Disembarking for transfer at Singapore I'm asked to remove my hat: they are scanning every passing noggin for burning fever. Welcome to the strict wealthy kingdom just spittin' distance from the Equator. But don't spit: you'll be fined.
There was no sign of Air Force One on the tarmac and the airport wasn't flooded with BBC reporters, so I went looking for a bar. But first things first: a stop at the restroom. It had an attendant and was perfect, of course. There was a touch screen at the exit letting me rate my experience. It showed a portrait of the proud attendant. I tapped on "excellent".
Just past the Starbucks was a bar called The World Is Flat. Plush chairs and Muzak, a bartender with tats all up both arms and gauged ear lobes. He had a dozen different gins. I chose Hendrick's, in honor of my wife. I'm back in the over-developed world.
A couple of these suckers and I reckon I'll sleep well on the long overnight flight to Melbourne. If I can pull myself together to find the gate...