This essay was published on Substack in April 2026. Subscribe to the Shy & Curious Substack for first access to the latest personal essays, free articles and AMA sessions!
Call me Houdini because I seem to have a knack for disappearing acts. Apart from the obvious erratic posting schedule of the blog, I’d also taken a semi-hiatus from the real world to go on an impromptu world tour as of April last year. The first escape act began innocently enough. High from the fumes of handing in my resignation letter, I gleefully jumped on a plane to Hong Kong to celebrate with two of my best friends from different eras. Neither of them knew the other nor would they meet on this trip, but they had coincidentally converged in one of my favourite cities at the same time. Technically the catalyst to visit Hong Kong was sparked much earlier than the actual decision to quit my job. My New York bestie Sash had texted me out of the blue a couple of months prior, “Hey crazy idea but I’m going to have a 24 hour layover in Hong Kong in April. I’ve no idea how far Singapore is to HK but wanna meet me there?”
To give some context to the request, Sash is the girlfriend who saw me through my 20’s in New York, the only place I’ve ever truly felt like home. We met as she was the wife of a colleague who had recently moved to the city. Since I’d spent the past three years figuring out the ropes myself, I was more than happy to share my favourite spots and stories with a baby transplant. Who would have then guessed that a stoic Slavic blond beauty with deadpan humour and a delulu brown Singaporean boy-crazy girl would go on to become the best of friends? Together with her husband Kay, we were inseparable.
We worked in fashion and marketing at peak 2000’s zeitgeist when pop culture met technology. In a past life, we crashed BBQs in Brooklyn, sunbathed in Central Park, and laughed over brunches in the East Village over my latest dating disaster. We carried Sony digicams in our fake Balenciaga motorcycle bags, uploaded Facebook albums with 80 blurry photos from the night before, and posted cryptic song lyrics in earnest on Tumblr as MGMT and Mumford & Sons play in the background. If New York was the school of learning to adult, then Sash and Kay were my graduating cohort. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. New York was my first real love who loved me back.
Sadly the last time I saw both Sash and the city was when she was pregnant twelve years ago. I had already moved back to Singapore by then but just broke up with my long-distance boyfriend (yup, that one), so I paused on NY projects and focused on healing. If I said yes to the HK side quest, it also meant that I will finally get to meet Lil S, her precocious preteen daughter who’s 12 going on 21.
“Fuck yeah, let’s do it!” was the only correct Millennial response.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve had my fair share of adventures on the journey of looking for love, but a close second to my love affairs would be my habit of leaving on a jet plane by myself. And just like the list of the guys I’ve loved and lost, there are countries that I’ve found a version of myself that felt truer and alive than others I’d ventured to.
On the spectrum of Type A planners who book their leave a year in advance to the ones who go YOLO with “I woke up this morning and decided to get on a plane to Bali”, I fall a little closer to the spontaneous end (albeit with a more modest budget). Contrary to popular belief, there’s a method to my traveling madness. Instead of the usual bucket list, my wanderlust usually serve one of these three purposes: trips either for work, to hang out with my local friends, or to hide away and figure out life. Or hey, why not all three?
My escapades to Kuala Lumpur fall under this. If NY was my first love, KL would be my childhood sweetheart. Right after graduating junior college (that’s high school to the non-metric world), I was torn between deciding between the straight and obvious path of enrolling at the local university, or to follow my dreams and study in New York at Parsons School of Design, the alma mater of my idol Tom Ford. Unable to reach a decision by myself, I sat with my dad and weighed the pros and cons of both. I shared with him that perhaps once I graduate in Singapore, I can take on a part time diploma in fashion. That seemed to be the safest route. My dad peered at me through his glasses, “You know, not many people know what they actually want to do in life in the first place. Once you do, don’t waste it. Just follow where your heart says to go.”
Unfortunately, my heart had expensive taste but the universe decided to give me a break. In a strange twist of fate, I stumbled across a newspaper ad about CENFAD, an affiliate of Parsons that was conveniently based in Malaysia. All I had to do was to spend a year or so in KL to learn Art based on the Parson’s syllabus, then thereafter transfer to NY with pretty much the same pedigree but at half the cost. Every single teacher I spoke to was vehemently against my plan. Sure, it’s common knowledge that Malaysians will move to Singapore to pursue higher studies but for a Singaporean to head up North? It was akin to committing academic suicide. But dear reader, you know me well by now.
“Fuck it, let’s do it!”
And that’s how I ended up in Kuala Lumpur. In hindsight, I can see why my mother threw a fit at first. KL was rough in the early 2000s and I didn’t even know how to use a washing machine, let alone how to defend myself in dark alleyways. Despite being a quiet and shy introvert, I knew it in my gut that if I could survive KL, I will make it in NY. While the running joke about KL is that it’s Singapore’s laidback cousin across the border, there’s not much family resemblance after that. Malaysians have a warmth and ease to their community that felt alien to a 19 year old who came from the high strung regime of a ‘good school’ brand. Instead of keeping their cards to their chest, students and teachers alike in art school would share ideas freely and collaborate with each other without hesitation. There was no fixed “right” path to do life and you could take as much time as you needed to find your way. People smiled more and shrugged if things weren’t efficient or go their way. “Malaysia boleh,” was the sardonic yet consoling reply followed by laughter. I didn’t just survive KL, I absolutely thrived and loved it. Now in my 40’s, I still feel that same comforting ease whenever I steal away to KL for a week or two. Whether it’s for learning tango or run sexy workshops, I love catching up with old friends and taking a respite from the Singapore grind.
But alas it seems that I’ve taken a short detour, so let’s get back to Hong Kong.
Hong Kong is New York with Cantonese subtitles. I used to foolishly believe that HK was just another bright lights, big (Asian) city like Singapore. That was dispelled when I stepped foot for a business trip in 2023 and got blown away by a very familiar undercurrent of energy and anonymity. “Shit,” I knew then that Cupid had struck. If NY was the one who got away, HK is that second chance at love with the benefit of hindsight.
In my 30’s, I was seeking for the intoxicating hopefulness I’d once felt in my youth and didn’t realize it was so close to home. While the cast, smells, sights and sounds were distinctly Asian of course, the grittiness, gruffness and sense of nonchalance in the streets felt just like the city I’d missed. I couldn’t help but feel deja vu down every narrow block and alleyway. Just like in NY, you could turn around the corner and discover hidden nostalgia amidst historic dilapidated blocks, or come across towering shiny megamalls promising opulent modern fantasies. Whether you choose to blend in or stand out, no one would bat an eyelid as long as it looked like you knew where you’re headed. It was addictive and I was hooked.
It also helped tremendously that HK is where my other sister from another mother lives. On that same fated business trip, I finally met Mabel, my kindred work counterpart, on her home turf. We’ve only met through Zooms and quick meetings in Singapore where we bonded not only over work but life. We were both woo-woo girls who believe in spirituality, self-love and destiny. Plus given our proclivity in the business, we were obviously big fans of sex and love. Mabel was both a grounding presence and a positive force who was always encouraging me in my side quests.
I arrived a day before Sash was due to stopover and I confided in Mabel over dinner. I felt like I was about to meet an ex boyfriend whom I still had feelings for and was overwhelmed with fear. “I haven’t seen her in 12 years. What if we both have changed so much? What if we don’t get along anymore?”
In true Mabel form, she sagely noted, “You’re both flying in from other ends of the world just to see each other. That’s not going to happen.”
True enough, all my anxiety melted away the next day when Sash and I ran towards each other crying in the middle of the Arrival Hall at HKG. As I ugly sobbed on her shoulder as we embraced, all I could think of was “Why did it take this long???” That’s when Lil S shyly popped up from behind and immediately started chattering in her cute American accent about shopping, crushes on cute boys, books, and homework. I looked at Sash and asked, “Are you sure she’s not mine?”
Our HK excursion went faster than the time it took for us to register that we were finally in the same timezone after all these years. In 24 hours, we jumped on the MTR, wandered through the Mongkok markets, sailed on the quintessential Star Ferry, and devoured Bolo buns and cha. All that jazz while juggling the dance between reminiscing about the past and making new memories with the latest spritely addition to our girlhood twosome.
Like a Wong Kar Wai movie under the gaze of neon signs and bamboo scaffolding, Sash and I reluctantly hugged goodbye and agreed that we’ll always have HK before she and Lil S disappeared into their Uber back to the hotel. Tears rolled down my cheeks on my way to the MTR. They say that you haven’t lived in New York unless you’ve cried to yourself on the subway but I didn’t want to test if the same theory applied to Hong Kong. I wiped them away and shrugged my shoulders back to blend into the sea of commuters lost in their own worlds.
I continued the rest of my HK journey by exploring sex toy emporiums and more Bolo buns and cha in the days. In the evenings I hung out with Mabel in parks and waterfronts as it started to sink in that we’ll no longer be work counterparts. I began to feel wistful but even though it might have been the end of an era together, at least we’ll be lifelong friends. With each passing day, the bittersweet melancholy was also tinged with a slow release from the tension and strain from a job I had long outgrown and overstayed my welcome. I was shaking off the ‘Marketing Manager’ label I held for the past three years in the sexual wellness industry. I loved my job and the people I met but my wings were clipped metaphorically. I just had to get out, even without another job lined up apart from the vague dream that I can finally devote more time and resources for Shy & Curious.
I was anxious but the future seemed bright and on my side. Even more so as I was going to see Mabel again soon in just another two months. This time for her wedding across the globe in Germany, a country I haven’t been to before so I’ll be popping my (European) cherry.
It’s ok, I’ve plenty of time to figure life out.
That’s how I ushered in my second escape act with the Euro summer of 2025. Inspired by reconnecting with Sash and realizing Switzerland would be a literal bus ride away from the German town I’ll be at, I jumped on the phone with another blast from the past.
Sash’s now ex husband Kay.
“Dude, guess who’s going to Europe this summer? Does your offer of visiting the farm still stand?”
Flashback to the past 12 years, Sash and Kay had parted ways a couple of years after I left NY. While Sash stayed on in the city, Kay found himself on a quaint farm in Switzerland after falling in love with a Swiss miss. Kay traded his event producer headset for Carhartt overalls and became a bonafide farmer when they moved back to her hometown to take over the family business. All this while, I’d been living vicariously through his Instagram updates of blue perfect skies and fresh earthy harvests and now I finally had the chance to see it in real life.
“Of course! Just say when.”
That ‘when’ was early June, a week after Mabel’s German wedding. Between Hong Kong and Europe though, I found myself having a mild panic attack upon it hitting me that I’m going to be in one of the world’s most expensive cities and I’d no foreseeable income coming in. I knew that pitching for freelance work would take some time and so what’s a girl to do in the meantime? She puts her ego away and signs up for a couple of late night shifts packing at the Shopee Fulfilment Center.
I’d signed up for a Telegram channel about freelance gigs and an ad popped up while I was contemplating how do I make some extra moolah for Europe. Easy money, or so I thought.
“5.5 PACKERS NEEDED!! OVERNIGHT SHIFT, NO INTERVIEWS, WEST SIDE, IMMEDIATE START. NEXT DAY PAY”
I’m not a stranger to the double digit sales campaign (you know those – 9.9, 11.11 sales) but I’m usually the one planning the campaign, not the actual person who packs the orders for shipping. But hey, it’ll just be for a couple of nights and since the chances of meeting someone I know on an overnight shift in Tuas was pretty much non-existent, why not?
That’s how I found myself strutting into a massive warehouse hanger at 2 in the morning in a fluorescent safety vest, safety boots and no make up alongside an army of Shopee packers. It felt just like the scene from Armageddon where Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck were heading to their rocketship to space. Except we were heading to our sweaty packing stations surrounded by cardboard boxes, bubble wrap and the sound of tape being pulled from their dispensers instead of Aerosmith.
I was sent to the small orders team and the initial hour went by quickly as I acclimatized to the ritual of pulling out the order baskets, rolling out the right length of bubble wrap for each item, finding the right sized box, and slapping the receiver’s address sticker to seal the order. It was true to a certain extent – it was easy work. We stood at our packing stations in silence save for the hum of the industrial fans, the tearing of tape and the squeaky wheels of trolleys bringing towers of parcels across the warehouse. That’s when my intrusive thoughts kicked in.
They seemed like innocent meanderings at first.
This is going to be a funny story you’ll tell during interviews about what you did to keep the dream alive. “One time, I packed orders for Shopee in the middle of the night for $11/h”
Hey remember that time you took on that gig in college as Christmas wrapper for that super rich lady who lived in the penthouse on the Upper East Side?
Ah yeah, they didn’t call you back the next day because you did a shit show of wrapping.
But as the night wore on, fatigue kicked in.
Urgh, another JisuLife Fan. What is up with Singaporeans and their JisuLife Fans?
I’ve never going to take another parcel for granted again. Human hands touched this bubble wrap.
What are you doing with your life Rin? All that wasted education.
Maybe I should cancel my trips. But my flights are non-refundable. It’s ok, the universe will provide.
You’re 41 this year and still not have your shit together??
You’re such a loser. Who would want you?
They’re going to laugh at you if they see you.
You’re going to die alone and broke.
Luckily my thoughts were broken by the sound of voices yelling “End shift!! Sign out!”
I put away the tape and box cutter, took off my safety vest, and shuffled to the back of the line to clock out. We looked like a silent wave creeping towards the shore as we trudged into the shuttle buses, dead tired and grateful for the blast of the arctic air-con. I took a window seat, popped in my AirPods and glanced at my phone’s clock. 5.56am.
Dawn was breaking and as the bus drove towards the MRT station, I closed my eyes and turned on my tango playlist. Just a few weeks ago I was in HK with my besties toasting to a bright future ahead on my own. Now Di Sarli’s sorrowful ‘No Esta’ echoed as my calves and lower back throbbed from the ache of packing over a hundred Next-Day Deliveries of JisuLife fans.
Was this my new low?
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