24 Hours in an Airport

24 hours in Singapore – I had a plan.  The world’s best airport (yes, the BEST!) was meant to keep me thoroughly comfortable and fairly entertained as a simple route from Bali to India turned into a drawn out day lost within the vacuum of time when the destination was switched to Sri Lanka.  I had no intentions of going into Singapore and getting a room because, well, I HAD A PLAN.  And we all know by now how perfectly my plans always work out, right?  *sigh*  Yeah, right. 

Left on a 5:45pm flight out of Denpasar with a surprising lump in my throat.  I had spent the majority of the last few weeks in very good company, hardly ever on my own, having silly great fun, excellent conversation, and generally being happy, happy, happy.  The 15 months I spent in Surabaya heralded some spectacular experiences however it’s the end of my time in Indonesia which will be asterisked as some of the highlights in the Indo memory bank.  It’s lovely how our memories do away with the struggles and replace all the heartache with warm fuzzies once you have moved on.  Well done, brain, well done.

Okay, so the plan!  Arrived in Singapore and collected my bag as I had to switch airlines.  It was about 8:30pm.  My flight to Sri Lanka wasn’t until 9pm the next day.  Whatever.  I have a plan.  Up to the airline counter I go and …  Sorry, cannot check in until 5am the day you are meant to fly.  Really?  But I have a ticket and it’s travel centre of the universe and you’re open now and really?  You can’t just take my bag?  No.  No?  No.  Of course you can’t.  Fine.  Singapore has a bag storage area so no need for tears, I lose 20kgs and am looking forward to all the comfy cool things I have mapped out for the next 24 hours in this uber fancy airport.  Right then! 

As I had to pick up my bag and check in elsewhere, I'm obviously in the arrivals / check in area, right?  That horrible part of the airport which is all excessive fluorescent lighting, endless rows of deserted and often unused check in counters, abandoned ankle crashing trolley carts, cold, hard tile floors, and a smattering of miserable, unforgiving plastic chairs.  I see a few people trying unsuccessfully to settle into some sort of restful, relaxing, repose and wonder why on earth they would be subjecting themselves to such torture when Eden was just beyond a set of doors.  Silly novice travellers.  Get it together!  I walk confidently towards the information desk to find the way to the best sleeping areas that I had been dreaming about and *pop* - defeat.  I don’t have a boarding pass.  Of course not, I can’t check in yet.  Discount airline rules.  Sorry ma’am, without a boarding pass, you can’t get into the departures terminal which allows you access to all the glorious golden treasures of our divine airport.  But I have a ticket and you can see that my bag is in storage and you know I can’t check in because of the airline and but but BUT!  Sorry ma’am.  Here’s a free blanket to help you suffer through your miserable wait.  *sniffsniff*  thank you. 

So now what?  I have 8 hours, EIGHT, in the arrivals area, purgatory of airline travel.  And I’m tired.  I waste a bit of time by wandering and using the internet and wandering and then score!  I find a little carpeted area that is some kind of gallery, information thingy and there are people scattered about chatting and SLEEPING!  So I hunker down in a little corner, gleefully more comfy than I was hoping for, and quickly nod off.  Less than an hour later, some random man is speaking loudly but kindly above me, telling me that this public space is closed and I must leave.  But it’s an open room, how can it be closed?  There are no doors, it’s just a room with a carpet and I’m really tired and look at how sad I look and seriously, come on, please?  Sorry, closed.  *grumblegrumblegrumble*  I stagger around, open mouth zombie stumble.  It’s nearing 1am, I just want to sleep. 

Top floor, restaurant level, no people around as everything is closed.  A long hallway leads towards the entrance to the car park and it’s slightly, just slightly warmer and darker than the rest of the cold-hearted arrivals area.  This will do.  I use my gifted free blanket as a pillow, wrap up in my trusty travel blanket, pull my hood over my face, curl up around my bags, and look like a proper homeless person stretched out alongside a random wall.  Do I care?  Nope.  After my body becomes numb to the unyielding tile floor, I’m out.  I got in a good 2 & ½ hrs of tossing and turning then up to reclaim my stored bag, check in for that sweet, sweet boarding pass, and hoof it to the comfy section of departure hall heaven that had been calling my name for hours.   

For those of you who haven’t had the luxury of travel, I’m sure you’ve run into large groups of Asians in your home country at some point or another.  Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Indonesian, irrelevant.  Populations from this side of the world.  Yes this is a sweeping generalization but one which Asians undoubtedly agree with me on.  They are loud.  Unbearably loud.  I find the most sublime sleep chair in a rest area called “Oasis”, am 3 seconds from over the moon, but keep getting jolted awake by the unbelievably loud groups of people in the surrounding chairs.  This area is dark, the chairs are obviously designed for sleeping in, all kinds of other people have settled into them attempting to sleep, and these folks are guffawing and shouting and carrying on their daily gossip as if they were sitting a full mile and a half apart.  Dirty glares, nothing.  Big sighs.  Nothing.  Moving to change my sleep spot in a pouty stomp.  Still nothing.  Oh wow.  Don’t mess with me now, bitches.  Just don’t do it.  I thankfully remembered to bring my earplugs so in they go, one last dirty look for good measure, and I’m out for the count.  Ugh.

A good couple of hours and I’m able to face the day.  Plan of action – the free bus tour of Singapore.  When in tourist town, be a tourist!  I hop, skip, and jump my way over to sign up for the tour and *thud*  kick in the teeth.  Because I had arrived last night, stamp in passport says Nov. 8.  I couldn’t check in, hence clear immigration, until this morning so THAT stamp says Nov. 9.  Technically, my passport stamps say I have been out then in again.  But I haven’t left, there was just no way to check in.  It doesn’t matter, your stamps won’t allow you to leave the airport again. Sorry ma’am, no tour for you. 

Of course not.

I console myself with Subway for breakfast (oh my gosh I have missed Subway), consider getting hammered on duty free alcohol samples, and decide to just carry on with the rest of my plans.  Hopping between terminals, I wandered through gardens, koi pond areas, and a butterfly enclosure, had proper Skype conversations (thanks Nix and Jase!), found those great chairs with feet and leg massagers, caught up on some internet time, watched a bit of TV and a terrible movie, took a 20 minute hot shower (the best $7 I have ever spent!) and was surprised at how fast it all passed.  While yes, my 24 hour Singapore airport plan was riddled with disappointments, overall, it was still a success.  If ever you’re crossing the seas and need to waste a few hours , have I got an airport for you!