Zelma’s Trip

I woke up three hours after getting in and felt decidedly dodgy – obviously it was the lack of sleep rather than the cocktails!

I packed the remainder of my things in the hotel room and then, as I walked out of the door, thought I would have a final look round.  Fortunately I checked under the pillows and found my passport there!  Don’t ask, it’s obviously the safest hiding place in the World I know.  I then had to go and print out my E-ticket.  Yes, it may have made slightly more sense to have sorted such details out the day before but hey, football priorities and all.  I then got a taxi and realised that I wasn’t really going to make their recommended two hour check-in.  Well, I always think that’s excessive anyway.  The taxi driver didn’t disappoint as my final driver and spent the journey telling me he loved me, wanted my children and that I was beautiful.

When I got to the airport I decided that I had time to post some cards prior to checking in.  I then went to the desk, gave them my print-out and they gave me my boarding pass.  I queued at passport control for some time, got to the front and realised I hadn’t filled out an exit form so had to do so and queue again.  I got through and was sorting my gubbins out on the other side when the woman from the first desk came rushing over.  I asked if there was something wrong and she said, “Problem with your ticket”.  Those words filled me with joy, especially in the state I was in.  It transpired that my ticket was meant to have ET (for E-ticket or something) on it and she had not noticed when I showed her the reference that it did not but had since spoken to her Manager.  This meant that I needed to show them my original hard copy of the ticket (despite the date having been changed).  I did ask why I was given a boarding pass and not told this at the time and she said something along the lines of, “I should have noticed but I didn’t”.  So I was taken back to the desk where it was explained to me again, time by a rather angry man.  I pointed out to him that this, “Was not strictly my problem”, to which he replied, “It’s your problem if you fly tomorrow”.  I gave his colleague a bit of a sad, bemused look and he replied with a look which said, “Don’t worry he’s always like that, we think he’s a moron too”.  The problem with this whole scenario is that the hard copy of my ticket was in my main bag which I had checked in and which had now, apparently, been loaded onto the plane.  The woman then said, “follow me” and I was rushed through the airport at great pace.  Typically the gate where  I was to board was about as far away as possible.  After a while I was handed over, relay baton style, to a male member of staff who proceeded to race me through the remainder of the airport.  It was actually relatively amusing – well in hindsight it is and actually it was relatively amusing to me at the time but I think I was at that laugh or cry dilemma stage, well that and the fact I probably still had cocktails in my bloodstream. The staff, however, appeared not to share my sentiments.  As I was rushed through the airport and through several restricted areas other passengers looked on and I thought they may be wondering who I was as I was rushed along V.I.P.-stylee.  This feeling of importance quickly faded as my bags were brought off the plane and all my fellow passengers looked on as if I was some kind of smuggler.  Eventually I found the ticket, gave it to them and was allowed to stand back with all the other passengers who stood there gawping at me.  In all fairness I think I would have been a bit miffed at me at this stage, particularly as the flight left late.  I’m absolving myself of responsibility here though as, by her own admission, it was the woman’s fault who didn’t check my ticket properly in the first place!

Once on the plane the flight was okay, although the landing gear did make seriously ominous noises.  There were also several rattles and bangs throughout the flight and, after some time of this, I started looking to fellow passengers to see if they firstly could hear the noises and secondly whether they were concerned.  It would appear that either everyone else was deaf or they didn’t give a stuff as no-one was remotely bothered.

When we landed in Singapore I somehow managed to get lost at the airport – how sad is that?  They had free internet terminals though so I chilled out and checked my email for a while.  I had spent the flight trying to convince myself not to hate Singapore just because it made me leave Thailand.  It redeemed itself on one level almost instantly though as they have a smoking area prior to going through immigration to baggage collection – and everyone said that Singapore was anal and sterile!

I sent an email to my parents stating that I should probably go lest my bag was going round and round some carousel by itself or had been taken somewhere else.  I eventually found it was the latter as it had been put in a big heap with a whole host of friends whose owners had also presumably got over-excited by the smoking area and shops and neglected to collect their trusty belongings.

With bags finally in hand I booked a ticket in a shared taxi-minibus into the city.  I had previously met a couple (at Halong Bay if my memory serves me correctly…it probably doesn’t) who told me that a good place to stay in Singapore was the Prince of Wales backpackers’ so I headed there.  To be honest Singapore wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.  Firstly it wasn’t quite as sanitized as I had expected and secondly it seemed to have character.  That said I by no means got the same feel from it as I did in Bangkok.  I told myself to sit tight and reminded myself of the smoking area at the airport and the other redeeming factor of the place, it didn’t smell of pooey sewers!