I’m in Paris now. The apartment, easily gotten via Airbnb, is cosy (read: small) and even has a loft.
Hours ago, Yirui and I headed to the Embassy of Singapore in Paris to offer our condolences to the late Lee Kuan Yew.
The premises were foreboding, with great black gates hiding all view of the small compound.
We hesitated for a while before I stepped forward to press the small doorbell. The intercom chirped and a French-accented voice greeted up.
“Hello? ”
“Hi, we’re Singaporeans. We’re here to pay respects to Lee Kuan Yew. ”
It sounded weird, but we were allowed in and an old suited Singaporean man pointed us to the main door.
The building had high ceilings and not much else. A upper-middle-aged woman received us warmly, and all I could think of was how much I needed to meet another Singaporean.
The room with the book of condolences was emptier still; aside from pictures framed on the walls, there was a table in the centre which held a vase of white flowers, the book and a framed picture of Mr. Lee, subtitled Mr. Lee Kuan Yew 1923-2015.
Somewhere in the midst of my condolences, I wrote that “My words are unsure and my adjectives weak.”
And why wouldn’t they be?
I’m stuck between travel companions who hate each other and I’m burnt out. This trip of a lifetime is becoming a disaster that I’m stuck with!
Why do trips always turn out this way?
I’ve 20 days to go, fuck! Give me strength to find happiness where I can’t.
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