The Morning After

The Frenchman’s a hugger.

All through that short night, every posture of sleep inducing repose evolved into an embrace.

I’m not complaining. It was blissful. But it was also bloody hot! So we were both already awake by the time the silvery pre-dawn light crept into the room. Perhaps it was due to his French confidence and directness, but there was not a scintilla of awkwardness or embarrassment as sleepy eyes met in the half-dark.

There was no lie in luxury: the cruel alarm brought us back to reality at 5.30am. We both had planes to catch.

He dressed with easy nonchalance, smirking as he threw my Gargantuan Pants across the room: “Don’t forget to pack zees!”

Momentarily blushing I wrapped myself in a sarong for the inelegant dash through the kitchen to the shower – the sort of facility that, for those who’ve been backpacking, you will recognise as a ‘shoes on’ bathroom.

The shower was cold, but I still felt warm, cocooned in Did That Really Happen thoughts of the night before.

Packing didn’t take long and I was soon perched in the doorway tucking into a breakfast of fresh papaya and ‘coffee mix’ – a hideous pretence at caffeine. He joined me, eschewing the offer of an omelette sandwich with a Gallic curl of the lip and trying to force feed me most of his papaya. We weren’t alone. A fellow guest, a South Korean girl, who was set to share our taxi to the airport had joined our merry throng – which did cramp things somewhat.

Unable to demonstrate overt affection I was keenly aware of the glances he was throwing me and the way his expression creased into private joke pleasure whenever I caught his eye.

6.15am and our chariot had arrived. In the middle seat, sandwiched between France and South Korea I noted with warmth the signals he was sending my way - his leg firmly against mine, closer than necessary, the weight of his arm resting across my wrist - although trivial I knew he was using these almost imperceptible actions as a way of maintaining the closeness between us.

The 3 of us watch the early morning world go past: the legions of tai chi practising grandmas by the lake, the graduated files of barefoot monks collecting alms and the first glimmers on the burnished gold of the pagodas as we chug by.

Provoking warm smiles the driver turned around to give The Frenchman something. Oh yes, a disembodied handle to use for winding the windows down as all the window handles have fallen off! True Burmese style.

On reaching the airport we make for separate queues. The Frenchman and the South Korean girl are flying Air Asia to Bangkok whilst I am heading back to KL to recover my work luggage.

Air Asia runs efficiently and The Frenchman is soon back by my side asking whether everything is alright for my journey. Unfortunately the answer is no.

Upon presenting the check-in girl with my documentation and passport the staff congealed into an inopportune huddle, clustered around a blinking computer monitor.

“So sorry” they announce “your flight does not exist!”

This isn’t the best news and I urge them to check again. After all, as I point out firmly, it is being displayed on the departure board above our heads…

“Oh no” the airline staff tell me “that is now charter flight; you cannot have seat on charter flight!”

There I am, 6.30am at Rangoon airport, already wrestling with the complex emotions of melting French happiness coupled with the cold sadness of good bye, and now a dread feeling of uncertainty has been thrown into the mix!

I can feel tears rising in my throat as I try to rationally negotiate a solution with the airline. Not only do I not want to loose the plot with the staff, but I am also loath to totally disintegrate in front of The Frenchman!

Fearing collapse I try to persuade The Frenchman to go through security to departures, telling him that I’m sure it will be alright and that it would probably be easiest for me to meet him on other side.

He takes no notice and doesn’t budge.

Taking deep breaths I do manage to regain my equilibrium. The Frenchman is doing his best, cracking jokes and feeding me Mintoes (they’re French, did you know?) and catching my eye with that smile. But there is nothing he can do.

For the next hour I yo-yo back and forth to the desk. Alternately cajoling and demanding help. Tine is pressing and quite suddenly, I feel lonely.

By 8am I am still at an impasse. By switching into Professional & Scary mode I seem to have got the manager’s attention and have elicited empty promises of assistance. There is nothing more I can do but wait, and see if they will squeeze me onto this phantom flight.

More of the Frenchman’s friends have turned up and already gone through the Big Black Doors air-side. I am marooned. The Frenchman leaves it to the last minute to leave me, but soon he has no choice.

There is one final photo, precipitated by the South Korean [on Facebook if Miranda wants to take a peak!] which I am grateful for not having to suggest. Then we have to say goodbye.

There are onlookers and many men with guns loitering near by so there isn’t going to be a lingering kiss. Think more Brief Encounter. In the French style he kisses me, slowly, three times. As his lips brush my cheek for the final time he whispers: “sank you…” in my ear before fixing me with a poignant smile.

Flustered I smile, and put on my happy front. As he walks away am aware that we are both wittering:

Frenchman: “You will write wiz your news?”

Mud: “Yes, I’ll be sure to look at your blog too”

Frenchman: “Let me know what ‘appens with your flight….”

Mud: “I will…have a safe trip”

Neither wants to finish.

He follows his friends across the hall as I stand facing him. All the way across the concourse, through the queues, and up the staircase, he keeps turning to look at me, catch my eye, and smile – just at me.

Until he was - finally - gone.