It is a bizarre feeling this; the beat an unseasoned heart skips as the plane touches the tarmac for the first time. The streaks that once sped by my window turns out to be a row of lampposts. Orderly. Such a cliché to describe this island as such, that along with 'clean', 'green', 'death penalty'. Truth of the matter is, I hadn't known I would land on this little island, and didn't bide much time to read up about it. In fact, all that I know of this tropical place is from an Anthony Boudain article I chanced online, while researching a recipe for Brian's tiramisu birthday cake. Singaporeans are apparently the most gastronomically attached people in the world. I don't think they will take too kindly to my intolerance towards spiciness.
The clock is ticking. I have fifteen hours of an unplanned holiday, my first holiday in seven years and it happens by accident. A transit. If all goes well, by this time next year, by Christmas next, Christmas being only two days away, I'd be in a Café, a small place you pass on your way to somewhere, somewhere in New Zealand.
People ask why New Zealand and I really have no better excuse other than it seems as far as I can be possibly be from LA. Course I don't say that. It is always some phantom relative I never knew existed till their names left my lip. My Uncle Bob from Wellington, Aunt Esther in the South Islands. Bob, I need to do better than that. But they are often enough. People nod in public acceptance, but in private they know, because they like me struggle, but unlike me, they persist. Seven years of persistence is enough.
The plane lumbers to a stop. My night begins.
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