By Johnny Sandelson
There are many things to consider when packing for a business trip. Experience has taught me to be very selective. I pack what I anticipate I’ll need for each morning, and then I rely on the hotel to turn my laundry around. It’s efficient, in theory, but as I write this account, I realise I should have considered items more akin to the item people are permitted to take with them at the end of Desert Island Discs.
I had two important meetings to go to on the upcoming Monday, and a friend to dine with on Saturday, so I caught the Thursday night flight from London, and landed on Friday night.
Oddly, I found that my flight in a first-class cabin was stripped of allure when it was completely empty. It looks more like the set of a Seventies furniture shop, and the lack of passengers was eerie. That combined with an over-friendly crew was unsettling; too much service, too much attention. I imagined it was akin to having the best seats in a stadium of one of this new era’s‘closed football matches’ - no one to cheer with, no one to compare notes with.
When I arrive in Singapore, it is to a vast, and empty airport. The luxury shops clearly need to be kept open, but the staff look confused and slightly embarrassed. I’ve always wondered who buys duty free on arrival, especially the giant Toblerone bars, so for the first time, I bought one. It was probably just the lack of queue, and as a fellow retailer, I was perhaps keen to show empathy on what was clearly a difficult day’s trade.
My father always told me to be luxury-driven when travelling abroad in a crisis. The empty, eerie journey had concluded in my mind that this was now a crisis, and as I hadn’t had the time to book a hotel, I planned to follow his advice. Truth be told, even if it hadn’t been, I would still have headed to Raffles.
A marvelously empty hotel opened up in front of me: Raffles has a distinctive, dramatic high Victorian lobby, an Imperial-era merchant hotel, newly polished up, it has kept its grandeur and status intact.
Once I was installed in my room, the truth is, it didn’t really feel like a crisis at all. There weren’t face masks on the other guests, nor any obvious signifier of what was going on outside. I did receive the odd temperature reading, and I did notice a profusion of hastily installed plastic hand sanitiser dispensers which stood in the lobby - they obviously hadn’t been part of the original intricately interior designed experience.
My story now jumps to Sunday morning. I awoke with a light fever, and mild flu symptoms. Conscious of Covid-19, and of my meetings the following day, I asked the hotel for a doctor, and assured myself I was just being cautious - “it can’t be that. I would know if It was that,’ I told myself. So I followed the hotel concierge’s advice, and jumped into a hotel car for a quick ride for a test in the local private hospital.
The hospital was like a different world. For all the careful concealment of fear and chaos that the hotel had achieved, the hospital revealed the true story of the pandemic. The concrete underground car park had been converted into a pop-up screening room. It looked like a set from an HBO blockbuster depicting an urban pandemic, with actors in medical outfits, direct from the costume department. It was my first sight of medics in plastic Hazmat suits, goggles and masks: a long way from hospital stays in the Princess Grace for arranged minor surgeries. This was very different, with new mesasures of efficiency and precaution trying to keep up with the mounting chaos, and the chaos was winning.
I could see perfect lines of empty plastic chairs, temporary canvas tents housing teams of medics working long shifts. I had a quick flashback to my recent ski trip St. Moritz, when I was led to another ambulance to go to a public hospital for tests, chest X-rays and an overview – on that occasion, I was told I would be discharged.
If the private hospital had been the set for an HBO medical drama, the public hospital was the season finale. Here in Singapore, there was a ratio of around 50 staff to each patient. The other chap waiting looked like he just wanted a cure for a heavy night out. I was tested, heavily referenced and indexed, and sent on my way. I took a taxi back to my hotel.
Anybody who knows about London to Asia travel is aware that you don’t fall asleep until early in the morning. With that in mind, I left my phone on, aware I might sleep in, given I was so jet-lagged. As it was, I was woken by a 9am call from the hospital asking me for urgent confirmation of my identity.
I gave my responses, and expected there had been some sort of filing discrepancy. Instead they told me I had tested Positive for Covid-19, and was not to leave my room. An ambulance had already been dispatched by the authorities to collect me immediately.
I was in complete shock – I even thought it was a hoax. When I tried to call the number back it was engaged. Bizzarrely, I had also woken up feeling much better. The beautiful sunlit lawn outside my room, a shower followed by a marvellous tray of tea and omelette arriving in my room made the thought of going to hospital seem so unnecessary.
Soon there was a knock on the door, with Hazmat suits entering my room, now everyone was in masks, and as though I had been taken into a red channel at customs, lights flashing as I was escorted to an ambulance.
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