The Conde Nast (UK) travel magazine voted Singapore as the world's best city to visit. This surprised people. Particularly Singaporeans. Why would anyone want to make a holiday out of a trip to a copycat, characterless, humid and super-rigid city-state? Sure, it's clean and green (read: sterile); safe (nanny state); home of the Singapore girl (the sort you see at Chijmes dressed in their best animal prints); diversed (wanting to be everything, without any real soul, like the Uniquely Singapore campaign); and boasts a kick-ass transport system (pity about poo-faced people who charge at you when you're trying to get out of the MRT).
I'd been away for over six years. In that time I grew a relationship made of waiting for spring, macchiatos, second-hand record shops, Victorian architecture, g&ts on Sunday afternoons, and bubblegum summers. Absence propagates romanticised memories. I dreamt of old HDB estates, hawker food, cheap travels, cheaper shoes, tropical fruit, and quaint shophouses.
It's really not that bad. Disney-type shophouses and lacklustre nightlife aside, I'm getting used to it. I've realised that it's not the lack of options, it's more like the lack of creativity, spontaneity. Singapore isn't boring. Singaporeans are.