They Shoot Foreigners, Don’t They? Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Airport (Part 1)

What follows is a faithful account of the movements of myself, Courtney M. Brown, as accompanied by one Sheila Olivar, between the morning of the 15th of August and the afternoon of the 23rd of the same month, the Year of Our Lord 2011. The contents of this account should not be read without some caution as they may startle and alarm those faint of heart. Those of a stout disposition, read on, duly warned.

August the 15th
I can devise no more ignominious end for a fowl than to have its legs removed and used as airline food. And I can think of nothing that any bird could possibly do to deserve such a fate. If, on top of that, that airline food is served, not on a tray table suspended 10,000 feet in the air in a shiny silver tube, but instead in a crowded, airless terminal to a group of people in danger of becoming a flash mob – well, neither man nor beast deserves that fate.

Alas, such and more befell us in Shanghai. Alighting two hours late from Incheon after an apparently unnecessarily early and prepared arrival at that airport, afeared that we may miss our connecting flight in Shanghai, we rushed off the plane and through the terminal only to find that we were in no danger of missing anything but our luggage. Our connector had been delayed as well. At first we were told we must wait but a scant two hours, a circumstance we accepted with grace. That two hours gradually shifted, however, into some nebulous amount of time at which no airline employee would hazard a guess. When we finally did board our vessel, it was five hours later – after we had partaken of our dubious meal, grumbled a great deal, and threatened mutiny. The end result was that, instead of arriving in our hostelry at a reasonable 9:45 on the night of August the 15th, we pulled up in our taxi at 2:30 in the small of the morning of the 16th, weary, bleary, and nearly beyond comfort. We slept and prayed that dawn might come slowly. Unfortunately, it made no allowances for us.

August the 16th
Awake, clean and in possession of a hostel key attached to a blue metal lizard, we set out for the nearest subway station. We rode the MRT to the Chinatown stop, alighted, and, after much dithering, had some Chinese food. My traveling companion wondered if we would be able to find our way back to the subway station. I assured her that I had been, in fact, a compass in another life, and would never let us be lost. She received this assurance with less than what I considered appropriate confidence. We shopped a bit. Sheila expanded her wardrobe. I expanded my understanding of the clever t-shirt and bottle-opener magnet trade in Singapore.

We decided to walk in the direction of the Chinatown Complex and I pointed us in the right direction. Sheila was not sure it was the right direction, but followed me anyway and we arrived at the Chinatown Complex in good time. We shopped some more at the Complex and were regaled with rousing tales of Singaporean government by a particularly enthusiastic shop owner. It was every bit as thrilling as it sounds and, though he ended up making Singapore sound like a police state, it sounded like a really cheerful one.

We left the Complex and headed back toward the MRT station. Sheila was not sure that it was the right way, but it was. We took a well-considered detour to find coconuts with straws in them and enjoyed cold coconut juice under a garish orange awning. Nothing about the place seemed remotely Chinese, but the building across the street did, so I assumed correctly that we were still in Chinatown proper.

On the way back to the MRT station after coconuts, Sheila wondered if we were going the right direction. We were.

Since the day was still young we ventured on further down the Purple Line and ended up at the Harbor Front where we found all manner of interesting things. Once we made it to the water (“I really think we should go through this building. Trust me.”), we lazed about, took pictures with the large metal flower tree and an inexplicable skinny snowman statue, browsed at length through the first genuine English bookstore I had seen in many months, and gadded about chiefly concerned with figuring out ways of enjoying ourselves. I bought Magnetic Poetry: Pirate Edition so I think you can tell we achieved that goal.

Sheila had a hankering for soup round about dinnertime and fortunately The Soup Spoon was conveniently located right next to the bookstore. Sheila had something whitish that was reported to be good and I chose the Simon and Garfunkel Chicken and Mushroom Ragout. The chicken and mushrooms had some tight harmonies that I initially received quite well. As time went on, however, the chicken and mushrooms seemed to be having some problems and eventually broke up due to gastronomic differences, and, though I began to wish I were homeward bound, I was a rock, an island, in fact, and carried on. I briefly considered adding some parsley or sage or even some rosemary or thyme to my bowl, but all I had was tabasco sauce, so I didn’t. I asked Mrs. Robinson if this sort of behavior was normal for the ragout, but, not being there, she didn’t answer. As the chicken and mushrooms weren’t speaking to each other, the sound of silence coming from my bowl was both deafening and disheartening. Fortunately, however, we were able to build a bridge over troubled soup and the chicken and mushrooms became friends again in the end and finished strong for their fans, which is to say, me. At that point me and Julio – I mean Cecelia – um, Sheila – decided to go lookin’ for fun since we were feelin’ so groovy.

What we found was “Cowboys and Aliens.” And really I don’t think I need to say much more than that. The awesomeness of the event should be understood outright. But I will say this: Harrison Ford has now very nearly made up for the whole “Six Days, Seven Nights” debacle that I know we’re all still feeling so keenly, and I sure do wish Daniel Craig were taller. Also, though I think you’ll agree that he’ll always be best known as the plucky Guy Fleegman, Sam Rockwell does a pretty fine embattled and desperate saloon owner, too. With glasses, so you know it’s a serious role.

Leaving the theater happy and meditating upon our place in the universe amongst all those quite rude and slimy alien species bent on destroying us poor earthlings, we wended our way back past the tall, skinny snowman, the flower tree, the harbor, and all the rest and arrived successfully at the MRT station once again, swiped our cards, and headed back toward Kovan and our hostel.

As we left the Kovan station near the other end of the Purple Line, Sheila was pretty sure that we should go the other direction, but I was more sure that we should not. She humored me with distinct reservations and as a result we made it back to the hostel in good time.

August the 17th
If I were to simply say that this day bore us on silver wings to all the wonders and attendant delights that one would expect from spending a day at Universal Studios, I would be telling you true, but it would hardly do the day justice so naturally I will expound a bit for the benefit of posterity.

We arrived as the gates were opening, our hearts set on enjoying every possible moment of Universal Studiosity. And such we did. We were logical in our path through the park. We bore left and continued that way, leaving nothing un-tried, no fun un-had.

We began in Madagascar where we had a Crate Adventure (not to be confused with a slow boat ride for children) and great fun on King Julien’s Party-Go-Round (not to be confused with a cartoon-themed carousel for children). Then we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the gift shop.

In Far, Far Away we caught Donkey’s interactive stage show in which I was not chosen to be an audience participant even though I sat on the aisle for that express purpose, rode a dragon on Enchanted Airways (not to be confused with a tiny roller coaster for children) and the Magic Potion Spin (not to be confused with an exceptionally tiny Ferris wheel that my legs almost didn’t fit into, also for children). Then we enjoyed ourselves immensely in the gift shop.

In the Lost World and Ancient Egypt we partook of every flying, soarin’, coasting and driving ride there was to experience and if we did perhaps drive rather more slowly than I thought was appropriate when one is traversing a cursed desert, we also moved quite quickly through the also cursed pyramid in the often pitch black. (I won’t say that Sheila screamed the entire time and wouldn’t open her eyes, but one of us did and it wasn’t me.)

In Sci-Fi City we rode a teacup ride for grown-ups, and there was lots of spinning in big yellow things that were definitely not teacups. And then, I’m pleased to say, we chose to be Cylons rather than Humans on the dueling roller coasters and flew upside-down many times as a result. (I won’t say that Sheila screamed the entire time and wouldn’t open her eyes, but one of us did and it wasn’t me.) I truly do heart Cylons and now I have a magnet on my refrigerator that says so to prove it.

The Hollywood and New York sections offered copious opportunities to take pictures of ourselves in fantastic sunglasses and with people dressed up in what must have been sweltering if delightful costumes, not to mention a stage show of monsters performing a Rock-N-Roll Extravaganza! and a special effects show in which a hurricane hits New York City. I guess we could have just waited on that one.

And then, of course, there were the Daddy-Os, Universal Studios Singapore’s somewhat belated answer to the Beach Boys. They sang all the fun old songs like surfer angels in tight white pants and shook their hips with an enthusiasm that I genuinely appreciated. I liked the two tall ones best – one was blond and as American West Coast pretty as they come and the other was all the best of Asian attractiveness rolled up into one man – tall, dark, handsome, and definitely not too skinny. Sheila liked the short one with the tall hair. She said he had good “expressions.” I know it must be a euphemism, but I can’t figure out for what.

And with that and some other bits in between to fill all the cracks, we found that we had participated in every activity, ridden every ride, climbed every rock wall, and throttled Universal Studios for all it was worth. We left, were accosted by a cheerful survey man, took pictures with the candy trees and coveted the Reese’s section of the huge candy store located just outside Universal’s main gate and then lounged about on the waterfront because when you’re in Singapore you’re never far from a waterfront and it’s always a good idea.

We slept soundly that night under the quiet hum of the air conditioner in our little hostel, but we didn’t appreciate it the way we should have.

We didn’t know that the Germans were coming.