Connect Changi

The past days were full of the excitement of anticipation. A long term collaborator and friend Professor Feng looked up, and our eyes met. Warmth bubbled over her familiar face. Looking unruffled beyond compare, she pressed the microphone and spoke into it.

Shit, nothing. I could see her lips move, but not a single sound in my part of the conference room. Not even a hiss from the electronics.

Somehow, we had ended up in this meeting concept. I could see her clearly through the glass partition, but the two halves of the room were so well-sealed that no sound could transmit through.

Hair tied neatly at the back, Prof. Feng was smartly dressed in a grey suit. This morning, she appeared as spirited as anyone could be, after a seven-hour flight from Beijing. Bless her cotton socks. How patient she could be.

A whiff of antiseptic and air freshener circumfused us. I guessed this made the room different from the visiting area of a prison. Also, the table had a melamine top, like the surface of many executive board rooms. Many sockets allowed for the plugging of computers and other mobile electronic devices. Dual screen projection showed the same presentation on each side of the room. Adrenaline spiked, the worst feeling crept over my skin. I didn't invite this lady over to practise lip reading. Sorry!

Three months ago, we had suggested meeting this way. Every instinct had told me to think out of the box. After sixteen months of videoconferencing, we had enough. Unlike a normal person, I didn't want to wait for the pandemic to be over before we meet face-to-face. There were so many reasons to exist—one of them being the ability to see people away from a screen and to laugh with them.

This was the state-of-the-art conference complex called Connect@Changi. A unique place set up at the Changi airport during the pandemic, next to the well-known Jewel@Changi. International business travelers who tested negative for the COVID19 virus on throat swabs were allowed to have meetings with people from Singapore, under controlled conditions—no access to Singapore outside the hotel and Jewel entertainment, no quarantine period. Why not? The logic was sound and appealing.

But we didn't expect this audio problem. Amidst all this technology. We could have easily zoomed each other from our cities.

Loads of activity behind me. People scampered around. Likely technicians, trying to solve the sound glitch. With Singapore being a Smart Nation and all, surely something could be done to fix this?

For a moment, I imagined forty-year-old Prof. Feng removing her footwear to perch in front of the partition, her knuckles rhythmically knocking out greetings to me in Morse code. But she just waved.

After I waved back, she gave me an odd gesture, putting the two index fingers together to form a cross. Frowning, she gave me a sad smile.

Perplexed, I placed my hands on my hips. That cross was some sort of disapproval? Cancellation? Multiplication?

In response, she bent both elbows and showed me both her palms.

How I wish we can just stop this miming and go next door to talk like normal folks.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Tapping a foot on the floor. There had to be another way to do this in the techno complex. Several times, I wanted to speak, but stopped before words tumble out.

She won't hear me. God knows how long it will take to change our booking to another room. There may be implications on potential disease transmission.

Before I could point sideways to the adjacent room with a finger, she held up an issue of a scientific journal—the Ocular Surface. Her finger pointed at the cover.

Who would still subscribe to printed journals?

Wait. Isn't that journal where we sent our latest manuscript to? The one about autotransplantation of salivary glands to relieve dry eye? Did the paper get rejected? Is that what she meant? My heart raced.

Hurriedly, I took out a writing pad from my bag and mimicked writing. She could just write something and show it to me on the glass partition.

She shrugged. Looked around and shook her head.

You don't have a pen? I pointed to the pen in my pocket.

Prof. Feng nodded her head. Maybe she'd gotten over her momentary fluster. She wiggled her thumb towards the exit.

What, you want to go out to get a pen? Okay. The sooner she finds something to write with, the closer we get to start… Wait a minute. There the marker pen is, slung over a string, below the vertical display board, clipped with large sheets of blank paper. Even so, how do I alert her to...

A second later, the sound of audio feedback from the speakers from both sides blared. A masked technician performed jumping jacks behind my Chinese guest, signalling to me that they had solved the audio problem. As if I couldn't hear how the system came to life.

Prof. Feng attempted to speak, making a sound like Mickey mouse on helium.

No more charades. I gave a stupid smile, like the guy in The Naked Gun that solved crimes by accident. Flicking on the microphone, I spoke a single word, "Finally."

One word is enough. In the present moment, it is enough.

"Finally," she responded, with mouth curled, looking amused.