Singapore: Day One

First Impressions

I leave Albuquerque to the strains of the new security measures that allow a single quart-sized, clear, zip locked sandwich bag of toiletries each of which must be 3 oz. or less--unless it’s “medication” (contact lens solution, insect repellent, antibiotic ointment and the like) or makeup, then the only apparent limit is the imagination or pigheadedness of the junior authority-wannabe who mans the inspection table. This whole security orange-alert state has had the curious side-effect of creating a legion of individuals who would otherwise have no power and so who exercise this newfound power with a not unexpectedly unimaginative and restrictive attitude.

The only place where my bags are not opened is in Japan, at Narita. Instead, a very young woman checks my boarding pass and sends my bags through the x-ray machine.

I’m no jet setter--don’t even come close--but I’ve traveled enough to be annoyed at the people who don’t know that they’re going to have to pass again and again through metal detectors. I watch as they pass through the beeping machine only to be turned back so that they might shed the various bits of metal they’ve got on or have left in their pockets. (And do you really need to carry all those keys? Thirty dollars in spare change? That pocketknife? You know that stuff’s not getting through no matter how many trips you take through the detector. And you--yes, you--who doesn’t know that the laptop has to come out of the case? Do us all a favor and don’t travel at peak times.

I express my disdain for such people, recalling of course my forgotten hair clip that set off the detectors last February.

At the various security checkpoints I have to go through over the course of my nearly twenty-four hour travel day (seventeen of which are spent in the air in cramped economy airline seats), my bags are, of course, examined, searched, emptied, x-rayed. In some places, they are opened and the contents perfunctorily examined (everywhere but Narita). My shoes are swabbed for explosives residues.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to Singapore: Changi Airport

I arrive in Singapore at 11:30 at night. I have been unable to arrange an overnight hotel, so I’ve decided to take my chances in the airport. There are two airport hotels that rent rooms in six-hour blocks, as well as two airport lounges that have “napping facilities.” Instead of heading for one of these options, I decide to explore the airport.

Though it’s a beautiful facility (as far as such things go) Changi Airport at midnight is populated by a mix of the unwashed: Hippies forty years too young, swarthy men with intense eyes and largely indeterminate nationality, a few mothers with hoards of sticky children in tow. And, I guess, me. The television sets in the lounge areas are tuned to American baseball, the Discovery channel, American soap operas, American movies. I’ve seen enough to believe that, no matter the country, popular media culture will be largely American in origin. On my earliest trip outside the Americas, I sat in an airport in a remote Australian city and drank Coca-Cola in a bar where the music was 1950’s rock’n’roll. American baseball on television in a major Singaporean airport is not so shocking anymore.

What is shocking? As I write, a trio of men in blue uniforms with machine guns slowly patrols the area. I am facing a block of windows that has been turned to mirrors by the darkness outside. They walk up slowly behind me, and I have nothing to hide, but I feel nervous anyway. The men are young--and when did I get to be so old that I don’t trust the judgment of the young? Actually, I don’t trust the judgment of anyone who carries such a gun. The gun alone seems like a mark against better judgment.

Changi airport, however, is safe and calm. There’s plenty to do for the eighteen hours that I am to wait for Akira. (I can’t manage a hotel room through the airport’s reservation desk, a problem that I watch many other travelers deal with.) While I wait, I check my e-mail at one of the free internet kiosks. I have coffee, I nap in one of the many lounge areas, and I pay for a jacuzzi and snack in one of the two airport lounges.

The bath and four hours in the lounge (including snacks and the use of a computer and movies) cost about $44 SGD. There are showers for $8--and four hours in the lounge (including snacks and internet) is $25, but the idea of a bath after twenty-four hours in transit is irresistible, so I pay the $44. A bath is run for me in a huge tub. I soak for about an hour, have a shower, get dressed, and go off to sit and read in the lounge. There is a small bar (alcoholic drinks are extra, but nonalcoholic drinks like sodas and coffee and tea are included, so I drink some lime juice and a lot of diet Coke and a few thick coffees from a Nescafe machine. There are an array of snacks that lean heavily toward the carb family. I pass on the impressive display of the various flavors of Cup Noodle. I look over the tired looking chicken sandwiches and green cakes flavored with pandan, and in the end I have some toasted white bread with orange marmalade. A younger woman mans the front desk, taking money and running my bath, but a thin, older woman with short hair and hunched shoulders is responsible for keeping the place absolutely spotless and perfectly stocked. If I take a packet of marmalade it is immediately replaced. The toaster is wiped free of crumbs a minute after I use it. Later in the morning, this woman is herself replaced by another older woman, this one plump, who continues the hypervigilant watch against crumbs and motes of dust. She begins her shift by wiping down the already spotless surfaces in the lounge, including the desk where I am working.

After a few hours, I leave the lounge and have the first of what will eventually be many chicken rice meals, this one at a cafe on the second story of the airport. After, I nap on one of the many couches scattered around the airport. I am alone in this area for hours.

Akira is due to arrive in the afternoon. I had planned to take a free tour of Singapore that is offered by the Singaporean Tourism Authority, but it turns out that the tour is only offered to those in transit through Singapore, not for those of us who will stay. Instead, I buy book from one of the kiosks, a copy of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, and return to the second floor couches and read and nap and wait for Akira.

I know that I should be more curious about Singapore, this place where I’m to spend eleven days, but I’m not. In fact, I’m here for only one reason, to see Akira. I should read the guidebook I’ve bought, should know more about this place, but I don’t make any effort to do this.

Eventually, I will come to learn some things about Singapore, but I acquire this scattered bit of knowledge with no effort on my part. What do I learn? Gum is illegal in Singapore. You can be fined for possessing it. You can also be fined for littering ($1,000). You can be fined $500 for not flushing a public toilet or for eating or drinking on the subway. Singapore was once part of Malaysia, was once a British colony, was once occupied by the Japanese. Most people are of Chinese or Malaysian descent and Malay, Mandarin, Tamil, Hindu and English (at least two of them, one of which is always English) are commonly spoken by many. It is not uncommon for people to speak three languages and to read and write at least two. The signs on the subway are in Chinese, Hindu, English, and a fourth language that I can’t identify. Education is conducted in English. There is a large, visible Muslim population. Tourists come from everywhere to see this little island. They come from India, Thailand, Japan, the Philippines, China, France, Switzerland, Germany. And, I guess, America.

I drink coffee and I read Bourdain’s macho memoir and I wait for Akira.