9:44
I’ve found a place to sit. I’ve got water and food, and I’m realising my phone’s clock doesn’t match the airport’s. One of us is wrong, Lisbon. To be fair, it’s probably me. After all, I’m the one who’s stuck in an airport waiting for a flight that’s in over 24 hours’ time. Mum, Dad, don’t panic. I haven’t been detained or arrested, and I don’t think I’ve had a medical emergency. I did theatre for a decade, and the only illness I have right now (besides a post-tour cold that’s slowly setting in) is a proclivity for the dramatic. All that happened was that I booked the wrong flight. I came to Lisbon with the university’s muay thai society on Sunday, and thought I was leaving with them too. Apparently, February Gabbi didn’t think so, because she booked a flight that departs Lisbon on Friday. Today is Thursday. It could be worse; I could have forgotten to buy a ticket. Or bought a ticket for a plane that’s already left. Or a plane that’s headed to America. (Too soon?) I’m beginning to think this is probably worse than a medical emergency. My mother was a flight attendant, and I always thought of myself as quite a smart traveller as a result of holidaying with her quite a lot. This trip has proven that I’ve got quite a long way to go before I can fill her size 38 track shoes — I also only packed shorts (windy 14 degree weather could probably have been more enjoyable), but I convinced myself that if my dad were here, he’d be very proud of me. His cold tolerance is extremely high, so he’s always in T-shirts and shorts when the rest of the family is waddling around like oversized human burratas. Speaking of my dad, if he were here, we’d probably be on the plane to Lisbon right now. He’s very practical. He probably wouldn’t mind spending a few extra euros if that meant getting home at a reasonable time and, you know, not camping in the airport for more than a day. But I’m not here with my mum or my dad, so inevitably, I’ve booked the wrong flight and I’m not about to try to change it. I’m feeling quite relaxed about the whole thing. Lisbon has been absolutely wonderful, and I don’t mind staying another day, even if that means touring the airport. Maybe I’ll meet new people, or finish the book I brought, or fall asleep and miss my flight and never leave! To be fair, I don’t have to stay in the airport. There’s nothing really stopping me from getting on the metro and seeing a little more of the city. I’m really not sure why I don’t want to get up and go. Maybe a part of me feels I’ve seen and done a lot these past few days and I need some down time. Maybe a part of me is lazy. Probably a part of me is curious to see what it’ll be like. I’ve been needing something to write about anyway. This is a strange new experience with none of the dangers of ket.
10:17
I’ve decided to write something every hour. I’m not sure how this’ll work when I try to sleep tonight, but since I’m alone in a foreign airport, waking up every hour to check that my bags and limbs are still where they’re supposed to be might be a good idea. This kind of reminds me of the 24 hour playwriting competition that Theatreworks (a local theatre company) does back in Singapore. The premise is that you sit in a room with a bunch of other aspiring writers and hobbyists for 24 hours, and over the course of the day, you produce a script. Every few hours, the organisers provide an element you have to use in the play. I did this once, but I’ve got a few amazing friends who have done it faithfully at least three times. This is kind of like that, except no organisers, no triggers, and no peers to battle sleep with. Okay, maybe it’s not quite the same thing. But you get what I mean.
I just had breakfast at Coffee Spoon. I say breakfast, but it’s already past 10 and it was a wrap. I don’t care what McDonald’s does — a wrap isn’t a breakfast food. It’s basically an inverted pizza. Pizza is lunch. I’m thinking I should try all the food places here and start leaving reviews for them. Do you think there are people out there who make a living off of reviewing airport food? My wrap had mushrooms, tomatoes, and rocket in it. It wasn’t very filling (considering it was 5 euros) but it made me feel healthy. Maybe they should have put some sort of sauce in it. Mayonnaise? I think I’ve been in the UK too long. I didn’t think I liked mayonnaise that much. Now that I think about it, I definitely don’t like mayonnaise enough to put it in a wrap. Especially not a wrap with rocket in it. Rocket reminds me of my mum. She loves rocket. I don’t, but it’s growing on me. I think mayonnaise might stunt my personal growth. Anyway. The cafe is alright. You can see the check in counter and the 24 hour lounge (which is where I reckon I’ll end up tonight) so it’s great for people-watching, except for the fact that I am seated behind a pillar. Correction: it’s great for people-watching when I turn around.
I haven’t told my parents about my situation yet. Now that I have the time to think about it, they know I’m flying off tomorrow — my mum’s been asking what time my flight leaves on the 24th, and I’ve been doggedly believing the 24th was a Thursday. I don’t want to worry anybody by saying I’m alone in an airport in Europe. I think I’ll try to stay alive for a couple more hours and then tell them. That way, they’ll at least know I’m capable of doing this for another few hours, and I’ll also be alive. Go me.
11:01
Guess who just got through two chapters of a book? It was me. I got through two chapters of a book. I’m reading Six Four by Hideo Yokoyama. It’s a crime novel about a detective/press director whose daughter has run away. I realise I’m not making the book sound particularly striking, but it is! That’s why I got through two chapters in under half an hour. Also because the chapters are incredibly short, but let’s pretend I never said that part.
I’m sitting in one of the waiting areas in the airport. There’s a guy asleep on the row of chairs behind me, and a lady sitting opposite me. Lisbon really likes mosaics, doesn’t it? This waiting area has a giant mosaic mural of influential scientists. I’m sitting next to Charles Darwin, the sleeping guy is sprawled out beside Isaac Newton, and the lady is seated facing Antonio Egas Moniz. Mosaics in general are really impressive, but I’m mostly just surprised at how much the artist has made Moniz look like Obama. Even his grey tile ears are Obama-y.
Politics scare me. Not knowing scares me. I’m the worst person when it comes to understanding global relations and governments and all that jazz, and it terrifies me that people like me just exist under people like them. If I don’t know what’s going on over my head, how will I ever know what’s best for me? I feel like a pig. Those guys can’t look up because of the way their necks are structured. Maybe we’re all little political piggies. Governments tell us the sky isn’t falling and we don’t know it really is until bits of outer space start hitting the ground around us. I feel like a blind advocate of change. I know things aren’t right, but I don’t know just how wrong they are. I want to make a difference, but I feel glued to my seat, strapped in like this is a Six Flags ride, watching everything around me whirl and switch places and I can’t focus. Trump, Brexit, Westminster. The refugee crisis, Syria, the stigmatisation of sex work. Child trafficking, slut shaming, casual racism. Does inequality exist on a spectrum? Is it fair to say one kind of social harm is worse than another?
I’ve been thinking a lot about privilege recently. I reckon I’ll write about that at length soon, but right now it feels appropriate to bring it up anyway. I know I’m privileged because I’m trapped in a beautiful, clean airport with spotless restrooms and a smattering of restaurant options. I keep thinking about all the people who can’t even make it to an airport, who are in an airport because they’re being sent away, who would leave if they could but who don’t have the means to. God. I’m so lucky to be here.
12:37
I TOOK A NAP IN THE AIRPORT!
13:20
The rain has started to fall full force. It’s good timing. We didn’t really get rain the whole time we were here. Don’t get me wrong, I love rain, but I’ve missed the sun. The heat has been wonderful.
14:00
I’m thinking about food. Probably because I just had lunch, also probably because I am always thinking about food anyway. I went to a different place for lunch; it’s a café type thing run by Heineken. I had a spinach quiche, which was weird for two reasons: 1) I don’t like quiche; 2) It had bacon in it. My brother loves quiche. Maybe I miss him more than I think. Also, I’ve definitely lost the taste for bacon and meat in general. It made my spinach taste funny. I’m vegetarian, but that’s because I don’t like animals dying for nothing. I wasn’t just going to not eat bits of dead pig to prove a point.
Another food thought: why do you think the traditional Portuguese pastry (Pasteis de Nata) is so similar to Hong Kong egg tarts? They’re conceptually identical, except the Pasteis de Nata is more custard-y and eggnog-y (and you eat it with cinnamon and sugar) whereas the egg tart is more egg-y. I guess it could be a complete coincidence, but was there ever an intersection between the Portuguese and the Cantonese that led to two cities miles apart manufacturing the same traditional pastry?
I had another Pasteis de Nata at the airport. I’m at a place called clocks because they have power plugs and my phone needs charging. I said it as a joke but now I really am quite determined to try something from all the food places here. I had French fries as well. They were pretty good. The cafe itself isn’t particularly fancy, and you get beggars going from table to table asking for change. It’s interesting. You don’t get that back in Singapore, especially not in the airport.
15:43
It’s weird to think that by this time tomorrow I’ll be back home doing my laundry or something. I mean. It’s weird to think I’ll eventually get home. Not weird that I’m going to be doing my laundry. Contrary to popular belief, I do wash my clothes.
16:29
Time is passing a lot faster than I thought it was going to. I’ve also read 26 more chapters of my book, which I didn’t think I could do. I think my literary skills have actually improved over the course of today alone. The last book I read was about children’s drawings. I can’t recall the last non-fiction book I read, which is okay, because I seriously doubt anybody cares. (Wow that came out angstier than I intended)
I can’t stop thinking about how much airports make me think of home. I think about flying home, of late night drives to the airport to pick my dad up from a work trip. Airports used to make me think about moving, about uprooting myself and just going. About unfamiliar climates and new cultures. It’s strange to feel that association completely turned on its head. Now I look at the people in the airport and I wonder how many of them are going home, how many of them have just left home, how many of them don’t have a home because they sleep in the waiting lounges or because they have too many places to be and people to hold.
I remember watching Contagion once and thinking about all the germs that fly around inside airport terminals. There’s always someone in an airport who’s sick. Right now, that someone is me. This cold is kind of hitting me hard.
17:35
I've officially been in this airport for eight hours. Which means I've only got 17 hours before I'm homebound! I think. Yeah. I can't do maths. I got bored so I thought I'd try to fit a bit of exercise into my day. I hid in a toilet cubicle and did a hundred squats. I'm quite pleased with myself. I think I'm getting fitter. I can feel the gains. I'm going to start counting macros. Watch out world, this is a whole new me.
18:54
I think I'm very close to having tried every food place in the airport. I've just been to My Bistro. Disappointed to learn it doesn't actually belong to me. Equally disappointed to discover it isn't very vegetarian friendly, but whatever was there looked good. I had a cream croissant. It was kind of stale, but it had sugar, so I'm not complaining. I feel like my writing has become rather pedantic. This is why you shouldn't run on two hours of sleep. Also, this airport has a spa. I'm not surprised because most airports do, but given the amount of time I have to kill, I'm very tempted to get something done. They have some interesting options: Mini Facial Treatment (for if your face is smaller than the average person's), Moroccan Treatment (I guess that's out for me. I'm Singaporean), and Vibrating Bed (does this one need an explanation?)
19:42
I'm having coffee!! Coffee always makes me miss working and waiting tables. I wouldn't like coffee if not for my job waitressing. It makes me wonder if I'd ever have become a coffee person at all if I'd never gotten that job. Strange how big things can change small parts of your personality. My mum's a coffee drinker. I don't think she's ever told me how she got into coffee. Or maybe she did, and I just wasn't listening.
20:27
This airport’s network connection is not very good. Also, I’ve been reading about the Mulan movie and I honestly don’t feel like any of the news is bad news. They’re not whitewashing the cast, they’re focusing more on Mulan as a fighter and less on the love story, and there’s going to be Mandarin!! Why are we angry? Because she isn’t going to sing? Come on. I remember my mother being annoyed by the animated film. The Chinese characters sit in a Japanese house on a tatami mat, and there’s a love interest. “This is nothing like the legend,” she said when the credits started to roll.
21:27
I’ve officially been in this airport for twelve hours. A whole day! I’m currently sitting opposite a French man who’s been on the phone for a good thirty minutes. I love listening to foreign languages, accents, people speaking. I do not, however, enjoy phone calls. There’s just too much pressure, and everyone around you can hear what you’re saying. Unless, I guess, you speak French, and the only person near you is a monolingual Singaporean girl.
I’m starting to realise why airports feel so otherworldly. Nobody’s a native in an airport. Everyone is foreign, everyone’s just stopping by temporarily. I feel at home because I’m sure I’m just as ephemeral a presence as the next guy. Things are different when you’re at university or in a city centre. It’s obvious I don’t belong, or that I belong less than the man walking tall in front of me at a traffic junction. At an airport, who can tell me I’m not meant to be here?
The security guards. They can kick me out. Which is the main reason I’m not sleeping in the waiting area anymore. If I’m going to camp in a foreign airport, I’m going to at least make sure I’m allowed to get to customs.
22:51
This is definitely the longest article I’ve ever written. I’m not so good at sustaining ideas over long periods of time. Harebrained.
The French guy has fallen asleep on the floor. A cleaner came by earlier, but she’s disappeared into the other terminal. There’s an old man who’s been wrapping his things in masking tape for the past ten minutes. If I thought this morning was quiet, the airport is currently a ghost town. There were some children around before, but now they’ve all gone, and apart from the masking tape man, everyone else is foggy-eyed and quiet. A handful of people are gathering their things and getting ready to leave. I want to ask them where they’re going. I wonder how many of them would actually tell me. I know I wouldn’t.
They’ve closed the 24 hour waiting area for cleaning, so I’ve moved to the top floor of the airport, just outside the spa (which is closed. Update: I never got to try their vibrating beds). I’m wearing shorts and the speckled grey marble floor is cold. I’m leaning against the white tile wall. Opposite me is a glass railing; I have an excellent view of the check-in counters. They’re all closed. I never thought I’d ever see an airport so empty. I always thought there must constantly be people waking up and leaving the country, that at any point there must be thousands of people waiting to depart and arrive. I guess that’s how it feels like in Singapore. Everyone’s always on the go, always moving. I’m sure Changi Airport is bustling at 10pm. I don’t think the little red dot sleeps. An insomnious nation.
23:41
I can’t stop thinking about all the lovely people I’ve met by chance. The friend I met through a random pen pal pairing. The friend I met because she called the wrong Gabrielle and then proceeded to invite me out anyway. The friend I met because we both tried to photograph each other in a museum. It’s funny how life throws people together.
But then there’s also the friends you meet because of other people, like my best friends from primary school who wouldn’t be my best friends if we hadn’t been seated next to each other in class by the form teacher, like my university friends who I wouldn’t have met if not for being in the same seminar groups or lectures. It blows me away. There are so many people out there, and I got to talk to so many great ones.
There’s a lady asleep beside me. She came up to me and asked if I thought she could sleep here. I said probably. She came prepared — she’s got a sleeping bag and a pillow and everything. That’s the kind of traveller I’ll hopefully be one day. A sleeping bag traveller. You know they’re a seasoned traveller when they have a sleeping bag. Maybe I should just buy a sleeping bag and fake it til I make it.
I don’t know this woman, but it’s sort of comforting to hear her breathing and know that she’s there, less than a metre away from me. Is it because I got used to staying in a hostel with thirteen other girls? Or maybe it’s because she reminds me of my mother. The long limbs and determined jaw, the practical hair and slim eyebrows. Maybe it isn’t even that. Maybe it’s just the thought of someone wanting to share my space. Not invade it, not talk into it or change it. Just to be here. When I was smaller I was always scared of scaring people off. I was afraid of disagreements and voicing strong opinions because I thought I’d end up chasing my friends away. I guess a part of me still feels that. A part of me still takes solace in silent solidarity, in not having to worry about taking sides and soothing the opposition.
Is it bad that I hate confrontation?
(I know you think otherwise of me. You always shied away from talking it out, and I always pulled you back into conversations you didn’t want to be in. I’m sorry.)
00:18
I wonder what time security starts letting people in here in Lisbon.
The airport is kind of homey now that there’s barely anyone in it. It reminds me of being back in school, sprawled out against a grey pillar at night, the hot night air almost in my face and hair, but not quite. I miss nights spent in school in sweaty school uniforms. You know the feeling when you’re alone on the tenth floor of the building and you see someone walk past you across the corridor? I miss that feeling. What do you call it? Recognition? I miss being alone in a place full of people I love. I never realised how full my heart felt all through SOTA. Sometimes university feels vast and lonely. I sit by myself and don’t recognise anyone who walks past. I feel surrounded by people I could know but don’t have the energy to.
1:24
I got up to go for a walk (and also to scout for crisps) and there are actually so many sleeping bag people everywhere. Against walls, on chairs, in corners. There’s now another guy sleeping outside the spa. It’s kind of cool how raw everything feels. You can see the fatigued hitchhikers and the perky gap year cliques and the middle aged couples who have fallen asleep on each other. There’s nothing glossy about this big marble airport. There’s a certain stillness. A kind of humanness.
I caught the cleaning lady doing donuts on the ride-on cleaning machine.
3:49
No 2 AM log because I fell asleep. I can’t decide if it was good sleep or bad sleep. I didn’t wake up with a sore neck, but I did wake up feeling very cold. I forgot how much your body temperature drops when you sleep. It’s all good though, because I am back at the Spoon cafe and I have green tea. My hands and chest are at odds with each other — do I drink the tea and warm my insides or hold it in my hands to heat them up?
I drank the tea. I am feeling considerably warmer.
When I woke up just now, the man had disappeared. The woman was still curled up, asleep in her purple sleeping bag. Again, there was something comforting about seeing her still there.
I forgot to say that I told my family about being stuck at the airport. They were surprisingly calm about the whole thing. But then again, so was I. Maybe our whole family is just unaffected and cool. We’re everything that mysterious boys in teen novellas dream about being.
It’s my dad’s birthday. He’s got work tonight.
4:38
Time seems to be passing really, really fast. The airport is coming to life again; the check-in counters are open, people are strolling through the terminal, a coffee machine is being powered on.
I’m back outside the spa. The sleeping bag woman is still here, still asleep. I think I’ll read a little bit before I try to go into the departures area. Last I checked, there was a long queue to get in.
5:39
I am lazy. I still haven’t checked whether I can get in or not. I’ve spent the past hour looking at tattoos. I really do want more, but it’s so hard for me to feel like I own my body when I’ve grown up in a culture that defers to parents and family about everything, including what I can or cannot do with my skin. It frustrates me. Also, I think the lack of sleep is getting to me.
6:41
I made it through security! More importantly, I managed to convince myself to actually get off the floor and move towards the gates. I am now having an overpriced panini with mozzarella, basil, and tomatoes. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in the past twenty-odd hours, it’s that airport food isn’t very kind to vegetarians. No pastas or pizzas or wraps for this girl! Just sandwiches. Paninis are sandwiches too, right?
I am realising that it is not basil. It’s rocket. I swear my mum is omnipotently controlling everything that goes on in my life. How else could you explain the abundance of rocket in my diet today?
10:41
Can you believe I fell asleep again? Don’t worry. I did not miss my flight. I hope. I’m in the plane. If it doesn’t end up in Birmingham I guess I’ll just do this all again.
