Surabaya didn't just welcome me; it slapped me across the face with a wet, hot towel.
The moment I stepped out of Juanda Airport, the heat hit me like a wall. Jakarta was humid and gray with pollution. Surabaya was just hot—bright, aggressive, dry. The air smelled distinct—burning cloves, sea salt, and dry dust.
I dragged my two suitcases to the taxi queue. No private driver. No Alphard with the AC blasting. Just me, a long line, and a Blue Bird taxi driver who looked like he hadn't slept in two days.
"Where to, Miss?" he asked, popping the trunk.
"Apartemen Puncak Kertajaya," I said, checking the address on my phone.
Not a luxury condo. Just a mid-range complex full of students and young professionals. Gabriel had arranged it. “Clean, secure, anonymous,” he’d said. “You want a fresh
