Soundtrack: Airport Death – An Horse
Singapore’s Changi Airport is bigger than my house. This was going to be funny because of course it’s bigger than my house; most things are bigger than my house. Then I thought about it and my house is actually quite large, especially if you count the swimming pool and maybe there are airports in the world that don’t quite cut it size-wise. I’ve been to them. They’re out there. I decided to say it anyway and add all this explanation afterwards. Meta makes everything betta.
Really, Changi is bigger than my whole sleepy South Australian town of Adelaide. Our two cathedrals make us a city but that’s a technicality. Singapore Airport is still bigger and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have any cathedrals. It does have: three hotels (three!), a butterfly house, a koi pond, a mini-mart (I don’t know why this impresses me, but it does), a cactus garden and free massage chairs (free!). I got off the plane and two things happened. I went to the bathroom and it smelled of flowers. I could have slept in there. Instead, I asked for directions to my transit hotel.
“This way. Just walk for half an hour and you will find it.” Fuck. I’m sorry; did you say half an hour? There was a small train that could have taken me but the kind lady at the information desk looked me up and down and said it would be better if I walked. Thanks. The journey was epic but the scenery was bright and fake. Every five minutes the shops repeated themselves. Gucci, Godiva, Marc Jacobs, Gucci, Godiva, Marc Jacobs. Subway, Starbucks, BurgerKing. I don’t know how they have room for it all on such a tiny island.
Fourteen hours to kill. Guess what I did? Ate and slept. Exactly what I do at home. Except without that girl with the hair. Should have brought a cardboard cut out. I used the free Internet but I didn’t see the butterflies. I ate at Subway (ewwww) and drank a chai latte that tasted like melted sugar with a little soymilk on top. By drank, I mean I took a sip, crinkled my nose and put it down. By morning it was gloopy. I purchased some whisky, sat in my hotel room and watched Zuccotti Park being raided. In the morning, I bought a banana from Starbucks, sat in a massage chair and got on the plane.
In-between these mind numbingly exciting activities I looked for queer girls. I’m sure they travel. I’ve seen blogs. They use stories of exotic lands to pick up other queer girls. At home, you can’t turn around without bumping into a lesbo who has slept with your best friend and hates your housemate and used to date someone you can’t hang out with anymore for reasons you don’t really remember. At Changi, there were no awkward lesbian group situations (great name for a porno, don’t you think?). Was it just not the night for it? Or do they go incognito - fly straight - just in case?
Despite all the bells and whistles, the thing I liked best about Singapore airport was the mad wallpaper in the hotel. I spent a good two minutes thinking of a way to steal it without getting in trouble. Nothing came to me, must have been the jetlag. Instead, I got naked. Because really, that is the only thing to be done when you are alone in a hotel room.
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