THE ETERNAL SUMMER
You are sweating. You can taste the salt on your skin. You have read everything you can get your hands on about Singapore. But you still know nothing. The island is a mystery. An unseen wave of pure heat hits you in the face as you exit the lush, cool hyper air-conditioned Changi Airport. You’re sweating so much, it’s like you’re fucking. You jump into a taxi. You are on your way to the hotel. You look out the window. Big, bellowing cumulonimbus clouds hang in the deep blue sky. Trees of all species and shapes and sizes casting a kaleidoscope of shadows on the tarmac. You can’t believe how green everything is. The taxi enters the heart of the city. A thousand skyscrapers arranged in a tight, dizzying constellation of varying degrees of late modernism(s). An immense list of star architects. Zaha Hadid, check. Moshe Safdie, check. I.M. Pei, check. Ole Scheeren, check. You exit the taxi. You can hardly breathe. It is so impossibly humid. The hotel lobby is freezing. You check in. You are in your hotel room. You hear someone having sex next door. The room is freezing. The windows can’t be opened. You realise you’re in a love hotel. Nothing feels real. You lie on the double bed. You listen to the soft hum of the air-conditioning. You close your eyes. Mysteries unfold, secrets laid bare.