Familiarity

At San Francisco International, a customs guy stopped us in our tracks, and my heart skipped a beat; I had four cartons of cigarettes in my backpack (note to self: bad omen). He looked at the Grant's Whiskey in our DFS plastic bag.

"We're acquainted," he said. "Me, I'm a shot man myself. I take shots, can't stand mixers."

I knew we were home free. That's one of the things I missed about the US: the little bits of humor, no matter how lame, that characterize so many everyday interactions.

When Weisheng drove us on the 101S to Stanford, everything seemed so welcoming and familiar, even though I'd never been in that part of the country before. The low buildings, the flatness of the land, the ugly and hard-to-read street signs, the dreariness of suburbia - at that instant, it all looked friendly, and made me feel like I was coming home somewhat. Which is crazy, because my home is Singapore.

But then, sometimes I don't know anymore. Especially when Singapore insists on fucking me over in so many ways.