To kill the best part of an hour at Changi Airport, I went for a foot massage.

That, incidentally, is another thing I’ll miss about Singapore. Storefront massage. Why can’t our country – somewhere amongst the Radio Shacks, Foot Lockers and Jamba Juices – stick little, pretty massage and foot reflexology joints?

There were several young, spry looking people working there, but they were all occupied with other customers when I arrived. So I got an old Chinese uncle with one front tooth and the strongest fingers on the planet. I lucked out.

He inflicted great glorious pain upon me, and I loved it. He would look up at me during the most excruciating moments, and I – with jaw clenched and tears welling up in my eyes – would nod at him as if to say, “bring it on.”

He would nod back in silent acknowledgement and then press just a little bit harder. Each of us satisfied with his role in our brief partnership of pain.