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“This conversation has derailed.” Reena turns on a blender, and we wait for it to stop and for her to continue afterwards. “However, it’s my obligation to say women are salty, too. Or bitter, metallic, sour, and occasionally funky. That last one being my own why-won’t-it-stop-plaguing-me-case-of-bacterial-vaginosis.”
“I’ve tasted myself,” Nim offers with the tone of someone shrugging. “Have you tried cutting sugar?”
“Blast that. Me need antibiotics. Me want antibiotics.”
For humanity’s sake, I’ll stop Reena’s monster voice before it gains momentum. “Wait. My walking tour is happening soon, so I guess I should go. Thank you for talking to me for the last…hour plus? I don’t know why I’m lonely already. I should be doing better.”
This morning I circled the cafeteria thinking every seat must be saved, and that everyone was already in mid-conversation with each other. After eating toast, I had stood up and lingered awkwardly for twenty minutes before going to the couches by the hostel entrance to sit there and coddle my phone.
“You have such high expectations,” chides Nim. “I bet you’ve got ‘Get Out of My Shell’ written in your travel journal.”
“Shut-up. It’s more ‘You Got This Because It’s Now or Never’ for the whole point of this trip is to throw myself into the unknown and sprout some new wings.”
“Don’t compare yourself to a movie, Komal.”
Reena pauses her whisking. “What Nim means is, don’t be rough on yourself. It’s labour to book a trip. More labour to get packed. And almost too much labour to make friends out of thin air. Instead, go on your own journey rooted in realistic expectations and embrace slow starts.”
“Sometimes existing is enough,” Nim adds. “We don’t appreciate comfort zones enough as a society.”
My whole life is a comfort zone considering I’ll have a career because of my mother.
“Nim, you’re an international model doing shoots around the world.”
“I'm eating plain rice and bland chicken for lunch alone in my trailer. No one gives a shit about me, and I don’t give a shit about them.”
“We give a shit about you,” Reena and I say in unison.
We practically hear her flustered silence through the phone.
Eventually, she sighs like this is all too much affection for her, making us laugh until she finally joins in. It’s the perfect ending to our call. A warm reminder that I have people cheering me on in my life. They wish me luck and tell me I'm already doing great, and then we hang up.
If I'm measuring my trip in unexpectedness, sure, I've witnessed hostel sex, and I've been ambushed by a bodyguard.
But have I really adventurously expanded my own horizons? Not yet.
Glancing around, I notice the clock on the wall. It’s almost time to head to the meeting point for the city walking tour. Just in time, Huan steps into the foyer.
When our eyes meet, I blame the shift in my pulse on his white sweater. This is the lightest colour I’ve ever seen him wear. Very different from his black uniform back home. Is this him blending in? We’re going on a walking tour, exploring a bustling city of ancient brick and bountiful pollution. The vast surface area of his shoulders and arms should not be swathed in such a pristine colour. It would serve him right if I preemptively spill a drink on him before we leave.
I wave hurriedly, implying,We’re late. Don’t slow me down, because I won’t wait for you.
Walking away, I don’t look back to see if he is following.
Outside the hostel, London traffic hits us. Congested vans hump each other and taxis run in frisbee circles. I can’t jog, so I gingerly dash, erratically enough that Huan doesn’t stay behind me long. Soon his hand is on my arm. I look down at it and step forward, shaking him off.
He grabs the back of my sweater with his other hand and keeps me in place.
A truck loosens a tirade of honks at me.
“How about,” Huan says, after noise peters off, “you don’t throw yourself in front of oncoming traffic.”
“Obviously! I got this”—which is a boastful comment to make when, in the next second, a bike almost careens into me. Huan manoeuvres me to the side as I get an earful of“fookin hell”before the bike disappears around the bend.
“That was an isolated incident,” I defend. “And I know countless tourists have probably said the same thing, but everything is on the wrong side here.”
“It’s a matter of perspective.”
Seeing a break in traffic, we rush to the other side of the pavement, and then wade through a dense crowd before coming out on the other end of it.
