Written somewhere over the ocean, in 41H, extra legroom, with a man asleep and leaning steadily into my shoulder. Two flights, one transit and a great deal of food have brought me here.
It started with Kerala food for dinner, which was a mistake, because I was still too full hours later. (I am good with MSG in small doses. I stand by this.) I showered, went to the airport, and ate again at the Malaysian place in the terminal, obviously. Drinks at Two Jones. Que and the nice lady tried very hard to get us seats side by side, sort of, and did not quite get there. I boarded and fell asleep immediately. So tired.
We reached Singapore with the windows still showing a dark sky. Freshened up, walked around T2, stood at the mangrove aquarium for longer than a transit really allows. Stole chai candy for Diwali. Clocked up an alarming number of Singapore treats to bring back to Melbourne. Hunted for Wani’s Silky Girl eyeliner and could not find a Watsons anywhere, which in Singapore feels statistically impossible.
Breakfast at a Hainanese coffeeshop: gula melaka crispy toast, a half-boiled egg, and kopi with butter, which was horrid. Far too harsh. Then I dropped my camera AGAIN, shattering the protective lens. What is wrong with my grip? Fafa, watching all of this, bought me a temple jewellery gold bracelet on the spot, an early Diwali present. Chilli crab onigiri after that, because apparently breakfast was not enough.
And now this flight. Separate seats, extra legroom, and my neighbour is still asleep on my arm. I have read Nina Mingya Powles all the way through, which is the closest thing to rest I have managed in two days. Nothing to answer, nowhere to be. A diary writes itself at altitude.
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