Japanese fishcake).

Posing for dinner after being floored by the facilities in the resort

It’s such an unbelievable deal that a significant percentage of these 310,594 members frequently apply for it. Due to overwhelming demand, guests are chosen by ballot and we were fortunate enough to be chosen for our desired dates and accommodation type. In my case, I was even more fortunate to be invited to (or should I say free-ride) on my colleagues who went through the paperwork and a questionable booking system to secure this weekend getaway.

The availability (or lackthereof) of rooms in the resort even on weekdays

I had to constantly remind myself that this place is not a typical ryokan despite serving as one. The chasm in cover price and the level of amenities left a distant hum of cognitive dissonance in all of us who have been instilled with a mental map of price to expected offerings in Tokyo. It was a dissonance which we tried to both affirm and dispel by repeating at random intervals how unbelievable this whole set-up is. Even the prices of add-on drinks, lunch and amusement facilities were set at a level that further fuel this sense of unrealism; we were sure that karaoke rental rates there were even cheaper than those in the retro wooden two-storey establishments in the small towns of the countryside.

At a time where foreign tourists outnumber domestic ones (which we were made fully aware at Hakone Yumoto Station and on the ropeway ride), this resort stands out by being an almost-exclusive (with perhaps Guilin and myself being the only reason for the “almost”) Japanese enclave. This is not a surprise since eligibility for entry to this establishment is to be working and not touring in Tokyo. The other hurdle is the Japanese language itself. The advertisements and application for this resort are only in Japanese, with no incentive and effort for translations to other languages. This (in?)advertently repels foreign expats in Tokyo who technically can ballot for this. Once again and this time ironically so, the sheer lack of other foreigners in such a touristy environment entrenched my sense of disbelief.

Incentives shape architecture. In profit-making accommodations, rooms are usually compact and positioned adjacent to each other in cookie-cutter configurations to squeeze every last yen for every tsubo of real estate. In this non-profit sanatorium, rooms are generously spaced out to maximize the nature views and sense of openness of each. As if to encourage us to let go of the stress that we keep closed and contained within us on a day-to-day basis.

When it comes to de-stressing the Japanese way, one thinks of onsen. This is where the crown jewel of the resort truly shines. The changing room contains 50 (or thereabout) locker spaces, one sauna, one indoor pool and four outdoor pools cascading across three different levels and flanked by the forest. But whenever we were in the bathing area, there were 5 or so people (including us) and thanks to the different levels and distance, would not obtrude into one another’s personal space. To bathe both in the forest (森林浴) and springwater in such a dedicated expanse is the pinnacle of luxury and relaxation indeed.

Image from the official website; Hiro and I had the luxury of soaking in one pool each to ourselves

When planning for the trip, there were some concerns about how we would entertain ourselves at night after dinner. To that end, both Guilin and Maako brought along their Nintendo Switch, with enough controllers to test our growing friendship by playing Overcooked. In the end however, our friendship was tested over table tennis. Or to be more specific, Hiro and Guilin’s friendship as they bickered (very much in jest I hope) over their competition and cooperation when it comes to returning the ping pong ball from Maako and me.

Admittedly, what I gained more from the trip than the scrumptious meal and the extravagant room and bathing facilities was a newfound appreciation for active entertainment and amusement. And I am sure it was not just me. Hiro might have initiated the idea for playing ping pong when reminiscing about his days at Cambridge but in the end, it was all four of us who more than willlingly returned to the nondescript amusement room twice the next day.

I have never (and still don’t) fancy myself a sports-type. Yet I cannot deny the excitement which I felt when seeing my shots land and building a rapport through volley records with my friends.

We counted the record number of times we could successively keep the ball bouncing on the table more than who “won” or “lost”. We cheered one another with every skilful serve or masterful maneuvering. We lost track of time playing and many calories along the way too.

I did not get much sleep that night (more a personal quirk than a lament about the facilities). But the sojourn in the resort did rekindle a passion to try new things, make more mistakes and get better. This perhaps more than anything is what was needed from the stagnation of being in the same type of job and doing the same kind of work for more than five years. Here, more than any 慰労会 (dinners given in appreciation of one’s hard work) or utterance of お疲れ様です (a greeting which loosely translates to ‘thank you for your hard work’ used among colleagues), I feel the gratitude for my work and commitment since coming to Japan.

I believe all of us felt the same. The only question is when our next trip back to the sanatorium will be, hopefully out of want than out of need.

Juunenmae (Ten Years Ago)

Exactly ten years ago from today, just a day after arriving in Japan for the first time

It’s been more than half a year since my last entry, which is to say that this entry has been half a year delayed. Life (or if I were to be more honest, laziness) got in the way.

Today marks the start of a new year in Japan. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom here in Tokyo although that’s the only natural phenomenon in sync with the calendar this year. As I type this, it has been raining monsoon-like for 24 hours with temperatures hovering around 6 degree celsius in the day. Spring may have sprung upon us, but summer threatens to creep in even while winter refuses to let go.

Ten years ago, it was different. I would know because ten years ago from today marked my first ever trip to Japan. Back when I was touring and looking at the country with sakura-tinted glasses. Back when I would muster the courage to ask questions in Japanese to service staff memorized from textbooks and guide books. Then do a little jig to myself when I get a nod of understanding and a reply that I could not understand anyway.

Ten years ago, I checked into a hotel in Tsukiji upon touching down and thereafter let myself roam and explore without an atlas, thinking that I’d end up in Ginza only to find myself in Shiodome.

Ten years ago, I woke up at 3AM in the morning just so I could catch a glimpse of the first auction of the day at Tsukiji. And killing time at the waiting area by reading Letters from a Stoic.

Ten years ago, I was trying to submit a claims form for a CD transcription assignment (back when AI tools didn’t quite exist) by asking for a scanner before heading to Tokyo Station.

Ten years ago, I pulled my Delsey wheeled luggage bag across the cobblestone walkways in the Imperial Gardens, and worrying about destroying the wheels on the very first day. Back when I was unaware that lockers existed in train stations, let alone tried looking for them.

Ten years ago, I had a Yokohama-style omelette rice bento for my very first ekiben on the Shinkansen.

Ten years ago, I felt that waiting a 15-minute interval between trains bound for Miyajima-guchi from Hiroshima station was very long.

Ten years ago, I struck up a fleeting friendship with a solo American female traveler who had been living in Bangkok while waiting for the ferry to Miyajima.

Ten years ago, I got lost searching for my own accommodation after safely guiding my newfound friend to hers and had to ask a young Japanese couple for help.

Ten years ago, I chatted with a guesthouse owner who knew about Lee Kuan Yew’s recent passing and expressed his condolences.

Ten years ago, I got lost again, this time at the sight of the Itsukushima Shrine floating above the sea against the soft evening hues in the background.

Ten years ago, I went to a ramen restaurant for dinner with this newfound friend and was prodded by a fellow Caucasian customer to eat the noodles quickly before they get soft at the owner’s behest. The Caucasian lady’s fluency in Japanese became my own inspiration to understand the language and culture of places that I visit and live.

Ten years ago, I embarked on my inaugural 11-day solo travel in Japan.

Ten years ago, I was so infatuated with the trip that I wrote a blow-by-blow of the entire journey by hand after I returned (and which I later typed and saved on the PC). I would be giving my memory too much credit otherwise.

Today, I woke up at 8.45AM in my sharehouse of five and a half years in Tokyo after spending the whole of my Sunday binge-watching When Life Gives You Tangerines.

Today, I worked at home through the company-issued laptop, grateful that I do not have to be commuting to the office given the suboptimal weather.

Today, I am reading a book written in Japanese about the influx of rich and educated Chinese nationals into Japan. It’s called 潤日 for anyone who is interested.

Today, I no longer have a deadline to my time here and have chosen to call Tokyo a home.

Ten years ago, if I had known what I do now, the trip to Japan would not have been as dreamy and magical. Tourists are not subject to onerous income taxes and deductions and neither are they expected to give fluent work presentations in Japanese. What I do know is that if I had not gone on that solo trip as a very impressionable 21 year-old, I would not be here today, sufficiently charmed by my experiences as an explorer to presume that living here would be a way to extend that dream.

As a much-less impressionable 31 year-old, I know better now. That the grinding bureaucracy is more the stuff of nightmares for one. But I also know that I have grown use to the cleanliness and little civilities here. This is also the place where I have achieved many of the milestones that mark adulthood. This is where I feel at ease to be myself and be by myself.

The longer I stay, the more comfortable I get. Too comfortable perhaps. Throwing down the gauntlet and uprooting myself to live and work in another foreign country again though may be besides the point. It feels almost petulant to be repeating the challenge just for the sake of it. That being said, my current lackluster efforts to learn Korean and French would definitely benefit from this.

Beyond expanding my polyglot portfolio, I do have a keener interest in being better at what I do. Consulting as a profesison has its fair share of criticisms, but I still do believe that there is value in what we do in certain contexts. Even if it’s just borrowing the client’s watch to tell them the time. Because based on my experiences, it can be audacious to assume that the client can tell the time and understand its full implications. Plus there are times where many key stakeholders may have different methods and incentives for telling the time.

Ten years ago, I had no idea what I wanted to do. Only what I could not. And I ran away to Japan shortly after as a way to escape from turning down what I thought was the biggest dream and ambition of my life back then.

Now, I have a clearer idea of what I am doing. And what I can. And I am still in Japan to see this through.

White Horses

Taken from the top of Mt. Shirouma (White Horse)

Hiking / 爬山 / ハイキング – whenever someone asks me what kind of hobbies I have, that becomes the default reply. But since I twisted my ankle badly early early last year (and just general laziness really), I haven’t been doing much of it at all. To the point where claiming that as a hobby feels closer to fabrication than fact.

But that was something I wanted to change. Instead of just hoping that my injured ankle would fully rehabilitate on its own, I started going for regular chiropractor sessions. All with the goal of conquering the mountain of my screensaver dreams: Mt. Shirouma (白馬岳) in the Japanese Northern Alps.

That dream started when I was traipsing around the Internet while holed up in the IT service center in an industrial estate in the middle of Kanagawa prefecture in my first consulting engagement. The work was as dry and dreary as the premises were and to distract myself from the very real possibility that I might have screwed up my professional life at its very outset, I searched for mountains to climb. That was when I chanced upon this webpage. And in that moment, I knew that I would not be able to leave Japan without stepping foot on this majesty of a mare of a mountain.

Fast forward five years and many consulting engagements later, that screensaver became a sight I got to behold with my own eyes. And with the best hiking buddies that I could ask for on this trip really: Jerry and Yuhao. If I had wanted to climb Mt. Shirouma alone, I would have done that much earlier on. But I wanted to share this experience with friends whom I know would enjoy this as much (along with a whole list of other demanding attributes on my end). And if it took years to find this combination, then years it would take.

The hike itself did not take as long: about two days with an overnight stay at the large mountain ‘hut’ (more of a lodging complex) a 20-minute climb from the summit. But it was definitely one that all of would remember for a long time to come.

Truly the calm before the (thunder)storm

Not least because we had to brave a thunderstorm to reach our destination! The weather forecast had not been great and I has been rather circumspect about the hike. Meanwhile, the rest of the group was more optimistic, with Jerry claiming that his ‘teru teru bozu‘ (テルテル坊主) – that refers to a traditional Japanese handmade doll for dispelling rain – abilities will ward off bad weather. Unfortunately, the mountain ranger whom we spoke to did not agree with Jerry’s sunny outlook and warned of an impending typhoon in the afternoon. It was already 9:30 AM then and

But all of us were ready to hike after spending the better part of the previous day making our way by Shinkansen and then rental car to Tsugaike Kogen, the base of the hike. There were a few clouds above us, but by and large the skies were clear…

…until they weren’t and a sudden torrent of rain left us scrambling to waterproof our clothes and gear along the granite slopes two hours into our ascent. We trudged on as the heavens continued pelting raindrops on us, occasionally letting up but never truly giving up.

After an hour or so of intermittent rain, we began to see interstices of sunshine poking through the overcast sky. It seemed like a tentative truce among the heavens had begun. We found ourselves a rest spot in an outcropping overlooking the Hakuba Oike Lake and enjoyed the locally-produced apples bought at a pitstop at the local supermarket the previous day.

These apples taste a lot better 3 hours into a hike and 2,400m above sea level

At 1PM we found ourselves at the compact Hakuba Oike Hut which marked the midway mark of the hike to our destination. There was a small cafe of sorts selling food and drinks at prices as high as the altitude was. ￥800 for a bottle of Ayataka green tea that would have cost one-fifth the price in most vending machines in Tokyo. Though as most dine-in cafe patrons would attest to, the payment for the drink is more for the table and the seat than for the beverage in and of itself.

There, we consulted with the store manager, a severe-looking Japanese lady with an uncharacteristically sharp tongue. That sharpness was on display as we witnessed a conversation she had with a Japanese companion/interpreter of a foreign-looking hiker. Apparently, the soles of the foreigner’s hiking shoes had come apart and they were deliberating if their party should continue to Hakuba Sanso, seek shelter at the Hakuba Oike Hut or attempt a return to the trailhead at Tsugaike Nature Park. She did not hold back in lampooning his naive hope of reaching the summit of Mt. Shirouma with a sandwich of a shoe.

In search of similar hard-truth advice, we asked her if our party of three, all with shoes thankfully still intact, should take the risk of attempting to summit Mt. Shirouma that afternoon. With a cursory glance at our build and a question about how long it took us to arrive at her hut from the trailhead, she ventured cautiously that it shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for us, especially since the latter half of the route would be less technically demanding, though it would be a touch longer. She added as well that due to the adverse weather outlook that her hut was already over-capacity. It was not raining though the skies were still grey.

The weather may be unpredictable, but our commitment to finish what we started wasn’t. Especially if the alternative entailed squeezing like a can of sardines with a bunch of other unwitting, stranded hikers, some who might have nonfunctional shoes. And so we continued our hike come what may.

Not recommended.

And there came a thunderstorm.

The showers we encountered in the first half was a dress rehearsal. This thunderstorm was the opening play, replete with peals of thunder reminiscent of applause from an invisible audience.

*Clap* *Clap* *Clap* Well done on choosing to push ahead *Clap* *Clap *Clap*

We were easily the tallest objects as no trees were found at this altitude and very susceptible to being struck by lightning. Despair was close at hand, but so was a dogged pragmatism to keep going because of a shared cognizance of inertia and an urgency to arrive before it got too dark.

不怕慢，就怕站。（”Don’t be afraid to be slow; just be afraid of standing still”)

In front of me was Yuhao who was soaked to the skin and alternating between cursing at the weather and the store manager who suggested that we proceed with the hike. His jacket, pants and shoes were woefully inadequate to handle nature’s ire. But still, he pushed on. In a short intermission, I passed to him a spare polyester jacket which had been largely protected from the rain. That gave rise to Yuhao 2.0, a version which was undoubtedly more upbeat.

As we climbed higher, the thunderstorm started to subside into a drizzle. When we reached the mountain ridges, the path ahead sloped downwards and the cold started to set in. The surrounding mountains remained shrouded in clouds for the most part though there was sufficient visibility to behold the magnificence of the Japanese Northern Alps. And the great consolation prize of hiking in such inclement weather meant that we had the whole place to ourselves and there wasn’t another soul in sight for pretty much the entirety of the second half of the hike.

By time we arrived at the mountain hut, it was already 5.30PM. We were supposed to arrive at 3PM. The lack of mobile signal throughout the hike meant that I did not notice all the missed calls that came from the Hakuba Sanso staff attempting to ascertain our safety. After 8 hours of hiking, I had wanted to lounge by the space heater at the corner of the reception hall. But the notice from the staff about the closing of the dining hall at 5.40PM meant that we were soon chased to check in and eat dinner.

Not that we needed any prompting. We were ravenous, or at least I was, and there was nothing like a piping hot meal to recover from the arduous climb. We made it. It was only when I devoured the first clump of warm steamed rice that it truly sank on me that we had safely completed the ascent. I swallowed both the rice and relief in equal measure.

I would like to say that the descent was a much less dramatic affair. But it wasn’t. And in the best way possible because the views were absolutely breathtaking.

Is this what heaven looks like?

Now this is what we came for. Our feet were on solid granite ground but at 2,900m above sea level, we were otherwise surrounded by a sea of clouds. It’s moments like these when you can savour how wonderful it is to be alive, to be able-bodied, to have the means and the will to experience the best of what the world has to offer.

We weren’t alone this time and there was a steady trail of hikers who had departed at approximately the same time since we were all advised to return to trailhead by early afternoon to avoid another impending deluge. We needed no further prompting this time to set off early.

Even though we were returning by the exact same route, it felt like a new route altogether and there were countless times where we had to verify within ourselves where the ascent equivalent of every turn and meander was, especially if it was followed by a particularly challenging stretch. How did we cover all of that in the rain?

As we traversed across the undulating mountain ridges and feasted on the surrounding panorama, I could not help but ponder about the name of the mountain: White Horse. A cursory search online (Japanese site) revealed that it arose from how a section of the mountain relief resembled that of a horse. But why white then? Because of the snow that brings the mountain relief into sharp relief?

The reason is alot more mundane: the horse itself was imagined to be those that were used in tilling the soil prior to planting rice in the paddies surrounding the moutains. And it so happened that this activity shares a homonym with the Japanese character for ‘white’.

I am not an equestrian, and have no plans to be one. But half a lifetime ago, the term ‘white horses’ did play a formative role in my life. I was in the school choir back then and we were preparing for the biennial choral competition, the Singapore Youth Festival (SYF). The set piece for the competition then was “White Horses” by Australian composer Stephen Leek.

I’m first guy from the left on the third row

Which is why the term ‘white horses’ for me has also come to mean incredible shared effort, to be followed by incredible shared results. For the SYF, the training practices were intense and gruelling but it resulted in us clinching the Gold with Honours award as a team. That sheer elation that the choir felt, that I felt, when the results were announced remains a core memory to this day.

Gallop and gallop 15 years forward, and we came, we saw and we conquered. And I know that now I have another core memory. Thanks for the memories.

50 seconds of fame

If you’re just interested in yours truly, hop over to 9:38 and 15:00

I’d like to say that my three-month absence from posting was because I was focused on my efforts on being famous. The bar here isn’t particularly high: I just had to be Singaporean and happen to walk along the Yaesu side of Tokyo Station at noon in the sauna that is summer here and agree to come for a Singaporean-themed dinner. If you know how good Singapore food is, you would know that there isn’t a lick of sarcasm at all here.

The fame though does come with an unintended consequence. People whom I have had not kept in contact for a long time found an opportunity to reach out to me. And some of these people include my ex-students who have blossomed into fine, young women. That is how we found ourselves trying to bridge the gulf of 7 years since they graduated from my Chemistry cram school classes, bonding that is neither ionic or covalent.

I fielded their questions as I had all those years before, patiently and honestly. The key difference now though is that I had just as many questions for them and how their lives have turned out to date. One of them is now an engineer at a top-tier semiconductor firm, and the other is an air stewardess with the airline that sponsored the production above. Life always has a way of coming full circle.

In turn, I surpised them with the fact that I am now working as an IT consultant. That’s not exactly the occupation that they thought I would be in; perhaps something in finance given that I was working towards an accounting degree then. Perhaps a surer bet would have been full-time cram school teacher. Truth be told, I might really have become one given how much freedom and enjoyment I was getting from that side gig. But at the end of the day, the heart of that job involved rehashing content I had learnt 7 years prior and there was very little room for my own growth. Consulting promised a little bit more and then some. Especially if it’s in a language that you could not speak and in a country which you do not come from.

And grow I did in so many different capacities. Not least of which is being a Singaporean overseas. There is something to be said about this community, of which a certain dose of intrepidity appears to be a common trait. Singapore is as comfortable as it gets for a home country, with the government looking out for just about every material need of its people. Rules are clear (and plenty), taxes are low (happy to pay Singaporean tax anytime now) and administration is transparent and efficient. You would need courage to want to go anywhere else. That or blindness and ignorance to the privilege that comes from Singaporean.

It’s a privilege that is especially immense in jobs. The strict quota on companies for hiring foreigners (8% for services firm, and 25% for manufacturing firms) means that Singaporeans are essentially competing in a different, more lenient labour market as hiring Singaporeans becomes the horse that comes before the cart. Companies accept this because the higher cost of labour, as opposed to having no restrictions on who and in what order to hire, is offset by the favourable business climate here. But with jobs becoming less defined by geography, there is only so much that regulation can do to continue protecting these jobs. This is not to say that Singaporeans are not deserving of what we have. We do work hard and compete and strive to be world-class, all while preserving the social compact with our government. But would my peers be able to earn what they are earning if the labour market were absolutely free from fetters?

This privilege is also evident in public housing. I am of the age where half my peers are homeowners (well, even one of the aforementioned ex-students will be one) and the other half are figuring out their lives (this is where yours truly is). Discussions inadvertently turn to how much one has paid for housing and many bemoan how expensive even a BTO (Built-to-Order flats, typically seen as new entry-level public housing) is. But they haven’t seen how much a shoebox in Tokyo is going for these days even with the pummelled yen. Boon Lay is considered the Wild West back in Singapore, but in Tokyo, that distance from the city center is normal, if not close. And that’s before we get to the quality of public housing from the Housing Development Board (HDB). I have shown my colleagues images of the Pinnacle at Duxton and just about everyone finds it hard to recover from their shock that this is public housing in Singapore; this would have been a top-tier “Tower Mansion” in Tokyo in stature, amenities and location.

To be fair, this is a flagship project to commemorate the success of HDB in its early years

As a foreigner amongst other foreigners in Tokyo, there is no explicit privilege that we are accorded for holding the most powerful passport in the world. Perhaps some people might be able to discern where we come from our accent and the relative sloppiness of the dressing. That, and an understated drive for competence and relevance. It was a passing comment from my German manager here, and a tip of the hat to our efforts and reputation. The point sinks in further in an environment where I get to work with people from different cultural backgrounds and realized that these are not qualities to be taken for granted.

Then there is our obsession about money. Specifically, more of its acquision, storage and proliferation than its expenditure. At a Singaporean gathering here, the undercurrents begin tugging at you from a range of benign angles on current affairs. The weakening yen. A declining working population and its ramifications on the Japanese pension system. One feels the pull and inadvertently surrenders to the maelstrom out of equal parts habit and curiosity about our compatriots. Before we know it, we find ourselves drowning in discussions about our financial beliefs and tactics.

Help.

Thankfully, food is the other favourite focus apart from finances. I listen with relish whenever someone shares about their haunts when hunger for Hokkien mee hits. There are enough Hainanese chicken rice outlets now to drive a debate on which is the absolute best one, and which has the best value-for-money (there is no escaping this huh). When someone from home comes over, they inadvertently bring a savoury souvenir with them. Vacuum-packed slices of bak kwa (smoky pork jerky). A bottle of hae bee hiam (spicy dried shrimp) rolls. The mouth waters.

So at The Smart Local-organized National Day Celebration event at a Singapore entity-owned hotel a stone’s throw away from the Imperial Palace, we dug into the local favourites. Not just food, but also songs as the de facto national anthem streams throughout the entire dining room. Conversations dribble to a pause and everyone was soon singing along to the 1998 hit.

This is home, truly. Where I know I must be. Where my dreams wait for me, where the river always flows.
Home, Kit Chan

Home is where the heart is. And the heart bleeds red and white, in the silhoutte of a new moon and five stars arising out of the stormy sea.

Happy birthday Singapore. You’ll always be home.

Snapshots from Okinawa

Getting out of the airport, one is immediately struck by the humidity of the place. Okinawa in May feels like Singapore with the thermostat set a few degree celcius cooler; my friends had travelled 3,750 km only to find themselves back to where they departed while I found myself home away from home. But perhaps the more appropriate comparison would be Malaysia. Instead of towering skyscrapers, concrete structures of a few storeys high, ranging from quaint shophouses to private residences, scatter across the lush and verdant tropical vegetation. Even the heart of Naha felt like a throwback to the 1990s, save for a handful of newly constructed luxury hotels.

Perhaps a three-way fusion of mainland Japan, Taiwan and Malaysia would be the best way to describe it. Yes, Japanese is the official language there but in Makishi Public Market, it is the signs in Chinese promoting the preparation of live seafood on display that stand out. The streets are grimier with stalks of weed and the occasional wildflowers poking out from crevices on the pavements but general litter is conspicuously absent. The people are a tad more coarse and direct, but also warmer in their interactions. We talked about how one could transplant a random shophouse from Taiwan or Malaysia there and no one would be able to tell the difference, since the Japanese kanji and Chinese hanzi are just about indistinguishable without the hiragana or katakana flourish.

The highlight of the trip though was the food. I have a soft spot for Okinawan food seeing how among all the different types of Japanese cuisine, it is amongst the most homely. Kyoto-style kaiseki is exquisite no doubt but it is not something that one can afford to indulge in regularly and its fanciness (and coldness) invokes an unwitting hesitation to actually eat it. But it’s a different case for Okinawan food where signature dishes are typically stir-fried or stewed with literal and figurative down-to-earth ingredients almost guaranteed to laden an empty stomach. And they are good for your health too. No wonder that Okinawa is also one of the world’s Blue Zones, areas where the population has a life expectancy much higher than the global average.

Food does not lend well to my mediocre photography skills and inability to resist the scrumptious dishes laid in front me (the camera never really got to “eat first”). So instead, here are 6 pictures that completely fall short of capturing our vacation on this idyllic island which once bore witness to the “typhoon of steel”.

(Note: The nicer photographs are attributable to my friends)

Nestled in Nanjo, a 30-minute drive from Naha, this Airbnb featured a jaw-dropping panorama of the urban coastline set against the cerulean Philippine Sea. It was home to our party of 3 for the entire trip, and a departure from the thrift that marked our Iceland trip seven years ago as students.

Instead of looking at the surface of the sea, we got to see the inside of it in the Churaumi (literally “beautiful sea”) Aquarium. It no longer holds the world record for largest aquarium in the world but it certainly holds a special place in our heart.

With the state of public transport infrastructure a far cry from that in the mainland metropolises, rental car was the way to go. And with it, we got to relish one of the idiosyncratic joys of roadtripping in Japan: a pit stop at the local konbini for coffee and snacks.

Limestone caves are not unique to Okinawa but the Gyokusendo is one of the largest cave systems in Japan; large enough to accommodate the cohorts of junior high school students who thronged through the narrow passageways.

The colored spotlights and shaved stalactite walkways were a reminder that this is as kitschy of a tourist attraction as they come. But that’s exactly what we were: tourists.

This was the promise on the Airbnb site that convinced us to book this place notwithstanding the musty odour and dated furnishings. A really great start to the day.

We were wondering about the best angles to take a photo with this iconic structure along Mibaru Beach when I noticed scratch marks on top of the “O”.

One “muscle-up” later.