Singapore, 6:15am

A woman in a headscarf walks by, trailed by two girls in Islamic school uniform, like black and white ducks following their more colorful mother. A kid in a square cap comes next, and a old, old, old Chinese man, who should be smoking an opium pipe, but isn't, and is smoking a cigarette instead. I'm wearing shorts and flip-flops. It's already almost 85°F/30°C, and the humidity hangs from the low sky in invisible curtains. I can't sleep any more, even though it's just six fifteen in the morning. We arrived last night, greasy and butt-sore, twelve hours off our schedule, twenty-six hours later. Numbers are confusing. That's why I am drinking a cup of too-sweet Nescafe and watching Singapore wake up, happy to already be sweating into my pants, happy to be wearing sandals and feel the heat, happy to smell that smell of rotting and spicy food frying and damp air. Happy to be here.