Sir Classic Tailor

Before leaving for Singapore, a family friend, Joe Brasier, had told me by way of my grandmother, about a fabulous tailor shop in Chinatown called Sir Classic Tailor. A few days before leaving for Brunei, I set out for the shop on my own by way of the MRT (subway station). 

I had a bit of difficulty finding the shop, wandering down street after street, waving aside invitations to buy everything from pink “I ♥ Singapore” t-shirts to large fans the size of bookcases. Eventually, I found a nice businessman in a dark suit who told me to go down Pagoda Street where most of the tailor shops can be found. “But why are you looking for a tailor?” he asked me, brow furrowed. “It’s quite expensive.”

“I’m just looking,” I assured him.

He shook his head. “They don’t like you to look. They like you to buy,” he said. With his warning still echoing in my head and his friendly wave upon my retreating back, I climbed the stairs, crossed a bridge, and headed toward Pagoda Street. Just when I was about to give up, I came across a beautiful shop with a bright green sign reading “Sir Classic Tailor.” Taking a deep breath, I walked inside. 

A salesman named Silva proved immediately attentive, recommending the best of the raw Italian silks. I told him I wanted a white silk suit like I’d admired in Singapore’s central business district. As we flipped through swatches and tagged different design samples, we discussed prices. After telling Silva that I’d been recommended to the shop by a family friend and was a non-working student, I managed to get a rather good price. “I think I remember Joe,” he said. 

Silva even walked me to the ATM where he stood at a distance so I could withdraw cash. I ordered a white raw Thai silky suit, and then the seamstress, Joan, took my measurements. As I paid, I noticed a bulletin board featuring the shop’s more famous clients, among them, Bill Clinton. Only in Chinatown in a country where the U.S. dollar still trumps the Singapore dollar could I afford to be in such company!

Standing outside Sir Classic Tailor after ordering my suit.

I returned for my first suit fitting this past Friday afternoon (July 1st) after coming back from Brunei. A man greeted me at the door and asked me to wait for Joan who was in the back room. She emerged a few moments later and immediately grabbed my short white jacket. “Two people saw it before you came in and requested the same design,” she told me, beaming.

I, too, was beaming when I put on the jacket. As I had to wait a few minutes for my skirt to be delivered, I sat at the counter, and Joan asked about my trip to Brunei and offered me a Coca-Cola which I accepted gratefully. Then we discussed shirt designs and I looked through a case of handmade raw silk ties. When the skirt arrived, I tried on the entire suit and couldn’t have been happier. (Actually, Joan disagreed, insisting that a handmade shirt under the jacket would be preferable to anything I could buy in other stores. She told me she’d give me a special discount if I returned, and I agreed to think about it.)

Posing with Joan after trying on my suit. (I think I understand what she means when she says I need to invest in a nice dress shirt. Somehow my green t-shirt detracts.)

I did return the very next day with my friend, Roxanne, who wanted to do some last-minute souvenire shopping for her brothers. Roxanne was blown away by my reception when I entered the shop. “Hello,” the man who’d greeted me the day before, said as I walked inside. “How do you like your suit?” I told him I loved it and had come back for the shirt.

“An excellent idea,” Joan beamed, gathering the books of swatches.

“How was Brunei, Emily?” Silva asked me as he pulled down bolts of cloth for another customer. “Can I get you a drink?”

Roxanne was wide-eyed as I sipped my Coke. She wandered off to some other shops while I admired a new assortment of silk ties and picked out my shirt material: pink and white striped Egyptian cotton. I return for my trial fitting Thursday. 

When Fourteen Means Forty: A Story of Tandem Bikes, Conquered Chili Crab & Messages in a Bottle

We left the dorms early one Saturday morning (June 18th) for Pulau Ubin, a tiny island filled with beautiful forests and seafront property. The island harkens back to 1960s Singapore with the  country’s last kampong village, a series of houses built on stilts surrounding the waterfront. (The rest have been torn down to make room for more Housing and Development Board flats.)

A hefty cab fare and a short ferry ride later, we finally arrived in Pulau Ubin for a day of island biking and hiking. The bumboats, which took us to the island, held exactly twelve people and the drivers wouldn’t leave until the boats were filled, so we had to wait at Changi until enough passengers arrived. Then we fished in our purses for the $S2.50 one-way fare.

View from the bumboat.

The boats were built sturdily and made gigantic waves as we sailed. The large, open spaces for windows provided a great view of Kampong Glam. The wind whipped my hair into a frenzy, blowing my ponytail like a ferris wheel and forming curly wisps around my forehead. 

In case you didn't believe me about my hair.

Upon entering the island, we were bombarded with a stretch of salespeople offering us bikes for the day beginning at $S8. By the time we’d reached the end of the row, we could rent a bike for just $S4. As I needed to ride a tandem (bikes and I have had a rather unsteady relationship in the past), my friend, Marquis, and I split the cost of a $S12 two-seater. Our height discrepancy is such that his seat was boosted to its full height while mine sat far below, making us look all the more comical as we took sharp turns. 

Mandy, Marquis, Toyosi, Olivia, CeCe and I arrive in Pelau Ubin!

Before we started, Marquis informed me he’d never ridden a tandem, but he didn’t think it would be very different from a regular bike. I had flashbacks to my first few tandem rides with my dad, remembering our rather precarious endeavors and difficulty climbing hills. Uh oh, I thought, but I just smiled and tried to think, unsuccessfully, of something both encouraging and truthful to say. I settled on a non-committal noise meant to convey confident anticipation. In reality I was terrified. 

As soon as we took off, we knew we’d made a mistake and should’ve invested in the slightly more expensive tandems for $S16. Our first and second gears were nonexistent and our brakes squealed like a dying bird. We took off in a swervy zig-zag and pressed on the breaks, turning heads. The lady who sold us the bike shouted at our retreating backs, reminding us to take the downhills slowly and to watch out for jagged curves. I tried to ignore her worried tone and anxious expression, but as we screeched to a halt behind the rest of our group, I had a hard time shaking a deep sense of foreboding. 

Marquis, Mandy, Cece, Ashley, and I bike through Pelau Ubin.

Despite my concerns, we didn’t fall once. Sure, we had a few close calls, like when an entire school group appeared from no where as we practically flew downhill on one wheel. But we not only made it through completely in tact, we also spent an entire day touring a good portion of the island, stopping to admire seemingly endless vistas: row upon row of palms and coconut trees lining a wide dirt path, a small inlet of water surrounded my a patchwork of grass and mud which was chock full of antique glass bottles, an old well with overhanging ivy hidden within a spice garden, and a small shrine dedicated to a “German Girl” atop a steep hill. Along the way we came across discarded piles of fresh fruit like the ripe durians we spent a good twenty minutes trying to crack against the concrete with no success. 

We stopped for lunch at a wonderful seafood shack built right along the shore. The water lolled in gentle waves against the stilt support structure and crabs crawled around a large tank of water a few paces away from our table. 

As we’d broken into small groups for the bike ride, we were pleased to run into another group of SEAS people already seated at the restaurant. They told us the seafood was excellent and Jessica and Malhar suggested the Chili Crab, a Singaporean delicacy, which the waiter had told them was only $S14.00. Cece and I decided to split the dish which was served in a spicy dark sauce. As it was impossible to eat the crab with utensils, we pulled the meat from the shell with our fingers. The head and pinchers were especially good dipped in the thick sauce. As we were embarking on the rather meatless thighs, Jessica and Malhar got their bill.

The best "$S14" Chili Crab in Singapore!

“Hey, guys.” Malhar’s voice didn’t sound like someone who’d just paid $S14 for Chili Crab. “You know when the waiter told us $S14?”

We sucked air in affirmation.

“Well, we misunderstood,” Malhar said slowly. “Apparently, he said $S40.”

Cece and I looked at each other. “We’re not leaving one bite,” I told her.

“I’m going to ask for a spoon for the sauce,” she said, nodding assent. 

We conquered the Chili Crab, and then I had to conquer the bill when the waiter asked for $S45 instead of $S40. I was nice but firm; after a large smile and friendly reminder on my part, he left with the bill and returned a moment later with the changed price. We considered taking the shell as a trophy but decided against it.

After lunch, we biked to the seashore where we discovered old bottles poking out of white sand imported from Hawaii. We unearthed several and cleaned them in the water. Then we ripped pages from our journals and wrote notes (to be discovered 200 years from now). We were sure to date the letters for future historical legitimacy. We pushed them through the long neck of the cleanest bottle and prepared to send it off to sea. 

Message in a bottle.

But before we did so, we came across a fallen coconut. We split it open and after smelling the spoiled milk inside, poured it onto a nearby rock. Then, we shoved the bottle into the coconut (which served as a flotation device) and lowered it into the water with the receding tide. As we remounted our bikes and continued our tour of the island, we told ourselves that our letters wouldn’t be discovered for hundreds of years. In all probability, they were quickly retrieved and read by the slew of kids who’d just arrived on shore and had watched our progress with attentive eyes. But we pedaled fast, so we’ll never know for sure.

Off to sea!

“Quek” Like a Duck and Other Professors

My previous blogs have almost completely disregarded the fact that I’m studying while abroad. I’ll try to correct that misconception with a quick exposé on each of my professors from the National University of Singapore (NUS), each to be completed in different entries.

I have classes from 9 a.m. to noon Monday through Friday. Besides a South Asian literature and film course which we are taking under two UNC professors, we are also enrolled in “History of Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand.” A different professor from NUS specializes in each country. During the first two weeks we focused on the formation of the Singaporean identity (or, rather, a failure to do so). As Singapore split from Malaysia in 1965, the next segment of our course focused on the history of Malaysia so we could draw parallels between the two countries’ social situations. We are currently studying Thai history, but our professor promises we will soon be discussing current politics which will be fascinating considering the upcoming (and potentially explosive) elections in July.

When Dr. Quek Ser Hwee, our professor for the Singapore segment, introduced herself, she told us about the confusion her name caused when she studied in the United States. While “Quek” comes at the front of her name, it is actually her surname. (The Chinese place their surnames ahead of their given names.) To add to the challenge, it is pronounced, “Quack, like the duck.” She repeated this several times, assuring us that we weren’t being disrespectful if we quacked in class. (Apparently, her professors in the United States hadn’t wanted to make duck references and so they’d insisted on using her given name, Ser, “which is pronounced, ‘sir,’” she told us. “So you can imagine the discomfort those stogy old men felt when they used their own title on me.”)

Professor Quek kept us laughing in class. Soaring to an incredible height of five feet, she commanded attention through humor. I could have filled an entire notebook with her one-liners. Using Powerpoint presentations only when convenient, each morning she leaned against her desk, sipping a Coke and just started talking. Her favorite rants included the many shortcomings of former Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew (who, as an octagenerian Ministry Mentor, is still very much in the spotlight) and the many shortcomings of Singapore (all of which she can trace back to Lee Kuan Yew). “Many of my students say I act like I hate Singapore,” she said during one of our first classes. She brushed back her short dark hair, a gesture we came to recognize as her one-liner signal, and continued. “And I tell them, ‘You’re right. I do!’” 

But Professor Quek didn’t really seem to hate Singapore. In fact, her frustrations bespoke a deep love for her country and a desire to make it better for the people who live here. Our most interesting conversations (for “lectures” would defame her style) revolved around Singapore’s lack of a national identity. The root of this problem lies in the way the government denotes ethnicity. Citizens must identify themselves based on the Chinese-Malay-Indian-Other (CMIO) model which forces them into boxes where they don’t belong. The CMIO model exacerbates inter-ethnic tensions and causes people to identify themselves and others based first on race. Further, the CMIO model doesn’t allow children of mixed races to express a dual identity. They simply have to choose a race. (This is the new and improved version. Before 2010, a mixed-race child was simply assigned his father’s ethnicity.) I wrote my final paper for Professor Quek on this model, and since her class I’ve become really interested in national and sub-group identities. In fact, SEAS 2010 and 2011 students have the chance to apply to return to the program next year for an individual research project, and I would really like to study the formation of ethnic identities in depth next year.

Two Sundays ago (June 19th), Professor Quek took several of us to church at St. Andrew’s Cathedral, the Diocese of Singapore. We had to take two buses and the metro to get across town. When we finally arrived, the church was overflowing with worshippers, some leaving the 9:30 a.m. Mandarin service and some coming for the 11:15 English service. 

Inside St. Andrew's Cathedral.

Fourteen services are conducted each Sunday in a smattering of languages ranging from Cantonese to Bahasa Indonesian to Tagalong, a word I thought was reserved for a type of Girl Scout cookie. The styles varied as well, some were traditional, others contemporary, and still others offered options with and without communion.

In what is starting to seem like a trend, I was blown away by the cathedral’s architecture. Tall windows with intricate molding lit the church’s front, and long white spires pierced wispy clouds. The cross, atop the steeple, was almost lost to the sun’s blinding light. Inside, people were already kneeling in prayer. 

When the service started, I quickly understood what Kerri Nicole, a SEAS Episcopalian who also came to church, meant when she referred to “pew aerobics.” We certainly did our fair share of rising and kneeling. In fact, a pattern emerged: Kneel. Pray. Stand. Sing. Sit. Repeat. I had the horrible urge to start counting repetitions.

Despite the workout, the service was wonderful. The church hosted a professor from a Singaporean theology school, who preached about finding God in the simple and everyday. He seamlessly incorporated Father’s Day into the lesson, talking about how a child tends to envision God as someone a lot like his father – quite a responsibility if you ask me!

I was overcome by the size of the sanctuary. We sat towards the back and had to strain to see the preacher’s face. I was thankful for the large screen televisions placed every two rows so I could watch the service, and I was even more thankful for the music lyrics and prayers posted on the same screens as we must have used twelve different books none of which I could find until the next song or prayer was being recited.

Although the church was huge and we sat hip-to-hip for row upon row, I was amazed at the speed of communion. Only baptized churchgoers could receive the host, so those who could not partake in communion were instructed to turn their hands over for a blessing. The priests dolled out the wine and wafers much like workers on an assembly line cap bottles: efficiently and impersonally. Had I not known the blessing said over the host, I certainly wouldn’t have understood the syllabic slur uttered in my direction. Accustomed to kneeling for prayer after communion, I was surprised when the priest blessed me on his second round around the communion railing. Apparently, my folded hands resembled the gesture unbaptized gesture, so I received a double blessing.

Although I didn’t particularly enjoy communion, everything else about the church was inclusive and open. One of the priests (there was a handful– all balding and all unusually merry) even asked members to stand, and although I was one of the first people to sit back down, the ushers still managed to slide me some welcoming materials down the pew.

After church, Professor Quek insisted on treating us to a Burmese lunch. “I don’t know if it’s authentic, but I know that it’s good,” she told us as we walked to the Burmese hawker center. “Because all the Burmese workers come here.” I repeat my professor’s sentiment entirely: I have no idea if it was authentic cuisine, but it certainly was good, and we certainly were the only non-Burmese in the restaurant. 

Professor Quek and Toyosi Oyelowo enjoying Burmese cuisine.

And on the other side of the table, Ceewin Louder, Kerri Nicole, and I doing exactly the same thing!

Professor Quek ordered us each a different fruit drink (I tried mango) and then we commenced hors’deauvres: fried fish patties and a mango and papaya salad with shrimp. We also enjoyed a seafood/ vegetable platter with shrimp, octopus, mushrooms, and broccoli. Our main courses were served last. I enjoyed seafood rice which came with shrimp, octopus, and prawns along with a mess of vegetables served in a thick clear sauce. 

In case you wanted a visual.

The food was savory, but the conversation was even better. We discussed everything from the sermon to trying to identify Singaporean identity to the problem with Singaporean men (mainly that they’re unromantic). In my opinion, it’s a universal problem and certainly not singular to Singapore, but I digress. (And to my offended guy friends: while I stand by my claim that the lack of romance is a universal male problem, I’m not charging 100% of males with the misdemeanor, just 99.9999999999999999%.)

The following day, Professor Quek organized a movie showing called “Singapore Dreaming.” She said she’s not proud of many Singaporean films, as most of the actors have “beautiful faces and zero acting skills,” but “Singaporean Dreaming” is exceptional as the actors have both good looks and talent. The movie revolves around the Five Cs (or the top five Singaporean ambitions): cash, car, credit card, Condominium, and Country club membership. “Singapore Dreaming” also refers to the lesser-known sixth C which trumps all others: Coffin. I definitely recommend watching it if you’re in the mood for a dark comedy with Singaporean flare. And when I say “Singaporean Flare,” I’m referring to the witticisms and humor which can only come from a woman exactly five feet tall with short cropped hair and a name befitting an entitled duck.