Scott's Southeast Asian Adventures

It's 11:23 a.m., we've just wolfed down our scrambled eggs and toast, and now find ourselves asking each other, Now what? It's Christmas Eve. We've gotta do something. A few options that immediately come to mind ... We could pretend we're in Seattle. And by that I mean grab our umbrellas and take a walk in the rain. Looks like an all-day affair out there. We could buy some booze. Our friends Adam and Millie are throwing a Christmas Day bash tomorrow and it ain't gonna be dry. We could count the many Christmas presents under our giant Christmas 'tree' -- a tropical plant we bought at IKEA and have decorated with some gold stars. Gorgeous. We could Skype with family back home. It can be especially entertaining when my bro decides to shove two-week-old Liam into the Skype cam and he ain't havin' it. We could try to score tickets to Jim Carrey's A Christmas Carol . But tough task: Singaporeans love their movies, lah! We could drill holes in the

It was looking bleak. A few days before Turkey Day, Claire and I were still asking each other, "What are we gonna do for Thanksgiving?" Neither of us really had an answer. "Dinner for two, I guess," she'd say. "Sounds good to me," I'd say. Pathetic. But then... an email. One with an invitation from our friends Andrew and Ali, who were planning an epic bash at their pad. Decision made. We showed up at 7, stuffed oysters and champagne already going around a crowd of other thirtysomething Americans -- a couple from Tulsa, a guy from Ashville, a girl from Atlanta, at least half a dozen more we'd never met but were quick to make friends with. Ah, the ease of fitting in as an expat. At least for guys. Hear a familiar voice in a foreign country, conversation is cake. We mingled for what seemed an eternity before finally taking seats at a long, elaborately decorated table. Dinner was served. It started with pumpkin-and-ginger soup and ended with pecan

SINGAPORE -- Scott Resch, CEO of Scott Resch Living, Inc. (SRLI), has announced consideration of Laguna National Golf Club as his new local. The move came less than two hours after touring the facility and drinking persuasive amounts of The McCallan with three of its employees: course design assistants Anderson and Frashure; and principal earth-mover Dan. Resch arrived at the decision after being told not to worry about the bill but before the crippling hangover set in. "What an awesome night," Resch thought to himself as he rode away in a taxi. Then, later: "Ohhhhh, fuuuuuuuudge." Despite a massive loss of brain cells, and a brutally poor night's sleep, Resch stands by his edict. "I'd go back (to Laguna)," he said from the fetal position in his bedroom. "I mean, I will go back. Just ... yeah, not right---- "Where'd I put that Gatorade?" SRLI becomes one of millions of enterprises whose chairman has said he was going to do some

Within a week of announcing I had moved to Singapore, I received a couple emails that made me say hmmmmm . The first was from Top Chef judge and Food & Wine editor Gail Simmons. "Wow - Singapore, what a great opp," she wrote. "And I hear the food there is outstanding!" The second was from acclaimed Bay Area golf, travel and food writer Josh Sens. "Singapore. Nice. I hear the food there is amazing," he said, before adding: "And if you steal a dumpling, they cut your arm off." Today, I truly discovered what Gail and Josh were talking about. (Not the bit about your arm -- I see no reason to test that running joke -- but the nosh.) After a three-hour trek up, down, around and through Bukit Timah Reserve, an outdoor enthusiast's tropical paradise (Singa-bore? Pleeeease ), I 'alighted', as the bus drivers like to say here, at Newton Circus, a collection of food stalls that enclose a courtyard of fixed dining tables and benches. I'

Here I sit, in a mostly empty apartment in Singapore, waiting for the next batch of furniture to show up. It's glorious outside -- a bit overcast, but massive, ivy-covered trees block most of my view of the sky from the living room window. It's quiet, there's green all around, the air filtering in through the screen door feels just right and if I choose to take a shower (which I will, at some point, today), I can do so without feeling like I'm in a vertical MRI scanner; unlike our house in Saigon, these bathrooms have big rain showers, with plenty of room to maneuver. Despite all of that, I must admit: There are things I will miss about Vietnam. I spent 23 months in the darn place, and so it's natural -- natural that I would feel an attachment, natural that it would get under my skin a little. It's a filthy, crazy place. But maybe that's what's so great about it. It's different from what we Westerners have all grown up with. And that makes for a colo

Claire always says there's nothing like having a friend out to Vietnam to help you fall in love with the country again. Seeing this place through a tourist's eyes gives it a romance you thought long gone. Such was the case last week, when my long-time friend Kyle Myers swept through with his girlfriend, Vanessa. They had just nine days, but that didn't stop us from getting in our fair share of motorbike rides, spring rolls and "relax times," as a billboard at the Phu Quoc Island airport promised guests of the Blue Moon Resort. We opted instead for the promise of Chen La, a charming, Columbian/French-managed resort up the west coast, about as far from the hustle and bustle of Saigon as one can get. From the airport, it's a couple miles through a quaint fishing village then a few more along a bumpy, dirt road that eventually leads to a property that slopes down to the sea. The saltwater pool was tremendous in that it was large and void of bratty children. The bu

It was not until we were halfway up the mountain that I realized just how much trouble we were in. The rain started to come down harder. The air turned from cool to chilly. And with each step, my cotton T-shirt became wetter, heavier, colder. We'd been in Bali for three days. We'd come with two bags, both filled with what you pack for a week in the tropics -- flip-flops, shorts, hats, that sort of thing. After all, Indonesia is about as close to the equator as a place can get. Temps hover around 90 F. There's no need for any kind of dress other than what we brought. Unless you do Bali the weird way. Unless you decide to eschew the beach for a day, head well inland and hike up Mt. Batur to a volcano crater. Well before sunrise. During rainy season. Then, you're in for it. We didn't prepare for this kind of Bali. But this was unequivocal. Because despite the fact we were shivering and sleep-deprived (the wake-up call came at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m. ... seriously),

One great thing about living in Saigon is that if you ever get bored there's a simple remedy: An early-morning taxi ride from District 2 to the airport. The 45-minute journey is about as dull as a Robin Williams interview. Today, it was some language that got me. First, a shop sign that read, "Specializing in creativity and copying." Classic. Not five minutes later, I saw a woman wearing a shirt that said, "Necessary if mailed in the Koogi." Not even kidding. You can't make this stuff up. Of late, I haven't been witness to Saigon's goofiness. In the past five weeks, I've either been in Phan Thiet, Hanoi, Hong Kong or Dalat. Stops in the coming three weeks include Hanoi (again), Hue, Halong Bay, Hoi An and Bali. When my "winter" travels are complete, I expect to look back and say, "I enjoyed Bali most" -- I've yet to hear a negative comment about the surfer's paradise. Until then, Hong Kong holds the top spot. Claire an