That Land by the Equator

Still don't want to jinx things, but lets just say we are sending newly acquired husband off to a land by the Equator where little me spent her more turbulent late childhood years and he has strict instructions to come back with a long list of employment opportunities in that city or preferably in a city that I would call the NYC of Asia.

Thinking of this land by the Equator brings back such strange memories. The last time I was present in that country I had just started the phase that is sort of slowing down right now: the drinking too much and running around the city at 4am and always wanting to do one more thing, one last dance, one last shot. I distinctly recall the last week in that city when my family was already shoved into a hotel, awaiting visas for the land of the free, when I was allowed my own room, my own key and for one week only, a curfew beyond whatever pathetic and thoroughly restricting curfew was the norm in those days. Unfortunately I ended up strolling through the breakfast lounge on Sunday morning, on my way back from my big night out, where my parents were finishing omelets, ready to start the day. That morning was the first in a long series of teenage dilemmas of always getting caught no matter how small the mischief. I always have been and always will be the worst liar in the world. In that instance, I was completely unable to come up with a credible story as to why I was not in fact coming home from the bars but instead from my hotel room/the library/the movies/coffee with my grandma. Ah, sweet memories.

In any case, omelets in a hotel restaurant and an all-nighter- that was the life and I could only imagine how much better life was going to get from then on because that land by the Equator was known to be boring, but the land of the free; that land was known for badness and adventures and I could hardly wait. I was so optimistic until I realized that land of the free had curfews and a tight grip on booze for underage seekers and way too many people interested in preserving their virginity.

Woops. How did we end up there? Lets just say, I am not worried about newly acquired husband's virginity and so I am tempted to send him to my old places of worship (hilarious bars called "Fire", "Zouk", "Rayders") to see if those still harbor hoards of expats brats or worse yet, if my old drinking buddies have grown roots back on the corner of Scotts Road and Orchard Road.