Two weekends ago, DH and I were in Singapore for several meetings. Our flight back to KL was at 7 pm (delayed by 40 minutes, but we didn’t mind a bit because Singapore Airport Terminal 1 is always such a pleasure to stay in), giving me the chance to see the airport as we were taking off during one of most magical time for photographers, i.e. just before sunset. The long rays of the orange sun bathed the airport in an ethereal glow. The planes were lined up neatly at their respective gates, like replicas put into place by a child at play. Dusk slowly drew its veil over the earth and I watched, dazzled, as the painted sky turned from misty blue to a kaleidoscope of orange, red, pink, and purple hues.
Singapore’s Changi Airport was as busy as ever, so I wasn’t surprised when the plane had to queue at the tarmac, waiting for its turn to take off. Plane after plane after plane went through the routine that I’ve seen hundreds (perhaps thousands?) of times — turning slowly on to the runway, building up speed, going faster and faster until, as though by magic, its wings are suddenly airborne and the rest of its huge metal body follows suit.
As I gasped silently, marveling at the miracle of flight as though I were seeing it for the first time, memories came flooding back of a debate with a former classmate at the Alliance Française Kuala Lumpur.
