A sip of Gong Cha

The craving for bubble tea (or BoBa, as the Americans call it) was something I wish I had left behind in Singapore. Unfortunately, at the first sight of the familiar brand of Gong Cha in a mall, I caved and decided to get a shot of the “taste of home” served in the sad artificial cup. I got 30% sugar, but it was still deathly sweet, as if this was the USA’s scale of sweetness, just as how every singly unit of measurement here trips me up a little because it is slightly different from home. Celsius to Fahrenheit, kilometre to miles, kilogram to pounds…

Everything runs a little differently here, and this sip of Gong Cha got me thinking about the small actions that define the people of a city.  People stand on the right-hand side of escalators, but drive on the left, and I always join on the wrong side before glancing around and shifting sheepishly to the right. People here do not move to the back of the bus either, even after the bus driver rang the announcement system three times that told people to move in to make way and refused to move from the stop.

Speaking of public transport, the trains here cost a fortune per trip, even for the shortest of distances. Busses here run on intervals of 40 minutes and it feels like the only option you have besides walking or cycling is to simply not meet people in places that need public transport. Free riders aren’t viewed as an issue – I got rushed up a bus by an exasperated bus driver when I tried fumbling with my bills to pay for the fare. I wonder if the millions of dollars they lost per year from giving free rides would have been the money needed to give the system an upgrade.

Here, when it rains it rains all day, as if the sky is taking a long piss on all of us miserable cold humans. The droplets only come down in a dribble, and I found it quite pathetic compared to thunderstorms, but not apparently for all the people who wear all their raincoats and umbrellas between building to building. People here wear wellies for the wet pavements. I suppose we wear slippers in place of them.

Here, the toilet doors that stare back at me when I sit have numbers for sexual assault hotlines. In a different kind of circumstance for someone else, “You are not alone” might have seemed less unnerving. It does not matter where the toilet is – my dormitory, the science centre, the library – all the doors stare back at me eager to help. I remember toilet doors used to be plastered with reminders to not forget your belongings, or random fun facts about Singapore or some obscure topic as a way to kill time. Are the ladies here alright?

Along the journey home I noticed smoke shops squatting brazenly with their mega signs and unabashed advertisement of their array of paraphernalia for smoking all sorts of items along roadside shophouses. The boldness of such a practice shocked me, of course, since the possession of any items from such a store would definitely warrant a court hearing in Singapore. Conversely, the understatement of malls shocked me. They are deserted, with shops flickering in the dimness of the half assed lighting of a place run constantly on energy saver. The top floor was completely emptied out, dark and out of businesses who are willing to set up a physical shop.

These small ways are what defines the culture of a people, and a collection of them would grow into the soul of the city. I nurse the cup of Gong Cha slowly, and ponder on the mild difference in taste of this BoBa from the bubble tea back home (even the shape of these words feel different in my mouth, much like the pearls), and the million other grains of differences that I barely notice but make itself known like sand between toes.