This latest record in the travel logbook will see a departure in style from the usual "saw-this-and-did-that" narration. Instead, independent scenerios are presented without any deliberate attempt to link them logically. (This is also a clever cover-up masking the periodical lack of activity.) But then my attitude to holidaying has changed over the years as well, and I hope this shift in perception is reflected in my writing here.

Going Away

Coconuts. Coconut trees, to be precise. That was the outstanding image embedded in my mind as I made my way to the airport. So many things race through your mind in those final moments when you're about to leave your homeland for a faraway place over an extended period of time. The warmth of your abode and the comfort you draw from the familiarity of your neighborhood both swirl around in your sub-consciousness as an avid coffee drinker appreciates the amorous sensations tingling in his tongue. You do tend to come over all emotional on that long drive along the expressway to the airport; more so for those who'd be leaving for a good couple of months, even years. Personally, I'll only be gone for nine days, so forgive me if coconut trees are all that occupy my thoughts presently.

There are two stretches of coconut trees on both sides of the expressway that seem to run on endlessly. This is an abnormality in itself, as the absence of swishing sea waves lapping onto coastal sands is as conspicuous as the glaring presence of the seaside trees. It may be a pretty sight, but it did look a tad out-of-place.

If the relevant authorities didn't adopt such a serious stance all the time, I'd have thought that they were merely taking the mickey out of overseas visitors. Just plant rows and rows of fauna along the only major road leading to the airport and proclaim Singapore to be "a clean and green Country". When tourists see the eye-soothing setup, they'd have their minds made up for them there and then.

I'm not disputing the green statement, which is essentially similar to Burger King's claim that "It just tastes better" (burgers, of course, not coconuts, and definitely not trees). The clever positioning of fauna does provide some eye relief in what is essentially a major city doubling as a nation.

However, I do feel that we may have been guilty of overplaying the "clean and green" image, since other countries with their own natural countryside certainly are in a more advantageous position to proclaim that. Somehow, I can't imagine that people who have witnessed the changing faces of fauna with the season's revolution, or taken in the expansive countryside in their home countries, will be too suitably impressed with our sturdy tropical trees; yet they don't lay claim to be a "green" nation. I suppose they have so much of it that they pretty much take it for granted. After all, you don't hear the Sahara Desert claiming to be "sandy", do you?

But enough of such idle thoughts. I was travelling to England with my brother for my first holiday in almost three years. I'd been meaning to go away and blend into a foreign environment (as a leisurely tourist, of course) for some time now. That wanderlust was at its most urgent during the most hectic part of my school term nearing the examinations; and now I was finally going away.

I'd already taken minute steps to set this latest escapade on its way. A former classmate in Cambridge had kindly agreed to put us up in his room; we'd ordered tickets to two football matches and booked a rental car to take us up north through the Peak District and down south into London. The rest of the holiday would be an adventure. No stopovers in Amsterdam this time round, though.

Burn

The castle-gray car had seemingly paled overnight. Its dirt-ridden dull metal surface had been cleverly brushed over by a shallow layer of frost, lending a somewhat understated luscious gleam to its appearance. I wondered if my skin would stick to the car if I touched it. That would be a fine way to start the morning. My brother was about to open the car door. I sensed a Kodak moment in the making. He reached into the driver's seat and opened the boot. No such luck. Then I remembered the ungainly handsome German shepherd back in the car rental shed as I loaded our baggage into the car boot. Its long slobbering tongue would attach itself to the frosted car like a pin to a magnet. At least it wouldn't be as cold as I was if it did get into that uncompromising situation, not with its thick furry coat.

The budget-hotel carpark in Manchester was bare save for the other two automobiles either side of us. On the pavement just behind us was a row of scrawny trees that shivered pitifully whenever a chilly gust of wind wrapped itself around their barely endowed reed-like branches. Would starting the ignition somewhat lesson the trees' discomfort? Yet paradoxically, the very fumes generated with the heat from the engine would poison their veins. Perhaps that was the way all great manipulators malevolently poison their victims' minds.

Days later I found myself planted in the midst of row after row of likewise trees in the same Catch 22 situation. I was attending a football match in Goodison Park (no pun intended) one chilly winter evening. The spectators around me could either brave the cold that gnawed into their bones or find something convenient to burn. Except that they had a different word for the combustion process. They called it smoking.

NB. Readers who thought the word to be "tea" (or other bland hot beverage) are way out of my league. Football stadia are not exactly renowned for their cuisine, after all. In this case, the burnt object could be your tongue. Anyway, if that's what you thought, congratulate yourself on your sarcasm, do the human race a favor and write to Newsweek.