The pilot brings the plane back over western Bali and the island of Java appears in the distance. The onboard flight tracker keeps me updated of our progress, a preferred activity that surpasses the excitement of games and the entertainment of movies. At 900 kph we move along a millimeter at a time. The presence of nearby land masses reassures me. When turbulence hits and the screen shows the plane’s silhouette against an impossibly expansive blue ocean, I curse the absence of landing strips.
The journey proceeds, uneventful in spite a surplus of rainy season clouds. Two hours and 25 minutes into a 2 hours and 30 minute flight, I spot several low lying islands, the Indonesian suburban periphery of Singapore. Pulau Bintam is the only one I identify thanks to its many resorts catering to the residents of the big island across the strait.
At Chiangi I order a Kopi C that burns my lips as I peruse the duty free shop goodies. I settle on a bottle of Mandarin Absolut vodka and pay for it. When the sales clerk asks whether I have a connecting flight within the United States, I realize that the TSA personnel will confiscate my booze at the security checkpoint. He quickly issues a credit to my account that will be processed by American Express at a slightly less favorable exchange rate than the purchase. Am I to believe that the Singapore Dollar lost three quarters of a percent of its value in 60 seconds and that credit card companies track currency fluctuations with such diligence?But I won’t complain because my American Express card got me a 10 percent discount at an airport bookstore. T he two boxes-for-one offer tempted me mightily until the seller of mochi ice cream informed me that the confection would stay frozen no longer than an hour and a half. With upwards of 16 hours in a plane ahead of me that admission killed the bulk purchase but I picked a green tea mochi to enjoy in situ. I am also a great fan of daifuku, another rice-paste sweet filled, this time, with a red bean paste. Other than in Nara where I witnessed a mochitsuki, the traditional rice pounding ceremony, in progress, I’ve only come across a few daifukus, inexplicably.
Again, I wish for a longer layover in Singapore. The island city-state holds great appeal. Not simply because winter or summer, temperatures do not budge much, never dropping below 20 degrees at night and staying within daytime sight of 30 degrees year round. Tropical bliss.
Its location on the shortest route between East Asia and Africa, the Middle East, South Asia and Europe served Singapore well during the spice trade. Today I counted at least three dozen container ships maneuvering in the strait.
Singapore is far more modern, efficient and affluent than I expected. Cultural diversity shapes the most intriguing and stimulating aspect of the island. The majority Mandarin speakers call it 新加坡 (Xīnjiāpō); Malays name it Singapura and it goes by சிங்கப்பூர் (Cingkappūr) inTamil. A trip on the MRT showcases the cultural medley. Gentle-sounding British station names like Commonwealth, Somerset and Newton spice up a subway network that includes the Chinese flavors of Ang Mo Kio, Toa Payoh and Choa Chu Kang, and melodic Malay at Bukit Batok, Senbawang, Pasir Ris. Above ground, Buddhist shrines rub shoulders with Moslem mosques, Hindu temples and Christian churches. The food, supreme reflector of identity, also tosses influences from those same cultures into one tasty bowl.
Mandarin, Malay and Tamil have impacted the English spoken locally, resulting in the often hilarious patois called Singlish. If someone offers to meet at the kopitiam for makan like char kway teow or sambal goreng, can lah you go! Sup sup sui : you won’t be kiasu, but maybe sotong at all the hawker centre’s shiok choices. Joy yourself!
My most exciting memory comes from trekking up to the Night Safari. Open only after dusk, darkened paths meander through an animal park. The careful lighting hides the enclosure fences and gives a sense of oneness with lions, elephants, vultures, hyenas, wolves, pythons, bats and other animals. Most remarkable and electrifying.
I stopped by a counter manned by the S’pore tourist authority. Passengers who have at least five hours in transit can sign up for free cultural, colonial and food tours directly from Changi. If only …
The flight back to the States has a layover in Hong Kong, a teaser of a stop during which I managed to buy truffles from the Peninsula Hotel and Chinese fortune sticks that thankfully come with an English translation. Those chocolate morsels are probably the closest I will come to the famed indulgence of this venerable and historic property, consistently ranked the best in the world.
Happily I stumbled upon an ATM machine operated by my bank. Surprisingly the Hong Kong dollars it spits out bear its logo. My leftover change – HK$150 – will remain in my wallet until I return to spend it. Before I figured I could score a free airline ticket all the way to Denpasar, Hong Kong had been my choice for a post-Japan diversion. Even from Chek Lap Kok I felt an infectious energy about this city on the South China Sea. On the other side of the Pearl River Delta lies Macao, another SAR. And just inland near the mouth of the river is Guangzhou, still better known by its former name of Canton.
I will need to work out the China visa details. One of the reason why I ditched the Hong Kong idea was that the flight routing would have had me transit through mainland China, either in Shanghai or Beijing. No one could tell me with any authority whether a visa was needed and how much it cost. Chinese consulates in the U.S. charge United States citizens $130 for a single-entry visa, a hefty stipulation for a two-hour transit. The plot thickens because the Chinese embassy in Paris only asks for €35 – less than half the price.
The darkness, rain and clouds that descended upon Hong Kong foiled my expectation to snap great shots of the skyline. I did manage one of Kowloon and Central. Until two years ago Kai Tak airport afforded fabulous views of the business district on the other side of the harbor. Dangerous curve landings , I understand, made for interesting final moments.
A beautiful moon hung across purplish blue skies somewhere over the North Pacific. Moments later I welcomed my second sunrise of the day. Tail winds of 220 kph crush the concept of time across the international dateline: this Thursday will last too long, with 31 hours and 15 minutes elapsing between visits to bed. My nephew Erick (prematurely christened Eric II until I noticed he spells his name with an additional letter), a pilot with Air France, assures me such hurricane-force winds pose no great concern. Be that as it may: they do, however, destabilize my precarious mind.
Distance has been brushed aside with no more than a passing thought (except when turbulence reminds me that I am battling the elements) over the last 12 months. I had the exceptional good fortune to journey four times to Europe and on one of these occasions to Africa. I have met family, renewed friendships and made new ones. Google Earth tells me I have flown 111,041 kilometers – a distance almost equal to three times the equatorial circumference. I set foot in 13 different countries, sometimes several times. The record superlatives underscore a vital desire to explore. This act of discovery begets self-discovery. Both intoxicate me.Foreign flavors, sounds and sights beckon, still. Always will. I have copies of the Jakarta Post, Straits Times and South China Morning Post to read. When I am done, it’ll be time to return to the source. From LAX, Hong Kong is but 14 hours and 40 minutes away. See you in the spring, Cathay Pacific.
Joy myself!
San Francisco's central district, Bay Bridge and East Bay 
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