Jesus, it's quiet in here. Disgorged from the belly of an intercontinental flight, I've just trudged up the jetway and into Terminal 3 of Singapore's Changi Airport, having braced myself for the familiar dull roar of the departure area: a soundscape of echoing footsteps and droning televisions and braying announcements that is standard in airports from São Paulo to Minneapolis-St. Paul. Instead I feel as if I've stumbled into a stadium-sized library.

Tropical daylight filters down through a vaulted, skylit ceiling. Koi carp float blissfully in ponds. Orchids are in bloom. The whole space is so serene that I'm already beginning to understand why Changi always tops those annual World's Best Airport lists, why the place has become a destination unto itself: a hub supreme.

To the right of the gate, children—and a few adults—are playing with airport-supplied paper and crayons at an arts-and-crafts station. The bathroom—the public bathroom in the airport—is one of the nicest bathrooms I've ever seen, with sparkling contemporary fixtures and verdant plantings exploding along the windows. On my way out, I see a colorful touchscreen that displays the name and picture of the janitor on duty, with a row of icons at the bottom. “Good morning,” it reads. “Please rate our toilet.” I tap the happy face for excellent.

Leaving the bathroom, I scan the friendly and not-confusing signs and glide up the escalator until I reach the Ambassador Transit Lounge.

“Hi,” I say to the attendant. “I would like to take a shower.”

He smiles. “May I see your passport and boarding pass?”

And just like that, for 17 Singaporean dollars, I enter a private little spa-like setup with soothing lighting and a showerhead that opens up like a rain cloud—all confirming a totally obvious idea: that a hot shower is the absolute best remedy for a long flight. Why don't we have these delightful amenities in the States? The question answers itself. Just try saying the words “Dulles Airport rental shower” without gagging.

Changi, though, revolves around the notion that airports need not be filthy, claustrophobic veal pens of the soul. I am here to test this radical thesis. I've come to Singapore for vacation, and I'm not going to leave the airport for a single minute of it.

You wouldn't know it from our sorry efforts here in the U.S.A., but the rest of the world has entered an era of Very Nice Airports. The names ring out around the globe: Amsterdam's Schiphol, with its library and casino. Tokyo's Haneda, boasting a planetarium and a replica of a traditional Japanese village. Seoul's Incheon, which has a sauna and skating rink. Changi isn't one of a kind so much as the best of its kind. And yet because no American city can summon the billions of tax dollars (not to mention the political will and imagination) to invest in a Changi-caliber transit hub—as opposed to, say, a sports arena—not a single one of our airports cracks the top 25.

Crumbling infrastructure? We've got it. Last year, a Skytrain at Miami International derailed and ended up on the roof of Concourse D. Over in Fort Lauderdale, staffers have complained that the wheelchairs used to transport disabled passengers are contaminated with vomit, blood, and feces. Fliers stranded at Chicago O'Hare during a blizzard suffered the added indignity of rats eating their children's popcorn. And at DFW, the Feds recently arrested four airline employees on charges of smuggling heroin and meth. This is all on top of the greasy food, endless lines, and prison-grade aesthetics we've all been conditioned to accept as simply the way things are. Is it any wonder Changi comes as a revelation?

I emerge from my shower newly optimistic about life on earth, deposit my bag at the left-luggage counter, and head for Food Street, one of Changi's celebrated food courts, where I wander through a gallery of stalls. Short-order hawkers are whipping up barbecued seafood, steaming biryani, fish soup, and all manner of noodles. Every kind of Asian cuisine I could want is here: Malaysian. Indian. Roasted duck. Pork ribs. The vibe is casual, but they give me real silverware instead of plastic, and the coffee with condensed milk is the best slap in the face I've had all week.

My appetite sated, I drift back downstairs in search of my next pleasure—only to be confronted by a bank of free-foot-massage machines. Settling into a seat next to a charming woman with glasses and a long dark ponytail, I insert my sock feet into the machine and press the “relax” setting.

“It seems like a nice airport,” I say.

She lights up. “It really does,” she says with a German accent, and points to the left. “Have you been in the butterfly garden?”

I'm saving that for later. Instead I dip into the video-game lounge for a little Killzone, into the free 24-hour movie theater for a couple scenes of Fast & Furious 6—Vin Diesel is unsure which side Michelle Rodriguez is really on—and only then, because it's one million o'clock in my home time zone, do I start to feel truly exhausted.

One of Changi’s two—two!—swimming pools.

In most airports, I'd be out of luck. Here, first-class passengers can retire to their airline's lounge and spend the night in reserve-by-the-hour recliners. In Terminal 3 there's the Snooze Lounge—a line of 14 low-slung chaises lining a passageway distinguished by a gently bubbling fountain. Then there are the transit hotels, which rent simple but cozy rooms in six-hour blocks.

I go for a shorter-term option: a nap room at the Terminal 2 day spa. The attendant leads me down a quiet hallway through the spa to a wall of windows facing the tarmac. Here, on a raised floor, sits a row of open-ended cabanas with slatted ceilings and soft mattresses and creamy white pillows. I am shown into my roomy alcove, and the attendant draws a thick curtain across its entrance, casting me into restful shadow.