Oh, Bey.

No words.

Bintan, Indonesia — Fan palms live up to their destiny.

Hanging magnolia turn cheek in the breeze.

We’ve arrived for a night at Lagoi Bay Villas and the large, private residence is eye-opening in an “I cannot believe this is ours” sort of way. I can feel my shoulders relax from the moment the wooden doors creaks open.

That just doesn’t happen.

It’s the perfect blend of indoor-outdoor living with a large, covered living room and bathroom, but with the comfort of air conditioning in the bedroom. Tropical flowers scent the outdoor shower.

It’s the private pool, however, that shimmers in the heat with a come-hither finger. The lazy humidity has rubbed off on me and it takes no time to indulge with a smooth ripple.

And not get out for hours.

A bald eagle floats overhead as a monkey tucks itself quietly into a tree. Anoles zig and zag across the wall like lightweight bolts.

Even the nearby sea can't seduce us.

The pfft of a cold beer opening.

Bliss.

Venti Selfie, Extra Foam.

We've addressed this.

Singapore — Today, we have woven new into old.

This morning, we set out down Arab Street, stepping into colourful fabrics and stained glass lamps that wink in panels of red, yellow and blue. The narrow streets nearby carry us into a pocket of hostels and the cheap tackiness that tends to accompany them.

Brightly painted Mexican murals, it turns out, attract selfie hunters. So much for seeing Singapore.

One one side of the street, a shop prints these selfies onto your coffee — no, really. The thought makes my eyes roll, but everyone needs to make a living and the joy of travelling so often involves taking the good with the bad. At least they know their market.

Allah t'a History.

Prayers from the golden-domed Masjid Sultan, built in 1824, soon thunder down the alley, calling my ears to the area’s true majesty. The base of each of the national monument’s domes is decorated by glass bottle ends donated by lower-income Muslims. Everyone’s ability to contribute to the mosque’s construction has helped foster a community.

Our next steps take us back to yet another era as we perch ourselves at the end of a dark, wooden bar. Punkah wallah fans sashay their hips from the ceiling over a staircase that corkscrews at the centre.

Slinging.

Raffles Hotel, in all its colonial glory.

A vintage drink shaker is kept busy as orders flow for the iconic Singapore Sling, invented here. As a writer, I give a nod to Rudyard Kipling instead, ordering the golden milk punch, which was conceived of for the author and topped by a tuft of saffron. As is tradition, we toss peanut shells onto the floor while we wait for the abysmally bad service.

It beats the cockroaches that would be beneath our feet in the hawker centres.

Looking around the room, I can’t help but realize it’s colonialism cum Disneyland.

But we have a great time anyway.

Back to the future, we take in the laser and light show at the Marina Bay Sands, perching ourselves beneath the Merlion’s spit. Lines are drawn across the sky twice-nightly to muffled sounds, crowds with tripods waiting for the Earth to move.

While a fine evening out, it doesn't.

East Eats.

A cut above.

Singapore — In our quest to eat our way through the country, we began the day by taking the four-kilometre walk to the iconic Old Airport Road Food Centre.

Except, we didn’t.

Not initially, anyway. We found a smaller one upon turning the corner, believing it to be our destination. It was Old Airport Road, after all.

Just not 51 Old Airport Road.

It's no wonder the first location was so quiet, in relative terms. Perhaps we were just a little keen. The opportunity to explore Singapore's hawker culture —plate-by-plate — has been my primary reason for visiting, and I've been keen to compare it to my food experiences in Malaysia.

After a little more walking (and a small meal, naturally), however, we find what we're looking for. Built in 1972, and boasting more than 150 vendors, Old Airport Road was recently named Singapore’s best hawker centre.

Lineups for each of its two Michelin Bib Gourmand-awarded (meals under $32) stalls snake between tables and halfway around the building. People are patient and orderly. And yet, there's a non-stop chaos of talk, soup slurping, order calls, bowl stacking and wok clanging.

Colourful chopsticks dance into dishes.

Worth the wait.

I tuck into the line for Lao Fu Zi Fried Kway Teow, which has occupied a spot in the building since 1973. I've ordered the black version, which includes sweet, dark soy sauce. Each stall has its specialty, and kway teow, done two ways, is theirs.

Tan Lee Seng dances with the heat, scooping bits of broth and other ingredients into the large sizzling wok with the flourish of an artist. He makes every order individually.

At $5, it's considered expensive for hawker food, but it's worth it.

Garlic, chillies, Chinese sausage. I’m greeted by little bursts of the sea as clams explode in my mouth, alongside shrimp, crunchy dried fish and two kinds of noodle. Despite vendors’ constant questions about our ability to handle heat, it’s only mildly spicy.

Clean-up crews sort and wash dishes, before returning them to the appropriate vendor for yet another round. Got to keep the lines moving. I love hawker culture.

Sitting for a craft beer with a couple locals, we find we’re lucky: as of Monday, the centre will be closed for five days for a deep cleaning.

My tastebuds are grateful.

I, For One, Welcome Our New Robot Overlords.

Forest of the future.

Singapore — In a garden of glass, a garden.

We have spent the afternoon wandering down to the Marina Bay Sands Hotel — with its ship for a hat — and into the adjacent Gardens by the Bay, from which sprout futuristic-looking Supertrees.

The 50-metre-high solar-powered structures function as vertical gardens, collecting rainwater and venting air. More than 158,000 plants contribute to a living painting on the surfaces of the 18 Supertrees found throughout the park.

At first glance, though, it looks like we've been invaded by giant, wine glass-shaped robots.

That could have its advantages.

Behind them, giant glass beans arc from the gardens. One hosts the Flower Dome — the world's largest glass greenhouse — and its ever-changing horticultural displays from around the world. It's a garden in a bottle.

I'm half expecting a bungee jumper.

The other is home to the Cloud Forest, which replicates cool, moist conditions found in tropical mountain regions. It claims to have the world's tallest indoor waterfall.

But, as of a couple months ago, it's no longer even the tallest in this tiny country. That distinction goes to the newly constructed, 130-foot-tall Rain Vortex at Changi Airport.

Which doesn't mean it's any less impressive. A mane of tropical plants and flowers punctuate the 35-metre mountain set at the facility's apex. The climate offers respite from the swelling heat being kept at bay beyond the building's dizzying array of angles.

I can't help but think I'm stepping into the plant zoo of the future — one that harbours the last remaining species not yet lost to climate change or habitat destruction. Despite the facilities' efforts to increase awareness of sustainability, it strikes me as an apt metaphor. The irony is not lost on me that these gardens are indoors.

Alas, as we wind through each of the facilities, people, one by one, take time not to smell the roses, but to arrange them as backdrops for Instagram selfies.

My imagined dystopia may not be far off.

Sari, Not Sari.

Sri Krishnan Temple.

Singapore — Singapore’s India Town is fragrant and alive.

Stopping at Komala Villas for rava dosa and masala tea, we’re chatted up by a curious tablemate. He wonders how we found the place, which seems to be a popular breakfast spot for locals.

It's also one of Singapore's oldest vegetarian restaurants.

Casting a bushy eyebrow, he worries the food will be too spicy for us. Instead, there's just tremendous flavour. Like everyone who has spoken to us the past couple days, he asks if there are many Indians in Canada.

The friendliness here — and the willingness to engage — is far more immediately evident than it was in Hong Kong.

Freshly picked garland.

While still running at half speed, the Tekka Centre is much busier today, ringed by tailors marking lines in chalk as sewing machine whirrs dissolve into the cacaphony of butchers and fishmongers breaking down the day's product on solid wood blocks.

Still, the colour of saris swirls into fruit stands and freshly cut rings of flowers. A rainbow of drinks sits on blocks of ice, rising in small, swirling clouds in the mild heat.

It's like the start of a rock show.

But with better aromas.

Yesses and Nose.

Add hawk.

Singapore — My nose is on a journey.

The garlic, the incense, the curry. Cardamom, charcoal and fry oil. Fresh fish. The sweat. India Town’s flowers. It’s a strong argument for the invention of olfactory photographs as nothing else can do this justice.

In the neighborhood, colours burst from buildings like ripe fruit. Ripe fruit bursts with flavour.

In the Tekka Centre, fans oscillate over the market and hawker stalls as a pigeon pecks at our feet. A vendor weaves between orange tables, offering to sell us beverages.

It’s a community of religions and backgrounds breaking bread and it’s individuals serving their hunger, sitting alone, eating curries with their hands. Crushed beer cans stand unevenly at the centre of tables, huddled beside crooked cigarette stubs. It’s also men catching up.

More than half the shops are closed and still, the clanging of woks, the heat of the tandoor, the boisterous laughter.

The aromas.

This is amazing.

Lights, Camera, Action.

Alighting for an evening.

Central, Hong Kong — Birds fly across the International Commerce Building — once the fourth-tallest building in the world — as laser beams and search lights streak across the sky.

Their feathers are built of blinking offices.

The Symphony of Lights takes place across the Hong Kong Harbour every night for 10 minutes at 8 p.m. and draws quite a crowd. You can even listen to accompanying music performed by the Hong Kong Philharmonic Orchestra through an app — if you can hear it over the revellers on the party boat.

Or the amplified singers down at the pier.

Buildings on both side flash like strobes, celebrating the city. Choreographed images light up otherwise boring office windows. Neon signs blink in unison.

There are worse ways to spend an evening than with a box of takeaway dumplings — pork, and kimchi — and a beer, sitting on the pier.

Nearby, a model preens to her own portable lights as five photographers take their best shots. A bride and groom stride down the pier to capture their own memories.

The hearts cascading across the tower across the bay, it seems, are appropriate.

Macau, It’s Hot Out.

I suddenly feel like having sherbet.

Macau — Green molars rise from the water as we cross the South China Sea to Macau.
The sun is already a flamethrower.

I’ve taken an impromptu journey aboard a Turbojet hydrofoil with a colleague’s spouse — it’s like we’re collecting Chinese Special Administrative Regions. (Now, with fewer human rights violations!)

Upon reaching the island, we’re greeted by brightly painted concrete buildings in teal, yellow and a mosaic of ice cream flavours.

White marble scattered outside the mint green St. Michael’s Chapel is ornately carved into angels (“angles,” as we see a couple signs say), crosses and the Virgin Mary. The cemetery also boasts a bust with an epically robust moustache.

It's all a façade.

From the ruins of St. Paul — the former ‘Vatican of the East’ — and its massive facade, which looms over the centre of the city, to the colourful Senado Square, the island’s Portuguese heritage is obvious in much of its architecture, particularly in the UNESCO-recognized historic centre.

The colours are vivid, as is the history.

Vendors hawk jerky, laid out in sheets and cut into strips. Bakeries perfume the air, packaging endless bags of flaky egg tarts.

Setting itself up as a dystopian counterpoint, every third shop once we leave the historic centre is a Nike Store. Something about the frequency, paired with the plastic-wrapped shoes, gives me a sneaking suspicion they’re not legitimate. Or, the Macanese really, really like their sneakers.

At least their colours match the buildings.

Racy.

Neon and on and on.

Kowloon, Hong Kong — It’s a sprint to the finish. And we took a wrong turn.

We’ve spent the evening at the Temple Street Night Market in Kowloon, and the last ferry to Hong Kong Island leaves at 11:45 p.m.

Time spent sifting through cheap knockoffs and knicknacks that cut out the middle man has left us running to the pier. We left behind the dai pai dong with grilled meats and delicious looking spiced crab as shutters began falling sharply over storefronts like steel blankets.

Prostitutes don’t bat an over-lacquered eyelash. Even the purveyors of pastel cat-printed t-shirts, hand-held fans and Cucci purses barely raise a wrist in limp protest at our rushed departure.

This side of town is a far cry from the opulence of Canton Street — where a Lamborghini passes a pair of Bentleys — underlining the region’s vast wealth disparity.

Only a few blocks separate them, but their worlds could not be farther apart.

With the clock barking in our ears like a drill sergeant, the blocks feel even longer. We make it just in time.

Naturally, I try to pay with my room key.

It has been a long day.

Communal.

I'd be shellfish to eat all of this.

Wan Chai, Hong Kong — At home, communal seating in restaurants isn’t the norm.

Which makes it that much more fun when I find myself seated alone in a half-empty restaurant that suddenly fills up for the midday rush. The menu is a choose-your-own-adventure of what-will-this-be to an English speaker.

A woman then tucks in to the seat across from me and casts her eyes to the side as I tackle my bowl of noodles. Likely improperly. The gulf between us is greater than just Formica. Perhaps it’s caused by the chillies I added, which not only added flavour, but drained my sinuses.

Regardless, the cuttlefish balls, shrimp dumplings and noodles in broth hit the spot after walking around all morning.

Leaving the restaurant, the skies again cave in, leaving vendors tucked under bridges used as umbrellas while unpacking newspapers. LEGO constructions of cardboard boxes, meanwhile, appear on every corner; it seems Monday is re-stocking day.

Women wrapped in trash bags push stick brooms, scratching at the sidewalk; others drag carts to collect garbage and recycling. If nothing else, the city is clean.

As they bustle to work, men and women alike daintily hold thin cigarettes and give them feminine puffs. In the market, fish flop in styrofoam boxes, orchids bloom in great volume and brightly lit produce is haggled for and bundled. The skies clear anew.

Five spice hangs in the air.

Just another day in Hong Kong.

Court of Approval.

Baseline for a great experience.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — I emerge from the rainforest and onto a basketball court, looking to rain jumpers.

I’ve always wanted to join a pickup game during my travels and have only ever found soccer. Even at mid-morning, it’s 30 degrees, with 87 per cent humidity. And, the court is longer than normal.

“You wanna play?”

The request, in stilted English, comes my way not long after I start leaning on the fence to watch the game already underway.

Perhaps I should have had breakfast.

From five-on-five to four-on-four and two-on-three, the heat dribbles off us more than we do. The ball moves. We catch passes, and our breath, swallowing steam.

The men speak Cantonese, but a screen is a screen in any language — especially with my size. Together, we applaud each others’ efforts and enjoy the boundary-breaking nature of sport. In this case, travelling takes on a couple meanings.

Turnarounds, a game-winning three to cap the day, and smiles all around.

I’ve imagined this moment through many countries.

A Peace of the City.

Stream of consciousness.

Pok Fu Lam, Hong Kong — My plan had been to wander through the University of Hong Kong, past pools of carp and turtles, and through labyrinthine covered walkways.

But, a wall of green falls onto the back of campus. And, nestled into the peak of jade, a steep, narrow staircase looms like a beacon.

How can I not?

The slopes are polka-dotted by drainage holes, like insect burrows. Giant palms fan themselves in the lazy heat, and a golden silk orb weaver the size of my palm keeps its witch-like eyes on me. All eight of them.

In the tangle of vines, the mossy carpet offers only nature sounds like those that have sold millions of relaxation CDs. Thickets of bamboo stand sentry.

Otherwise, it’s absolute peace in the city.

This path circling Victoria Peak leads to a waterfall, its slippery, moss-covered rocks pushing me away. The only chatter is the stream, telling me ghost stories of time eternal.

With nobody knowing where I am, and the risk of injury high, I decide to turn back prior to reaching its source.

Perhaps I’m getting smarter with age.

Ferry Hot.

A colourful rain boat across the harbour.

Kowloon, Hong Kong – Perched atop wooden benches on the legendary Star Ferry, we bob like rubber ducks across Victoria Harbour to Kowloon. The trip costs about 33 cents.
The ferry has been in service since 1888 and carries 26 million passengers annually (or 70,000 a day). And, for the first time since we've arrived, the sun is out.

Last night's rains, however, have made the air woolly.

I’ve been surprised at how relatively quiet and unrushed Hong Kong has been for a major Asian city of 7.4 million people that is also the world’s fourth-most densely populated region. Saturday has changed that somewhat.

I have to imagine it's just a matter of the areas we have visited.

The day's Star.

Along Canton Road in Kowloon, lineups form in unwrinkled fabrics and cart wheeled luggage bags outside Hermès and Salvatore Ferragamo. They await the nod from black-suited security; I drip in a t-shirt.

I also imagine they would shoo me from the door. The sequined stores drawing daydream eyes are beyond my pay scale anyway.

The rising heat, paired with a looming fatigue from travel, has lowered our lids, cutting short our venture across the harbour. There will be no Temple Street Night Market for us this time.

Along the shore, two ladies sit with a large bag of Cheetos and a 1.5-litre bottle of red wine.

For today, that would be more my pace.