the talkers flock to me. “It’s your eyes,” Gabe says by way of explanation. “You have curious eyes.”
My eyes, the color of milk chocolate and maybe a little close together, have never seemed special enough to entice such attention. Plus, despite my “curious” eyes, Gabe is by far the more social of the two of us.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Gabe whispers. I smile but keep my eyes shut. “The fun’s about to start.”
I crack open one eye and glance out the window. It’s early morning in Bangkok, and a beautiful one at that, the sky just hanging on to the last of the sunrise.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Gloria asks, leaning into me to look out the window. I shift slightly to get out of the way of her hair. “I love Bangkok. The energy is palpable, you know? You’re going to have a great time.”
“That’s the plan,” Gabe and I say at the same time, and Gloria smiles at us and pats my arm.
“I love seeing young people heading out on adventures,” she says. “One of the reasons I adore my job so much. There’s nothing like your first time...in Thailand, that is!” She winks. I laugh, forgiving her for her hair and loose tongue.
“How are you feeling, love?” Gabe asks, as I shift Anna’s book off my lap. I still haven’t cracked the spine, but I had good intentions to.
“I’m looking forward to washing the plane off my face.” I rub my hands over my eyes and wipe out the crusty sleep.
“Here,” Gloria says, nudging me with her arm. She holds out what looks like a baby wipe. “I swear by these. Got them in Japan last time I was there. They smell strange but your face will thank you.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the moist, white disposable towel and holding it up to my nose. I have no idea what the scent is, but it’s not entirely terrible, just odd. I shrug and wipe my forehead, then my chin and nose.
“Make sure you wipe it around your eyes,” Gloria says, doing just that. “It has some sort of tightener that will make you look ten years younger. Not that you need that. But this old face certainly does.”
“You know it’s probably filled with bird-poop essence or something like that,” Gabe whispers. “Apparently the Japanese are fond of their bird-dropping facials. Superexpensive.” I wipe around and around my eyes while Gloria watches, hoping he’s wrong.
“Ah, that’s better, don’t you think?” Gloria asks. “Feel like I’ve slept all night.”
Just then the flight attendant walks by, handing out hot towels as we taxi down the runway toward the terminal. I grab one for myself and Gabe, but he waves it away.
“No, thanks. I like the plane’s grit. Makes me feel like an authentic traveler.”
“Whatever you do, don’t use this on your face,” Gloria says, unrolling her own towel so it’s a flat square. I look at the towel in my hands, hot and steaming, and see the row of people across from ours all doing just that—pressing the hot towel to their faces.
“Why?” I ask Gloria, thinking it’s probably because then I’ll wipe away the very expensive bird-shit essence I just rubbed around my eyes.
“Trust me,” she says, using her towel to wipe a spot of tomato sauce off her pants. We had lasagna for dinner, which was better than expected. “They’re really low-quality towels.”
I stifle a laugh. Looking at Gloria, with her denim leggings with exposed threads and long-sleeve cotton shirt that seems to have lost its shape many washes ago, I think that her caring about the quality of an airplane towel seems out of character.
“Thanks for the tip,” Gabe says, and I just smile at Gloria. But she doesn’t see it, as she’s still scrubbing at the spot on her pants.
“Listen, if you need anything, anything at all while you’re here, call me,” Gloria says a few minutes later, after she’s packed up her magazines and bottled water from her seat pocket. “I’ll be here for the rest of the week, and know Bangkok like the back of my hand.” I take the business card she holds out and murmur my thanks, though I’m certain we’ll never call. The cabin is full of rustling and action, as we get ready to deplane. My heart flutters and my legs are unsteady when I stand.
“Relax, love,” Gabe says. I take a deep breath. “Besides, if Red gets even a whiff of anxiety from you, we’ll never shake her.” I laugh loudly. Gloria turns and gives us a big grin.
“Sounds like I don’t need to tell you this, but have fun,” she says. Then she steps into the aisle after the other passengers filing out in a line.
“You, too, Gloria. Nice to meet you,” I reply, stepping out behind her. I turn my head to the side to avoid her unruly hair, which seems to have doubled in size since takeoff.
“I hope we’ve seen the last of that hair,” Gabe whispers, and I chuckle, amazed at how normal this all feels. I wonder how long it will last.
Bangkok is an assault on my senses. The noise. The smells. The chaos. The heat. God, is it hot.
The guesthouse is a thirty-minute drive from the airport, according to the map search I did at home. But that apparently doesn’t take into consideration the morning traffic, or that our driver, a weathered Thai man whose head barely clears the taxi’s headrest, seems determined to get us lost.
“Shanti House, do you know it?” I ask, for the third time. The driver keeps turning to look at me, as if waiting for me to give up this silly English-speaking thing and solve our problems.
“It’s near the river?” Gabe asks, but the driver is just shaking his head, not understanding a word. Then we start a game of charades, Gabe and I using our arms and hands to try and mimic fast-moving water while repeating the name of the guesthouse, him continuing to shake his head, hands up in the air. I resist shouting at him to keep his hands on the wheel, because every time he takes them off my anxiety level rises. Also, I’m not feeling great, a combination of lack of sleep, choking exhaust and being in the wayward taxi that is making my heart beat so fast I’m light-headed. I’ve barely been in a car since the accident, and this ride is more than I bargained for.
“Show him the map,” Gabe says, when I sit back hard against the sticky hot seat and sigh with frustration, trying to calm down.
“The map is in English.” The stress is making my voice less than kind.
“Show him anyway,” Gabe repeats, his tone matching mine. “At least you can point to the river. Think that’s a better plan than trying to mime flowing water, don’t you?”
“Here...I have a map...” I say to the driver, grabbing the handle above my window when the cab brakes hard. My heart beats as furiously as hummingbird wings and my palms are instantly clammy.
I feel around behind me again even though I know no seat belt will materialize. The taxi speeds up once again and narrowly misses a tuk-tuk carrying what appears to be three generations of a family—far too many people for its small size. Dust swirls around the three-wheeled motorcycle car and its passengers, who hang out all sides of the dilapidated mode of transportation.
I
