Rues of Roo

Brunch at PS

Not often does one sit alone and smile to oneself, grinning stupidly simply at a lone memory. Yet a weekend just passed with so many individual moments that could be taken simply on their own to be enjoyed, but instead were put together to surpass even the greatest of expectations. And for every moment there was a smile and laughter, and put together there was but a journey of something greater.

One can hardly say that it began on the Friday as the queuing technically began 20 minutes before Saturday began, but nevertheless, Movida was a cacophony of live latin music muddled together with the hundreds of other voices and swaying bodies present. Upon standing in Bellini, it was a curious sight to behold the excitement of individuals at the presence of Sylvester Sim in Dragonfly below, and the absence of the resonance of the percussion although they were so clear in my eyes. Like they say, in space, no one can hear you scream, and yet here in the middle of an old powerstation, I could not hear the humdrum emitting from a seemingly quiet, quiet Chinese audience in front of a stage of dancing girls with guitars due simply to the glass panels in front of me. Back in Movida, though, beer mats were the real subject of discussion, though that, I believe, is a story not for me to tell.

Saturday morning, slightly askew, though nevertheless thoroughly impressed by Singtel and their ability to hook me up to the world in a matter of hours (my connection to the world was stolen from me late into Saturday morning, though at least I had a bejeweled replacement in its stead, much to the amusement of certain others), I found myself in a place that seemed anything but Singapore. It felt like an isolated island in a sea of noise, hidden, tucked away in the depths of a land unexplored. Away from the well traveled road, a solace for the seemingly pretentious.

Hug me!

I found there two places that, while distinct, seemed to capture a Saturday in as perfect a way as possible. The first, a couple of friends’ kindergarten, ironically named with the patron saint of my night previously, where youthful minds ran and played and smiled and cried amidst all the games and colours in their annual carnival. It was almost Victorian, but Asian, and well, danced to the tune of the Parachute Band which I suppose made it anything but Victorian, but charming nevertheless in comparison. There is nothing really that compares with the simple enjoyment of a child, or of watching a child enjoy those simple things. How complicated life becomes when you finally discover hate and betrayal and lust and love, when instead all you want is a balloon animal, and an embrace.

The second was PS Café. To be ever so magnanimous, the world (or at least Singapore) did seem so far away, as with friends we talked and laughed and whined and deleted photos (sigh) over waffles and omelettes and sandwiches stuffed to the crust with bacon and eggs and everything you could possibly find for brunch (albeit already 3pm by now). With the afternoon sun embracing the foliage outside and the sweet scent of a lazy afternoon filling the senses, we could have sat there forever. From there to the east that mellow sunny afternoon continued as we watched a couple of episodes of Hunter x Hunter, and that distinct comfortable lethargy set in as with the breaking of waves against a sweet sandy beach, the silence of the tide withdrawing preceded another intense evening.

Made fabulous by food prepared by one for many, and the divulging, perhaps unnecessarily at times, of personal stories and the stories of others, it became apparent at one stage during the evening that you just had to stop and wonder what you did to deserve company that made you laugh til you teared on a regular basis.

Sunday was, well, indulgent, to say the least. A late wake up, a tshirt covered in fuzz and the fantastical viewing of Leonidas and his 300. That I actually could understand why Jennifer Hudson won her Oscar in the next movie gives testament to the captivating nature of her performance given the distracting memory of overly perfect men beating the hell out of the distasteful, detestful Persian armies in the most gloriously prodigiously marvelous manner known to all mankind.

Interspersed with food and the unwitting over-caffeination of a friend and the screams of scoring own goals of foosball, it was time to view the bounty of a new toy, and then sleep. Late. And hereafter, another week begins to drudge by. Though there is hope on the horizon. Youn Sun Nah and Miss Yamagata await.