Christian awoke with a start as the cabin lights flickered on in preparation for landing. He was surprised that he’d been able to sleep. When his editor had told him that he would be on Flight 21, he had resigned himself to eighteen hours of torture. He looked out the window and saw a bright grid of yellow light.
As he left the plane he gave a nod to the pretty flight attendant with the sad eyes. He had not checked a bag—God willing, he would not be here for long. He went to the hotel, and slept…
He awoke to the sound of his mobile ringing. His editor was calling, asking about his progress so far. Christian looked at the clock. “Gut, gut,” he mumbled into the phone. Yes, he would have a draft sent tomorrow. Yes, he would remember what they talked about. The Welt am Sonntag wanted a travel piece about Singapore. A really dumb travel piece: so many bankers had to do business in the Oriental these days that the Welt decided to run an article to cater to those banker’s spouses who might be interested in traveling along. Christian suspected that the Singapore Travel Bureau had kicked a nice sum over to the paper in exchange for the puff piece.
Needless to say, Christian felt a little used. He had decided to do something different even before the plane had left Newark. Now, all he needed were stories. He hopped in the elevator and walked outside. People (robots?) marched in suits passed him. Christian decided to walk a few blocks, and within five minutes passed two Prada outlets and a billboard reminding residents about the ban on chewing gum in the country. Perfect. Trashing this spotless city was going to be easier than he had thought.
Christian went promptly back to his hotel room and began his piece. “Singapur ist die schrecklichste Stadt, die ich kenne.”
Singapore is the worst city I know.
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