Clink!

8 weeks. Or is it half a lifetime?

It's 8 weeks almost to the minute since I got on a plane in Singapore that would take me to my present home in a suburb of Boston. 8 weeks since I said goodbye to the clipped Singaporean accent, the matronly Straits Times newspaper, avuncular taxi drivers, and 24-hour food centres with a constant supply of grilled sting-rays. 8 weeks since I drank Spinelli coffee (I wish someone would teach the guys at Starbucks how to make drinkable latte). 8 weeks and more since I worked off the angst of a working week over Kilkenny beer at Harry's bar.

Do I miss Singapore? Hell, yeah!
Do I regret leaving? No way.
I guess you could say that I'm happy, and at the same time I've been in a constant state of wistfulness for the past 8 weeks.

Did I say 8 weeks? Make that half a lifetime.

Because I am already starting to forget. Forget what it was like to live in an urban jungle. Twice a day now I go across the street and walk my dog in the woods. I'm starting to forget what it was like to have a maid always around to pick up after me. I like the routine at the end of the day: pick up stuff, load the dishwasher, and once a week take out the trash.

I'm frustrated, amused, and intrigued at the way I'm treated by the State. I need to prove once again that I can drive. I need to prove that I can be trusted to have a credit card. Or a cellphone. I need to show that I can be unfazed by the monumental rudeness of the Boston driver. Believe me, they could make Delhi drivers look civilized.

I'm relearning to listen. And I need to, so that I can understand the people among whom I now live. I think that is the best part of all. I'm learning something that I once knew and then forgot: how to slow down my mouth and speed up my ears. How to listen to what's said, strain to hear what's left unsaid, and try extremely hard to hear the nearly inaudible whisper of what is truly meant.

This is fun! And it's only been 8 weeks!

Or has it been half a lifetime?

Either way, here's to anniversaries!

Have You Hugged Your Sofa Today?

I wonder if there is something dysfunctional about being comforted by furniture. All the stuff that we had shipped over from Singapore finally arrived a couple of days ago. Most of it is now set up where we want it in our new house. And with that, to borrow a tired but true cliche, the house has become a home.

Our neighbour's seven-year-old daughter had come over earlier today to pay her daily visit. She surveyed the living room and announced "Your stuff looks really different." And so it does. The crappy faux country muddy brown junk that we had rented for the past month is finally gone. In it's place is a suite of furniture in an eclectic style that can best be described as Ikea meets Indonesia. That sounds schizophrenic, but it's a combination that looks pretty good to my eyes.

So now as I type this sitting at my dining table, I can intermittently look up at my television set and see where Hugh Grant is at in his reluctant journey to fatherhood.

It's a night for romantic comedy and we've come to the climax of a Hugh Grant movie marathon with Nine Months. Of all his movies this must be his lamest in every possible way. But despite it's mediocrity it is a great caricature of the Hugh Grant school of acting - mildly eccentric, harmlessly amusing, and as comfortable as an old couch. Which is why, as bad as the movie is, I can always watch it once again. I mean, given a choice between loading the dishwasher and watching Nine Months for the seventh time, I'd choose Nine Months any day.

I think that says something. I think it shows that when you want a bit of mood-elevation, a dose of something familiar is exactly what you need.

And that's precisely why I am so pleased to have my furniture with me again. It's great to be able to relax at the end of the day, surrounded by familiar everyday objects.

It's ... comforting.

Does He Want Fries With That?

What does one athlete's 10,000-calorie diet have to do with the US Presidential election? Absolutely nothing, and for that I am deeply thankful.

For the past week Michael-mania has swept like wildfire across the American media landscape. The airwaves are saturated with descriptions of Michael Phelps, his exploits in the Olympic swimming pool, and his meals. I can now tell you how many fried-egg sandwiches he eats for breakfast (three), how many sugar-coated slices of French toast follow the sandwiches (also three) and how many ham-and-cheese sandwiches he eats for lunch (only two; he is human after all). This is neither entertaining nor edifying.

But it is a welcome relief from non-stop discussion of the American presidential election. Or more precisely, it is a welcome relief from discussion of the election that is not about the candidates. A few days ago I heard a venomous tirade against Mrs. Obama that left me bewildered. I cannot understand why it matters whether she is a likeable person. Or why her skill in managing the media is relevant. Probably the only people who really care how well Mrs. Candidate deals with the media are the media themselves. But it is all to easy for a self-important radio show host to act as if the President's economic policy is less important than his family's ability to create snappy soundbites for lifestyle and feature reporters.

So I consider it very fortunate that the media coverage of Phelps's quest for 8 gold medals has outshouted the trash that often passes for political commentary.

I'm also thankful for Nastia Liukin. I grew up believing the Olympics serve one primary purpose. That purpose is to reveal every four years a supremely elegant Eastern European gymnast who makes everyone gasp in amazement. And while Nastia's passport is American, everyone knows that in 1988 her father won an Olympic gold medal with the Soviet Union's mens' gymnastics team. Now Valery Liukin and his wife Anna (also a former gymnast who represented the Soviet Union) are proudly celebrating Nastia's stunning performances in Beijing. I was about to declare that she crushed her competition on her way to the women's all-round gold. But it would be more accurate to say that she delicately ground them under her twinkle toes. I wish I could have looked forward to seeing her again at the next Olympics in four years, but that's too much to wish for. After all, by then she will be 22 years old, a veteran among her teenage competitors.

But maybe it is not too much to hope for. Oksana Chusovitina would certainly think so. After all she is 33 years old. Sixteen years ago she, like Valery, won an Olympic gold medal while representing the Soviet Union. Since then she has had a child, become a German citizen and is now twice as old as most of her competitors. And yet she placed a respectable 9th in the all-round championship last night, and is still in the hunt for a gold medal next week. I know I'll be rooting for her to be one of the most improbable Olympic champions ever.

But even she is not in the same class as Hiroshi Hoketsu. This week he rode in the Olympic equestrian event for the second time in his life. The first time was in 1964. Yes, that was 44 years ago. He is one of perhaps fourteen people in the world who have had a career longer than Mick Jagger, and he's managed it without acquiring Jaggeresque furrows all around his face. Alas, he did not make it to the podium. But I think his was one of the rare cases where the phrase "winning is not everything" is more than just a cliche.

I'm reveling in my immersion in familiar sports again, and in the sheer variety of the human drama playing out in Beijing's Olympic venues. I have another week or so to enjoy it. After that, it's back to talk-show hell!

Here Comes The Sun

What a glorious Saturday it's been! It all started with the weather...

The past few days have been miserably cold and rainy in Boston. This is supposed to be high summer, but that's hard to believe when the thermometer tells you it's 16 degrees centigrade outside. So when the rain looked like holding off for a while this morning, we made a dash for DeCordova sculpture park. And what a good idea that turned out to be!

When a wealthy merchant named Julian de Cordova died in 1945, his will stated that his estate should be used to create a public museum of art. The trustees duly built a museum in his mansion. But they did not stop there. They turned the grounds of the estate into a giant outdoor museum and filled it with large outdoor sculptures and installation art.

By the time we got there, the sun was out and it was a perfect summer day, exactly the sort that we had not seen for a week and more. It was the ideal setting for two adults, a toddler and a dog to satiate their artistic appetites. We'd amble past a couple of bronzes, then stretch out under a tree for a break, then nod appreciatively at a set-piece constructed of wire-frames and thousands of pine-cones, then stop under yet another tree to nibble at a sandwich. Quite a far cry from your stereotypical "Museum Of Contemporary Art & Sculpture".

And then there was the unexpected bonus when the cashier at the museum cafe jealously asked where I'd gotten the Andy Warhol t-shirt that I was wearing. "I've been looking for one for ages", she said, "I even looked for it at the Warhol museum in Pittsburgh but they were out of stock." With intense glee and a nonchalant look I told her. "Oh, I got this for free at an exhibition in Singapore."

By then I knew that this was one of those days where everything goes like a dream. I went to a toy store and found exactly what I was looking for: action figures of Yoda and R2D2 from Star Wars and Blackout from Transformers. I went to the neighbourhood wine shop and got some great deals on New Zealand wines. (Oddly enough, whenever I miss Singapore, Kiwi wines always seem to cheer me up).

And then there were the Olympics. Finally I got to watch sports that I actually understand. Trust me, I've tried very hard to watch baseball, but (a) it's hard work and (b) every time I've watched the Red Sox they've lost. So it's with an intense combination of relief and pleasure that I've been watching volleyball, handball, and most of all I've been lapping up the gymnastics.

Somehow gymnastics have always been the centrepiece event of the Olympics for me. The've always had the most drama, because the top countries always seemed to have some sort of political tensions playing in the background. But more importantly, it blows my mind to watch the combination of strength, control and precision that Olympic gymnasts bring to bear. And then there is the tension when a gymnast stretches their routine to go for the spectacular: will they pull it off and get the extra thousandths of a point that will lead to a medal? Or will they overreach and fail completely?

And just to put the finishing touches on it all, I had my first taste of decent Chinese food in weeks.

Oh yes, this is the Saturday that I've longed for.

As Fast As The Speed Of Thought

Night falls early here. At least, that's how it seems. Soon after dusk, the street outside our door feels empty. There are no more joggers, no children rattling along on their tricycles, and no dogs out for a stroll. It's a warm, pleasant sort of emptiness, though. The kids are not on their cycles because they're being tucked into bed by the now-absent joggers while their dogs look on benevolently. They'll all be out again tomorrow, hopefully after a night of sweet dreams.

There's a curious self-contradicting nature to time here. On the surface, it seems to flow with a refreshing languor. I can feel its torpidity when I'm out with my dog for an evening walk. She takes her time, savouring each moment from within that moment. I watch her from the sidelines, and that draws me into the moment with her. The clock stops ticking when that happens.

But then we return home and the clock screeches back into gear. Now the thick, staid stream of time transforms into a raging torrent. As simply as that, life enters the fast lane again.

We're neither relaxed not rushed. Neither busy nor idle. Neither fully content, nor terribly concerned. Or perhaps it is better to say that we are all of them. It's an intensely rich sensorial experience. I wonder if you can only handle it by being a little dazed a lot of the time. Perhaps without that the senses will simply overload.

Or perhaps this is just fevered late-night mental static from someone who'd like to imagine mystery in everything.