Indonesia: Singapore, Changi Airport, En Route (Day 3, Wednesday, 072909)

Despite Elton John's reassuring presence on my flight (it seems to me statistically unlikely that a plane could, would, should plummet into a fiery ball of jagged metal with Elton John on it), I haven't slept for most of the gajillion hour flight over the Pacific to Seoul, and now to Singapore's Changi Airport.

In fact, I've watched the following highly lauded and critically acclaimed films:

He's Just Not That Into You
Bride Wars
Push

It's about 1 a.m., my connecting flight to Surabaya, Indonesia isn't 'til 7:50, where I'll have to purchase a ticket to Denpasar, Bali, and I'm feeling like I've been bitch-slapped with a wrench.

Fortunately, a Lego exhibition, and what should greet me but the following:



There's this thing, it starts with a "d" and ends with an "-estiny," and it's exerting a powerful force on me, and will manifest itself throughout my trip.

After ineffectually contorting myself on a row of seats outside my gate, I curl up on the carpeted floor behind a pillar to eke out an hour and forty-five minutes of sleep--until the unrelenting whine of airport/elevator music inevitably bores its way deep into my brainpan, and forces me awake.

I do not smell good, and I'm starving.

I'm fundamentally opposed to eating at the Starbucks and the soup and sandwich place, so I find myself at this weird little coffee shop serving presumably Singaporean meals, but as it's 4:30, 5 a.m., none of the meals are available.

What are available are: chicken pies and curry puffs.

I opt for the curry puffs, because it sounds slightly more adventurous, and a tiny bottle of water.



Bad decision. This curry puff is like the retroactive catalyst of distaste for all the disgusting airplane food I'm devoured on the flight(s) over here. It's greasy and cold and lardy and off.

In my nearly three decades of life, I've convinced myself that all food (including airplane food, particularly if it's ethnic-inspired as is Singapore Air fare) is good, and this is my reckoning.

My phagomania and liberomanical desire to be open to all experiences has led me to this point, and oh, how I shall pay on this trip.

Returning to my gate, I drop in the bathroom to check on my hair, which I'm convinced is an oil slick, and come across an airport employee gobbling down a snack.

It brings new light to the aphorism "don't shit where you eat," and I say "hi," like it ain't no thing, and bounce out of there. I don't judge, cuz it's either that 1) the trickle-down policies of fascist-democracy Singapore has led to extremely limited break and meal times for employees, or 2) lady's on some other kind of kick.

And who am I to nitpick? I just et a curry-flavored Shit Pocket.