Every time, I ask myself why. The self-interrogation usually starts in the sanitarily homely Changi Airport waiting lounge where it becomes a marketplace with Chinese nationals talking at the top of their voices, and where it is unclear whether the stench of salted fish is coming from their bags of purchases or the fact that they removed their shoes.

Then it becomes a full-blown self-chiding session when the man sitting next to me on the plane cannot close his mouth when he yawns, robbing me of my already weak ability to breathe in a plane that recycles its air of salted fish, rare showers, and many more yawns; and he hit me five times while putting on and taking off his jacket.

WHY AM I HERE?

I thank the Indian customs officers who moved me with the simple acknowledgement that I am not part of the above group.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 19th, 2008 at 10:45 pm and is filed under Ramblings, Singapore, Taking in; on; and to Shanghai (or China in general). You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.