me this time as the wheels lifted from the tarmac and we arced sickeningly upwards. I saw my life as something falling away from me like the earth below and I thought, yes, maybe now’s not such a bad time to go. I looked around the cabin and wondered if people about to die in a plane crash look different from regular passengers. I looked for a pallor, a horror, an animalism. But it wasn’t there. It was a cheerful crowd, secretaries and their rat-tailed boyfriends all tired, all mildly anxious, just like me.
I ordered a Bloody Mary. I dumped in the whole ounce of vodka, gave it a stir and took a sip. It was strong and made me shudder with disgust. But I persevered, and by midway through the drink I felt something loosen in my shoulders, something kick free in my head, as if a rope had been cut and the boat had drifted out into the stream. But travel is a terrible aphrodisiac, all that worry, the bouncing about, whatever, and before too long I caught sight of a skinny, flat-chested young woman sitting on the aisle a row up from me. I don’t quite know how to put this intelligently, but there was a kind of chipmunk cuteness about her that quite hypnotized me. She was travelling with her husband and she half slumbered on his shoulder while he read a magazine. He looked like a pleasant chap, really, with a small, handsome head and bright eyes. He turned around at one point and I dropped my glance so violently I startled the woman next to me.
But I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, as if, by staring long enough and hard enough, I could somehow neutralize her terrible power. I imagined the most graphic images of her body. I wanted to devour her naked feet. By the time the plane landed, my hands were shaking and I felt such a sense of urgency, panic even, that I broke the line and stepped over the rope barrier to buy a package of cigarettes in the airport bar. After a few puffs I could feel myself grow calmer, dreamier, as the tobacco stole into my blood. I took a deep breath and looked around. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I felt a dull stirring of relief, as if I had just gotten out of trouble or solved a problem.
I cleared Customs and walked across the tarmac to the bus, the jungle screaming green, the birds screeching, everything hollering hurry up, hurry up . It took a couple of hours to get to the hotel, but it seemed interminable, a life chapter almost, the scorching highway, the compulsory rainfall (how depressing the tropics are under a cloudy sky), the exquisite sunset and so on. I hurried to the front of the check-in line, stepping over golf bags and expensive suitcases. I may even have elbowed a grandmother out of the way, but I wanted to get to my room, and quickly. That’s the great illusion of travel, of course, the notion that there’s somewhere to get to . A place where you can finally say, Ah, I’ve arrived. (Of course there is no such place. There’s only a succession of waitings until you go home.)
I threw my bag and my feather pillow (I always travel with my own pillow, it tricks my body into thinking I’m at home) onto the bed, turned on the air conditioner, ignored the damp smell in the room and hurried down to the bar.
It was an outdoor patio. Cicadas shrieked in the moist foliage, tourists moved in worried clumps. The heat was terrible. I pried myself between two red-faced Brits. I ordered a beer and tried to light a cigarette, but my fingers gummed up the paper and it shredded. I lit another. I took an enormous drag, smoke funnelled into my lungs and a kind of nausea filled my whole being. Everything went flat and grey. Turning my back to the crowd, I stepped away from the bar and retched. My eyes watered. I stepped discreetly behind a tree and threw up in the bushes. Welcome to the Caribbean.
I went back to my room, thought perhaps I’d wait until the nicotine lifted and then give the evening another shot. But I didn’t like the way my room smelt; it was musty or something. I sneezed, then
I ordered a Bloody Mary. I dumped in the whole ounce of vodka, gave it a stir and took a sip. It was strong and made me shudder with disgust. But I persevered, and by midway through the drink I felt something loosen in my shoulders, something kick free in my head, as if a rope had been cut and the boat had drifted out into the stream. But travel is a terrible aphrodisiac, all that worry, the bouncing about, whatever, and before too long I caught sight of a skinny, flat-chested young woman sitting on the aisle a row up from me. I don’t quite know how to put this intelligently, but there was a kind of chipmunk cuteness about her that quite hypnotized me. She was travelling with her husband and she half slumbered on his shoulder while he read a magazine. He looked like a pleasant chap, really, with a small, handsome head and bright eyes. He turned around at one point and I dropped my glance so violently I startled the woman next to me.
But I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, as if, by staring long enough and hard enough, I could somehow neutralize her terrible power. I imagined the most graphic images of her body. I wanted to devour her naked feet. By the time the plane landed, my hands were shaking and I felt such a sense of urgency, panic even, that I broke the line and stepped over the rope barrier to buy a package of cigarettes in the airport bar. After a few puffs I could feel myself grow calmer, dreamier, as the tobacco stole into my blood. I took a deep breath and looked around. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I felt a dull stirring of relief, as if I had just gotten out of trouble or solved a problem.
I cleared Customs and walked across the tarmac to the bus, the jungle screaming green, the birds screeching, everything hollering hurry up, hurry up . It took a couple of hours to get to the hotel, but it seemed interminable, a life chapter almost, the scorching highway, the compulsory rainfall (how depressing the tropics are under a cloudy sky), the exquisite sunset and so on. I hurried to the front of the check-in line, stepping over golf bags and expensive suitcases. I may even have elbowed a grandmother out of the way, but I wanted to get to my room, and quickly. That’s the great illusion of travel, of course, the notion that there’s somewhere to get to . A place where you can finally say, Ah, I’ve arrived. (Of course there is no such place. There’s only a succession of waitings until you go home.)
I threw my bag and my feather pillow (I always travel with my own pillow, it tricks my body into thinking I’m at home) onto the bed, turned on the air conditioner, ignored the damp smell in the room and hurried down to the bar.
It was an outdoor patio. Cicadas shrieked in the moist foliage, tourists moved in worried clumps. The heat was terrible. I pried myself between two red-faced Brits. I ordered a beer and tried to light a cigarette, but my fingers gummed up the paper and it shredded. I lit another. I took an enormous drag, smoke funnelled into my lungs and a kind of nausea filled my whole being. Everything went flat and grey. Turning my back to the crowd, I stepped away from the bar and retched. My eyes watered. I stepped discreetly behind a tree and threw up in the bushes. Welcome to the Caribbean.
I went back to my room, thought perhaps I’d wait until the nicotine lifted and then give the evening another shot. But I didn’t like the way my room smelt; it was musty or something. I sneezed, then
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