Losing hair

There was a time when making polite conversation used to mean talking about innocuous topics, like the weather for example. When I met a friend, he’d remark:

“Hi Paddy. Very hot weather we’re having lately, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mike,” I’d say (if his name were Mike). And I might comment about the sharp difference in weather between Singapore and Chicago.

Alternatively we would talk about sports. He might ask me if I watched last night’s tennis match between Nadal and Federer and whether I agreed with him that it was awesome. I would answer both questions in the affirmative and go on to compare the match with another one the two gentlemen played last year.

Or it could be movies. Or politics. You get the idea.

While these topics are innocuous, there is a school of thought that says they lack zing, that they are boring, precisely because they are innocuous. Books have been written on the subject, with titles like How to Convert a Conversation into a Friendship. To save you the cost of buying one and then the torture of reading it, let me summarize the wisdom it will impart:

Magical Orlando

It’s a long way from Singapore to Orlando, but when I fly on the impeccable Singapore Airlines, time flies too. After 19 hours of non-stop pampering, I landed in New York, and by trotting briskly, was lucky to squeeze into a Continental Airlines flight earlier than planned.

My luck did not extend to getting a glorious seat. Squashed between two comfortably-built ladies who had already laid claim to the armrests, I tucked my elbows in and sat upright, but despite the cramped position, fell asleep. When I awoke, I was pleased that we were in the air but dismayed that my neighbours had both been served dinner, which surprisingly looked edible. The two flight attendants – grim arm wrestlers in their fifties – were several feet ahead serving others. There was a call button above my seat to summon service but in America, this is purely ornamental. You never actually press it, unless you’re ready to take on the stewardess in unarmed combat. So I watched in agony as my companions devoured sandwiches, chips and cookies with relish.

In my hotel room at 11 p.m., having reduced a giant sandwich to mere crumbs, I went to bed but couldn’t go to sleep. I tried lying on my back, my side and my stomach (one at a time). I even tried sitting upright with elbows tucked in. But sleep wouldn’t come. My body was still sweltering in the mid-morning heat of Singapore.

Shanghai – a city reaching for the sky

The Shanghai immigration officer briskly stamps my passport, smiles and presses a button. A panel on the counter lights up, inviting me to rate his service. I press “Very Satisfied” like others did before me. Perhaps he smiles and moves fast only for the sake of the rating; perhaps he is intrinsically grumpy and slow; but perhaps that is the point.

Outside, another smiling Chinese drives me to the city. He is keen to share knowledge about Shanghai and I’m keen to imbibe it, but we make little headway.

“Pledges,” he says, nodding and pointing vaguely to the left, “Hangpu pledge, Nanpu pledge… many pledges.” 

I’m thinking pledges are ancient Buddhist teachings by venerable monks. I conjure up an image of a Buddhist temple, with sacred shrines amidst quiet green lawns and shady trees. Closing my eyes, I can almost smell the incense…

“Pledge!” the driver cries. 

I look to where he points. A modern structure looms over the river.

“Bridge!” I say.

Melbourne, a city of cafes

As I exited Melbourne airport, an Asian gentleman in a smart suit holding a placard with my name came forward smiling and helped me with my luggage.

“How are you, Sir? And how was the flight?”

Well, I had flown with the impeccable Singapore Airlines on their new Airbus 380; the flight was on time; the landing was smooth; the morning air was crisp and the sky was blue. There was little to complain about, but I managed.

“Seven hours!” I said, “Too short for an overnight flight – I couldn’t sleep well.”

He nodded sympathetically. “You need coffee,” he said (where a lesser man might have said, “You need a kick in the pants”). He hurried off to get me a steaming latte and refused my offer to pay. His gesture lightened my mood. The excellent coffee boosted it further. And driving to the city listening to this cheerful Pakistan immigrant with an MBA talking in Hindi with Lata Mangeshkar singing on the car music system (also in Hindi), made me positively buoyant. Without a trace of bitterness, he told me how he had switched from a career in sales and marketing to driving a taxi.