Diary of an Expat in Singapore (36 page)

Some people jokingly say that the best thing about Singapore is Changi Airport. They are not joking. If not the best, it is certainly among the top five things to boast about. There has yet to be an unimpressed visitor. The first time I arrived, I was completely blown away. True, I was coming from an Italian airport with an ongoing baggage-handler strike, but still… impressive.

You’re reluctant to leave.

It’s always hard to leave… if you’re leaving from Changi Airport, it’s that much harder.

You’re getting a free foot massage.

There are many perks in Changi Airport. The following is just a sample: the possibility of strolling in a butterfly garden, free foot massages, fish micro-massage therapy at the Fish Spa, refreshing showers at the Rainforest Lounge, free Xbox 360 video games, a dip in the rooftop swimming pool while sipping a Tiger beer, a blow-dry, a manicure, a free blockbuster movie, a nap in a comfortable resting area. If only they built a condo inside.

You’re wearing a sweater.

The only downside to spending time at Changi: the temperature. A tactic to deter squatters? The upside: if you are headed to Antarctica, your body will already be acclimatized.

There is no question you’ve packed your own bag.

Even if you have never watched the National Geographic series ‘Banged Up Abroad’, you’d have to be living under a rock not to know the perils of allowing anybody else near your bag. My kids don’t even watch the show and have been packing their bags since they were little. (This may explain why Alexander always has a bag full of books and Eliot has one full of shoes.) That sign warning potential drug smugglers that they will get the death penalty… not just decoration.

You’re nervous about the chewing gum you forgot to declare.

Possibly the only airport in the world where your hands get clammy and you avoid eye contact at check-in because you have a… pack of gum!

The screensaver on your computer is a photo of your hometown.

If you are an expat living in Singapore who doesn’t go home at Christmas, you’re going to save loads of money. Come February, however, you are going to be homesick. Now you’re faced with a dilemma: either go home for a much shorter time as there are no long school holidays at this time (especially if homesickness strikes after Chinese New Year) or just wait until summer break. Four more months… should be a breeze.

Your browser homepage is set to your hometown newspaper.

This is certainly a good way to know what your friends are watching at the movies, what’s on stage, and if your favourite team scored over the weekend. Also an excellent way to be jolted a million miles away
every single time
you turn on your computer. But if you weren’t masochistic, you wouldn’t be living so far away in the first place. When I lived in Sydney, which was much further away from Verona than Singapore is, I felt physically ill every time I looked at a map. If I didn’t look at a map, I was fine. Happy even. My colleagues at Sydney University had a name for it: geographical displacement. In Dublin, which is much closer, I never felt that way at all. And it’s not just because of the Guinness.

When you speak with your family back home, any mention of the weather (regardless of what it is) leaves you feeling wistful.

Growing up in Verona, I didn’t particularly like the fog that covers the city like a cloak during the winter months. Even though there is a certain romantic feeling that comes with being in a city enveloped in thick fog, it is a sentiment unappreciated by a teenager itching to see the world. The homesick expat, however, would give anything to see that fog. Even if the expat’s family comes to visit, it is likely their departure will cause the expat to plunge into an even more grievous state of homesickness. That taxi ride home, after dropping the visitors at the airport for their flight back home, is one of the most depressing rides ever. Unless, of course, you get the taxi straightaway. Small victories.

You spend $40 on a cake.

Whether you are seeking your own Proustian madeleine (the tiny cake whose taste brought Marcel Proust memories of his childhood) or not, when you spend $40 on a
pandoro
(Italian Christmas cake mentioned previously, which back home costs $5), you are homesick. And that little taste of home you are craving is going to cost you. Possible solution: carrying back lots of
pandori
with you after your next visit home. Why not? You already bring back Italian deodorants and laundry soap.

Skyping is not enough.