Airports are interesting places, that is, if you are able to look for different perspectives. If you loath being at these terminals (a creepy name, considering you are about to depart), then time may appear slow or fast, depending on your sense of urgency. Traveller tip: book online earlier, and pay less, and have a wider choice of seats. I secured my aisle seat for the two legs of my red-eye flights.
This evening, after I cleared immigration – which was thankfully fast because I hopped onto empty lane – I decided to get a cup of java to enhance my soon-to-be bloodshot eyes. This is my pre-flight ritual, one that calms me down and brightens me up - an upper for the downer! I have a romantic fallacy about writing and drinking coffee (provided I don’t spill the hot and sticky contents onto my notebook), so I headed for the nearest, familiar brand. Starbucks it was, and I ordered my café mocca – my choice of stimulant/antioxidants brew. I engaged in conversation with the barrista, and found out that he was from Somalia, although he has been localised.
Sipping on my brew, which will not get anyone in a lawsuit for second-degree crotch burns, got me thinking: how long does it take for somebody to be localised? I am sure we know of expatriates who have worked locally for a couple of years, and who have blended into the lingua franca, local food fare and, can read the morning dailies with one leg perched precariously on the precipice of the eating house chair. There is little difference in the business class airline lounge when you consider you can park Mr Happy Legs in a DVT-prone position (a.k.a. the pathology known as Economy Class Syndrome).
Sipping on my brew, which will not get anyone in a lawsuit for second-degree crotch burns, got me thinking: how long does it take for somebody to be localised? I am sure we know of expatriates who have worked locally for a couple of years, and who have blended into the lingua franca, local food fare and, can read the morning dailies with one leg perched precariously on the precipice of the eating house chair. There is little difference in the business class airline lounge when you consider you can park Mr Happy Legs in a DVT-prone position (a.k.a. the pathology known as Economy Class Syndrome).
How long does it take for you to go on vacation, and declare to your significant other, ‘Let’s go home!’ when you, actually, mean the hotel room #369? If home is where our heart is, than how many places in our world are our homes? As Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz crooned, ‘There’s no place like home!’ I clicked my Clarkes at the heels, in a poor rendition of a Riverdance cast, and nothing happens.
Airports are places of excitement, anxiety, frustration and relief: it depends if you are arriving or departing. Every one of my overseas marathon or Ironman triathlon experience has airport as its parentheses. Lugging around a bike-case (plastered in the familiar red, FRAGILE and broken glass icon) is vastly different from slinging a pair of 10-ounce running racers. These places of high-security are also a melting pot of cultures and social interaction. Love them or hate them: they do draw the world around us into a smaller cocoon of connection. Our world is made, arguably, smaller in this meeting point of possibilities, priorities and personification.
Upon arrival at the Changi Airport, I will breathe that familiar air, including a raised PSI index. I could take the sky-train and then the family car. Planes, trains and automobiles: it reminds me of the late-John Candy film. It is all about transportation of head, heart and hands, like a magical performance that leaves you enchanted, breathless and eager for more.
I still have a cup left of my coffee to mull over…have a good week everyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment