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.