Round the World in 13 Days - Part 1

They say it’s often better to travel than to arrive. If that was the case somebody would be offering circular flights that bring you back to the place you’ve just left.

Personally I’m waiting for molecular transportation to be invented. I’d have no problem with my body been split into atoms and reassembled instantaneously at the other side of the world. You never know, they might mess up and I’d be put together again looking like Brad Pitt. It’s a better risk to take than losing your luggage in the modern world.

But if you are going to travel long distances, then flying at the front of the bus is the only way to do it, particularly when you are as rotund as I am. So thankfully that’s where I sat as I set off to travel around the world in thirteen days.

My first stop was Singapore, seven hours and change from Melbourne, which seemed measly when I contemplated the journey yet to come. Singapore is one of my favourite destinations. I got there at midnight and the steamy smell hit me first with a kick of recognition. There is an aroma which is distinctly Singaporean and conjures up images of outdoor food courts with tailless cats scurrying between the legs of sweaty cooks.

I took a walk to clear my head after the long flight and came across a late night market. I grabbed a ridiculously cheap Nasi Goreng and hit the hay, dreaming of airplane tail lights and the never ending hum of jet engines.

I awoke with one of those uncomfortable feelings you get when you can’t remember which country you are in, never mind which bed. I had entered the room in darkness the night before and forgot to close the curtains. The sultry Singaporean morning woke me and I stumbled sleepily to the window to admire the view. The sight was incredible. Gambling has always been illegal in Singapore, but they have watched enviously as millions of Asians pass through the casinos of Macau each year to fill their minds with dreams while emptying their wallets.

Singapore has finally embraced this gambling culture and is building two massive casinos to cash in (if you’ll excuse the pun). The one at Marina Bay is almost complete and filled the view from my hotel window. As an Irishman, I know many people in the building trade and I have been known to spend a passing minute or two on the Discovery Building channel. The Marina Bay Casino surpasses anything I’ve seen before and no doubt is being built by all those Irish engineers who are at a loose end since the Celtic Tiger picked up his ball and said he wasn’t playing anymore.

I spent the day in the Singapore office, pretending to work but really just waiting for Happy Hour to start. A beer in this otherwise cheap City can cost $15 which is about the same as you’d pay for a three course meal. So Happy Hour is the only way to go. My drinking buddy for the night suggested a food court in the City Centre called Lau Pau Sat. Apparently it has some of the best hawker food in the country. I’d like to provide a culinary report on this but unfortunately we never got past the beer counter which was selling jugs of Tiger Beer at marginally less than the cost of a small home.

We attacked the beer with the thirst of men that can only be created by the sort of humidity that Singapore is happy to provide. When Happy Hour finished, it had succeeded in its promised objective. We merrily made our way down to Boat Quay, where Nick Leeson used to party with the other red faced expats. We took out a mortgage and bought a couple of beers. I believe we spent the last hour plotting the takeover of the Asian Investment Industry, but we probably just talked about football.

I jumped in to a cab and when we got to the airport, I handed the driver all the Singaporean money I had in my wallet and told him to keep the change with the sort of grand gesture normally reserved for Arab sheiks and rock stars. He counted my collection of coins and told me I was $1.50 short. He smiled and said I could treat it like a reverse tip. My opinion of taxi drivers changed instantly and I promised myself that I would repay this karma. Thankfully, I had the opportunity ten days later.

The flight to London was long, hot and uncomfortable, despite the extra room provided by the Business Class seat and the copious amounts of alcohol that the crew ply on you after take-off in an effort to make everyone sleep. But at least I did get to see the new Woody Allen movie ‘Whatever Works’. Not one of Woody’s best it must be said, but it still had more laugh out loud moments than the rest of the dross offered on the Qantas entertainment system. Unfortunately, loud guffaws are fine if you are in a movie theatre sharing the experience with a couple of hundred like minded fans or watching a DVD in the privacy of your home. It’s not such a polite thing to do when you are locked in a tin box at 35,000 feet with 300 other sleeping passengers.

Mind you, it wasn’t as bad as the experience I had later on that flight while watching ‘Bruno’. In a movie filled with embarrassing scenes, there is one where Mr Cohen displays his John Thomas on screen for what seems an eternity. After 30 seconds or so I had to look away and caught the eye of the old age pensioner across the aisle. He looked at my screen and then back at me with a look of shock. I struggled to find the off button on the remote control beneath my blanket before realising that my furtive scrambling was giving out the completely wrong message!