나오미 in korea

A stopover of six hours from Bali to Seoul allowed us enough time to dip into the summer delights of Singapore, a tiny locality perched at the edge of Southeast Asia. Famously conservative, the city’s 2 million often well-heeled residents are forbidden to chew gum, litter and graffiti, all of which carry serious fines. In Singapore, order and cleanliness are paramount and the lean bulk of the office buildings tower over all, a constant reminder of the business and huge money that drives the tiny city-state.

Both of us were sick of the constant map-consulting and guidebook dipping that accompanies any trip. Neither of us wanted to plan our precious few hours; instead we settled to wander and see where the famously clean city streets took us.

They led us to Chinatown, which, with its bustling close-walled vibrancy and colour, is the perfect antidote to a long-haul flight or a recharge in preparation for another. Connected to Changi International Airport by the sublimely efficient Rapid Transit system, Chinatown is an easy stroll from one of the many subway stations circling the city.

For all its rules and rigour, the colonial city does not lack vibrancy, and has its own slightly dishevelled, dignified vigour. Its Chinese history is infused (some might say stained) with a genteel Britishness. Wide footpaths on our walk to Chinatown are spread with blankets, and fascinating trinkets are arrayed on each; old Chinese coins, elderly comic books, 1970s Singapore Airlines playing cards, mechanical toys and birth certificates of long-dead Chinese. All are curious and we spend a long time loitering and exclaiming, before succcumbing to the reality of the next few months’ travelling and move on to Chinatown proper.

We ask directions from a bronzed Australian in blue polo shirt and brown leather sandals. He’s in his mid-thirties, his coppery blonde hair and golden skin standing out against the wall of mostly Asian faces. “Yeah, straight down the road, you can’t miss it,” he says in a twang so comforting I want to envelop him in a hug. It’s been a year since I spoke to a stranger on the street and fully understood what he was saying. Needing to establish a connection, I ask him what he does here. “Banker with HCB,” he says, and pauses. I stare at him, hungry for him to speak again. “Most expats are in banking and advertising,” he adds hesitatingly. His eyes flick to my boyfriend, who thanks him firmly and pulls me away. I am fascinated by the golden Aussie and sorry to leave.

We flop under red-striped umbrellas and embrace a few sweaty Tiger beers. Tourists hum around us, porky and sun-pink. As the sun goes down we trip, slightly tipsy on beer and good humour, back to the subway that will speed us toward the airport. After the jumbled thrum of Korea and the tropical human mash of Bali, our six hours in Singapore have been as refreshing and interesting as a week-long holiday.