Singapore. Caught my first glimpse from the plane, of a large flotilla of ships all facing the same direction. It looks as if they`re fleeing. Inside Changi, I catch the familiar Asian scent of long airport carpets going moldy in damp climes. I put on my iPod, Tom Waits. I look for this city`s eponomous song, but not finding it, settle on "Shore Leave." After this single track, I turn it off, wanting instead to hear all the languages around me. (This includes the Japanese spoken at a cluster of tables near "Genki Sushi.") I change money without knowing the going rate. And I walk the smelly carpet, rubbernecking, amazed at the size of this place. The smell of mold is overwhelmed by perfume near the Duty Free shops. I walk past three small men carrying large machine guns. (In a tight spot I`m sure they`d rather go for the kukri tucked into the back of their belts.) I`m not in Japan anymore. As I board my Trivandrum-bound plane, a woman eyes my wrist, and says something to her companion. I make out the word "mala."
On the turntable: Buffalo Springfield, "Retrospective"
On the nighttable: Lynn Schooler, "The Blue Bear"
2 comments:
I'm loving reading your descriptions of India...
Despite the risk of revealing my stupidity, I have to ask: What's mala mean?
"Mala" means beads, like love beads. Uh, that's love in the 'biblical' sense. I mean, "Bhagavad Gita" sense. I mean...
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