As a child, my grandmother and I would often spend the day at Changi Airport in Singapore. We weren’t going anywhere; we’d just sit at the head of the Skytrain with a bag of french fries from McDonalds at Terminal 3 between our knees, shuttling from one terminal to the next. It felt like a vacation.
We might go to Terminal 1 to watch planes touch down, or visit the secret staff canteen at the basement of Terminal 2, behind an unlabeled door, where we could get chendol and char kway teow at local-hawker prices.
