It is the early-morning taxi driver who breaks the news about the terrorist carnage that has just shocked London, and he warns us that security will be even tighter than usual throughout the hyper-structured city centre.

Thus, the segue into death by hanging. If more countries dealt with criminals the way Singapore does, there would be less of this terrorist nonsense in the world, the driver reasons. He adds a gesture meant to mimic the tightening of a noose. Today, there are two people up for the gallows, but he can't remember what their crimes were. Silently, I hope that neither was found guilty of any offences involving gum or jaywalking.

We tell him that we have no death penalty in Canada, and he shakes his head in disgust. Criminals, he says, must be afraid.

We're afraid -- that we're not going to make it into the hotel. In addition to the week-long international music conference my husband is attending, Swissotel The Stamford is hosting more than 1000 visitors connected to the 117th International Olympic Committee Session. This group has ominously just picked London for the 2012 Summer Olympic Games. The driveway into this megalith is flanked by police, many with submachine guns, and all vehicles are being thoroughly searched.

In the lobby, police outnumber visitors three to one, and our baggage goes through as much electronic scrutiny as it's ever been through at any airport. Passports are requested at every juncture and our persons get a thorough review with handheld metal detectors.

I'm on my way up to our room on the 53rd floor when a sign for Starbucks triggers a Pavlovian desire for caffeine. So it's back out through all the security apparatus for my daily latté. I know that travelling is often about experiencing the unfamiliar, but the world is a scary and unpredictable place, and sometimes you need something comforting that reminds you of home. And despite feeling exhausted from the flight, I'm oddly awake.

Besides, this is the first morning of a 3½-week journey that will take us into the shopping malls of Singapore, the wild hills of Thailand and the plains of Angkor in Cambodia. So there will be plenty of time to experience new and unusual things.

For now, my airplane-weary soul takes comfort in a grande, half-caf, low-fat, light-iced latté. The people who work at Starbucks here are every bit as nice and helpful as the ones at my regular haunt in Oakville, Ontario.

But wait -- what's this? Monkey bread? Ugly (curry?) chicken puffs? Looks like new and unusual things can even be experienced in a café run by a multinational corporation. Ugly (curry?) chicken puffs, the likes of which I certainly have never seen in Oakville, are samosa-like treats filled with chicken, potatoes and vegetables; the monkey bread I'm not quite sure about. It is a muffin-like concoction filled with a type of nut that monkeys adore, and that's all the information the early-morning staff can provide. (I later learn that the name derives from how it's eaten -- you pull it apart like a monkey would.) They insist I take one to try.

My next lesson in things Singapore is that it's against the rules to take a beverage onto the subway. So, duly chastened, I finish my latté, carefully deposit the cup into the appropriate garbage receptacle, and head for the hotel. The monkey bread, incidentally, was lovely.

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