singapore

The Crowne Plaza Hotel at Changi Airport is designed to calm the senses. It is located at the end of Terminal 3, just past the bubble tea place. One minute, you are in the famously clean brightly lit Singapore airport, and the next minute you are an extra in Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse.  

The floor and walls in the lobby are black, and the lighting is soft and low. The couches are magenta with black felt pillows that look like big bunches of grapes.

The check-in staff wear monochromatic jackets from Muji. The man speaks softly. He asks for the details of your connecting flight and inquires as to whether or not you’d like a wake-up call. He offers to help with your luggage, and nods sympathetically when you say no thank you. Of course you want to be with your bags.

You order a glass of red wine from the hotel bar and ask if you can take it to your room. Certainly, the bartender says sweetly, and tops you off. And a Tiger Beer for my husband. You can’t forget about him, she giggles.

You walk down the dark corridor to Room 318, and notice you’re walking a wooden plank, a moat on either side. The water is still. It is sleeping.

The color palette in the room is black, white, and beige. On the walls are large blurry photographs of orchids. All the furniture has rounded edges and the bathroom door slides open to reveal a large oval tub. The body lotion has essences of sage and lavender.

Your youngest daughter crawls into bed with her book and blankie. You keep the lights low as you turn on your computer and drink your wine.

Soon your glass is empty. You brush your teeth and join your sleeping daughter in bed. You hear planes taking off. You could be anywhere.  

The last time we came to Singapore as a family, Willa was six weeks old and Simone was living out her prior life as an electric eel. Dave had been accepted to INSEAD Business School and we decided to take the plunge.

It was 2005. Our first night, I tried to put Willa to sleep on a chaise lounge at the Hilton Hotel on Orchard Road. In keeping with my semi-detachment parenting philosophy, I was hoping my newborn would fall asleep near me and not on top of me. Willa had other plans. She screamed until, in a sleep-deprived hallucination, Dr. Sears came to me and commanded, “If your baby doesn’t sleep on top of you, she will have trust issues and fail math.”

Ten years ago, Singapore was finding her voice. Would she be a sophisticated cosmopolitan city or a hipster historic fishing village? Construction cranes were ubiquitous and trees were being shipped in from Seattle. Singapore felt lost, but then again, so was I. My husband was in school and I was nursing a baby while watching Globe Trekker from the 18^th floor of a condominium tower called Heritage View.

It is now 2015 and Singapore appears to have found her voice. It is a bold, confident voice and it is saying, “Neener neener. My government has more money than your government.” This place is on fire. There are spectacular displays of architecture everywhere you look, including giant metal flowers, humongous vertical gardens on the side of skyscrapers, and the Marina Bay Sands casino which… holy shit.

 

THERE ARE THREE TOWERS WITH A FUCKING SHIP ON TOP. My friend Christina, a long-time Singapore resident, rationalizes this building as part of what she calls Small Country Syndrome. Like Dubai, Singapore is getting all Elon Musk on the world, disrupting everything we think we know about gravity and engineering. In the last ten years, Singapore has strutted into the Lamborghini dealership and said, “I’ve got a world to impress. Give me one of everything.”

Seeing what a city flushed with cash can do in a relatively short amount of time is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The facelift is impressive. But thank you Singapore, for keeping some of your saggy bits – your cheap taxi rides, your dirty delicious hawker stands, your old men nose-spitting on the street, and your humidity. You were my home for eight months, and these are the bits that are seared into my soul.

Returning to Singapore for four days was like seeing an old boyfriend who has totally gotten his shit together. I felt sad that I didn’t get the best out of him, but thrilled that he’s finally wearing a clean shirt.