I remember once – when I was 8 or 9, at a time when my parents jetted frequently between Singapore and Taiwan – my sister and I had to brave a flight back home ourselves, as my mother was held back by some matters and was thus unable to fly with us.
So there we were, two kids on a flight, left in the care of the cabin crew who were more than happy to provide me with all the amenities a boy could as for.
The plane made a stopover in Hong Kong. We parked at the apron and not next to a boarding bridge, as was the norm; passengers had to be shuttled to the terminal by those low, wide-bodied buses. Everyone had to get off the plane except us two.
I roamed freely as ground staff went about their way refreshing the cabin; upholsteries were cleaned, seat pockets emptied, and their contents rearranged. There must have been three or more vacuum cleaners whirring away. Bored of asking for more Coke from the stewardness who stayed behind with us, I ventured up to the one exit left opened.
I remember standing at the door of the 747, and looking out at the whole Kai Tak airport as the winter wind blasted my face. Howling, the wind fought to make itself heard above the roars of jet engines; I had never thought an airport could sound terrifying.
Alone at the top of the passenger step, I felt like I was standing at the top of the world, a kid small yet privileged in an adult world made of all things large and noisy and mysterious in their mechanized ways.
3 Comments
Was your hair curly then too?
Yes, though I like to think of it as wavey.
Is he curly everywhere else too?
Puck