The city-state of Singapore sweats wealth.

Its location at the very tip of the Malay peninsula has been a strategic crossroad of commerce and trade for centuries, which has catapulted the economy of this country that nowadays heavily relies on shipping, services and banking. The close Equator line has provided a constant summer-like weather of sticky afternoons and mild nights for centuries.

Tired from the standby duty and flight, I venture to Orchard Road for a light meal of spicy noodles, quenching the heat with the red brew of a cold Singapore Sling, whilst the hot weather in the afternoon works as a charm for some relaxation time at the rooftop swimming pool.

     ‘I was tired and went to the pool today. From the rooftop, I could see how densely-populated Singapore is. The buildings seem to never end. I think today is a Monday but I am just chillin’ by the pool in one of the most exotic places I have yet been to. Not bad at all.’

For once, I spend the next morning sleeping and catching up on some rest, whilst I munch on my room-serviced breakfast. The city outside the window turns busy and some twenty floors below, kids wear white uniforms to school.
My crew and I return to Changi Airport, where our aircraft has just landed for its continuation to Jakarta. The flight is a short one-hour and ten minutes hop over Java. With a full flight, two hundred and eight five trays are distributed, served and collected in a frenzy of plastic cutlery and half-chewed pasta. I wipe the sweat from my forehead whilst our aircraft points its nose down to the Indonesian capital.

A large blond lady smiles and, with a thick Essex accent, exclaims:

‘I’ve been watching you through the flight and I have to say you have a beautiful persona, and your smile is amazing’ . I blush and accept the compliment with a smile that accompanies me through landing.

At Soekarno-Hatta Airport, the thatched roofs shelter a combination of terminals built in red bricks. The hot tropical air penetrates in a burst of exotic draft through the immigration room, where we are stamped into the country for the shortest layover ever. Close to the airport, the avenues jam in clouds of dirty exhaust smoke, blue taxis dangerously cruising next to heavy lorries.
At the hotel, the thatched roofs shelter buildings of spa-like open areas and rooms. The still water of the infinite pool overlooks at a lagoon in which thousands of frogs sing through the tropical night.

I feast on a buffet of Indonesian food for the mere sum of seven US dollars, the colourful Indonesian Rupee notes for a minute invoking a fantasy of wealth enhanced by a large number of zeros.
Antacid, rest and two movies. My phone rings and it is time to operate the shuttle to Singapore.

Drops of monsoon rain heavily fall over the airport tarmac, delaying our departure for thirty minutes. The passengers, smothered by the tropical heat, request for water and our time on the ground becomes busier than our time airborne. Two hours later, I see how our aircraft magically glides over an endless lineup of vessels docked across the Singapore Straits. The sea, black in its nocturnal phase, reflects the light of the decks now empty of any seafarers.

A fellow crew member announces that new rosters are available and I rush to the crew lounge to check mine on my laptop:

– My month starts with a short layover in Kathmandu. My second time in the Nepalese capital to be spent in the countryside of this idyllic Himalayan getaway.

– Abu Dhabi night stop is next. A duty-free opportunity perhaps.

– Requested, I will visit Ho Chi Minh City, the largest city in Southern Vietnam. I have the long layover, which allows plenty of time for sightseeing.
A row of double sectors both precede and succeed this layover. ‘Tray basketball’ to be played around Kuwait, Bahrain, Dubai and Abu Dhabi.

– Office duties are next. Restraining and Airbus A340 training. A whole week on the ground and a chance to see my batch mates again.

– Paris. Say no more.

– Rome. I smile.

– Three days off. Sigh of relief.

– Beirut turnaround and Ho Chi Minh again. Good.

I sleep with a smile on my face, whilst at ten in the morning, my flip-flops swipe through the footpaths of Clemenceau Avenue.
At Clarke Quay, steel trees extend their optic fiber branches to the blue sky, the creek below as pristine as the streets dissecting an island in which chewing gum has been prohibited, and littering is the most utterly sin imaginable.
The sleepy boat ride along the Singapore River cruises in between banks of exaggeratedly tall buildings, which pile next to each other in a shoreline only interrupted by the sea, where a white lion that vomits litres and litres of water through its open mouth represents the identity of the country.

Once I return to the Atrium, I fall asleep in the comfort of a poolside futon, whilst the thirty-four degrees Celsius reigning the Singaporean air are once against quenched by glasses of Slings.
At night, my crew and I meet at the lobby and take the bus to the airport at a time in which the city sleeps and the tall apartment buildings look like hollow ghosts of tropical abandonment.

Although the flight is full, the seven hours necessary for the return trip to Doha are spent in good spirits.
I learn something important on this trip: the success of a layover at times does depend on the crew you travel with. We play with the food carts, take pictures, laugh, eat and gossip.

Upon landing, I am unable to sleep due to some demolition works next to my building. Two days-off are next, before the daunting turnarounds to Athens and Cairo.