Singapore Air Flight 421, originating from Mumbai, India, arrived 10 minutes early on a Wednesday night last month. My bags were checked to my final destination, so I was completely free to roam the airport's two transit terminals. I figured the first thing to do was to indulge. I got a massage.
A female friend had urged me to do the works: back, feet, pedicure, manicure. I wasn't so daring. I wanted just to relax, and I didn't have to wait long. Just a four-minute walk from my gate was a corner called The Oasis, which included a massage parlor, My Foot Reflexology.
For the next 45 minutes, Jenny massaged my feet, head, shoulders, and back. I gladly paid $21, and left feeling like I could float.
I thought about pulling over for a nap, but I had so much to do: e-mails to check, shopping to do, and the chance for discoveries -- my children would surely want to hear new stories about this airport that had taken on legendary status in their eyes. After 15 minutes of free Internet at one of several clusters of computers (friends from Egypt, Indonesia, India, and the United States had sent New Year's greetings), I decided I needed a plan.
Just a few yards away was an information desk. I had already picked up Changi Airport maps, brochures, and a 16-page tabloid called the Changi Express, but it felt like information overload.
And so I proceeded to ask a bewildering number of questions of poor Farhana Shaheed, the information officer on duty. Where was the pool? A sporting goods store? Flower gardens? Movie theater? Skytrain that linked Terminals 1 and 2?
''Oh," Shaheed said worriedly, as my questions ended. ''You are acting just like an auditor. Sometimes they send people like you around to check on me."
I said not to worry, that I just had time to kill.
''No, I think you are an auditor."
''Well," I said, trying to put her at ease, ''if I was, I would give you high marks."
