My Indo-bud Mel moved back to Jakarta not long ago. I keep track of her via facebook, and she recently posted something there about taking her college-aged kids on a sentimental journey back to Singapore over the holidays, the place where her son was born. When she mentioned an excursion out to Sentosa Island, I quickly typed a reply, saying something like "Ooh! We spent a whole weekend there with the kids once. Had a blast!" It wasn't until much later, as I sat sifting through memories from that weekend, that I dredged up one that wasn't really fun at all. In fact, it was pretty much a nightmare, and if it had happened anyplace other than Singapore, the least "seedy" city I've ever been to... well, I don't even want to go there.
It all started when I was flipping through one of those "what's going on" magazines that had been left in our hotel room, and discovered that the broadway hit Les Miserables -- the musical I had heard so much about but never seen -- was playing in Singapore that very weekend. Oh how I longed to see it, but tickets would be expensive, if we could get them at all, the kids were too young to appreciate it, transportation from the island would be a problem, etc. My reasons for not going were numerous, but one by one, John shot them down, securing tickets, suggesting pizza delivery and a hotel sitter for the kids (my friends used them all the time, though I never had), and even placing a request for a taxi to come out to the island (via a causeway) to pick us up. So off we went.
It was fabulous. It was magical. It was everything I had imagined, and more -- until about 3/4 of the way through the play, when it started to rain. And thunder. The rain turned into a roaring deluge that went on and on, drowning out the singers' voices, and making us extremely nervous over the odds of our taxi driver's having come back just to fetch us, as we had requested. We were right to have worried, for as in any huge city where few people own cars, the harder it rains, the more scarce the taxis become. By the time we made our way out of the the theatre, there wasn't a one to be had.
We wandered the streets for a good long while, doing our best not to get lost, hoping we'd find a stray taxi once we got away from the crowd at the music hall. No such luck. Of course, we had no cell phones back then, so we couldn't call for one, or even call our sitter to warn her that we might be late. Very, very late. Eventually we managed to find a bus that was still running, despite the hour, and it got us a lot closer to the start of the causeway, but then we had to cross it on foot -- a rather risky thing to do even at the best of times, but especially in blackest night, during a thunder storm! Our only saving grace was the lack of traffic at that hour. It was probably only a mile or two across, but without umbrellas or raincoats, wearing high heels, and worrying with the sound of each approaching car whether we might get clipped, well, it felt more like fifty. We eventually made it safely across, but then had to hike up a long, climbing driveway to reach the hotel. It must have been well after 2:00 a.m. before we finally made it back to our room, looking like drowned rats. The sitter looked ready to burst into tears when she saw us. No telling what she'd been imagining. Knowing my hubby, I'm sure he made it worth her while, and got the concierge to order a taxi for her trip home. As for our kids? Well, they had konked out shortly after we departed (they'd had a very busy day!), and woke up a few hours after our return, as cheerful as could be and rarin' to go, completely oblivious to their parents' mad escapade.
You know, most of our misadventures have made for the very best, most humorous stories in years to come. But this one? This one still just gives me the creeps.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment