Somebody once told me that Singapore was utopia. Is. Singapore is utopia. I never knew what that meant till I first set foot on the grandeur of the marble flooring at Changi and trudged along into the hot and humid outside air that still somehow felt so pure and welcoming.
It was the ideal picturesque landscape – perfect pavements and unscathed buildings. I took a turn into an unknown corner, and I was greeted by imperfections that brought me a sense of comfort and belonging; how could imperfections still feel perfect somehow?
Hawker markets, overpriced street shopping, guarded nightclubs, and tall and intimidating skyscrapers… but everything felt right. It felt in place.
I’ve never known a feeling like this before – it was strange but familiar at the same time. Kind of like I never left the comfort of my home even on these expansive streets of a land so unknown.
There were tourists in spots unknown, and busy locals amidst a crowd of newcomers. It was a blend of everything and everyone, an amalgamation that you probably won’t experience elsewhere. I spent all my days wondering, is this strange-looking man a tourist? Has this woman who looks like she’s from nowhere always lived here?
And I know. I just know with a single look of an eye, they wondered the same about me. But the magic lies in the wonder; in our hearts of hearts, none of us wanted to know the answer to where we came from.
Is this what being a citizen of the world feels like?
When the time came to bid goodbye, I trudged along from the hot and humid outside air to the cool marble flooring of Changi, so unwitting to leave, so upset to fly back home.
I was leaving home. To get back home.
Only those who have been graced and welcomed by the magic of Singapore air would understand what I’m saying – it’s a feeling I can’t and won’t ever be able to put into words.
