Lady Sun: Marni MacRae Read online

  Chapter 3

  My cousin Anna drove me to the airport. Of all the people on the planet, I love Anna the most. She is my twin sister born of another mother. We’ve been inseparable since childhood. Only she knows all my secrets and approves of every one of them.

  “So there’s no chance I can get you to change your mind?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Anna had been seesawing between jealousy that I was actually going on my escape-from-the-world-for-a-week trip and begging me to reconsider. She had then taken to trying to sway me by pointing out all the facts and odds against me, as she slowly accepted that I was not going to change my mind.

  “You know Soso, (a pet name with a long back story I never approved of but loved Anna too much to forbid her to use it) the odds of you dying in a plane crash for a one hour flight is around one in eight hundred thousand. Your flight is eighteen hours. That means, your odds are actually one in forty-four thousand, four hundred and forty-four, point four, four, four, four, four, four, four, four, four.” She deftly went around an idiot driver and changed lanes to head toward the airport exit.

  “Really, thirteen fours? Wouldn’t that just be forty-four thousand, four hundred and forty-four, point four bar?” I was touched she had done the math. She loved me, and I loved facts.

  “No, because it’s not infinite. Really Sophie, I could ditch the kids and we could drive down the coast, go to San Diego, party at SeaWorld. No fiery crash, no searching for your body in the flotsam or jetsam.”

  I had to chuckle. Anna would use any excuse to reference The Little Mermaid and she knew I was a sucker for SeaWorld. “You would never ditch your kids, I love your kids, I wouldn’t ditch them. If you weren’t so possessive of the little princes, I would smuggle them with me. And besides, SeaWorld is cool and all, but they don’t have Johnny Depp.”

  “Neither does this island you’re leaving me for to go be flotsam or jetsam on.”

  “You never know, but come to think of it, Jon is short for Johnny and I already ditched a Jon. I hope instead, there'll be a Sawyer – way sexier and a total survivor in a plane crash.”

  “Technically he didn’t survive. Why do we refer to Johnny Depp as Johnny Depp instead of Captain Jack Sparrow, but refer to Sawyer as Sawyer instead of his real name?”

  “Because we don’t know his real name. Don’t miss the exit.” I saw that she was about to pass it and wondered if she was trying for a run to San Diego after all.

  Anna sighed and braked. Slowly. “I realize you won't change your mind. But will you at least toss a bottle in the sea every day so I can get some news and know you landed safely?”

  “I will use my handy cell phone as soon as the plane lands and if there aren’t any 'no littering' signs on my island, I will toss a bottle in the sea. Cross my heart.”

  Anna deftly pulled into the departure lane and stopped along the curb. Turning to me, I could see her pretty face had turned serious. “I want you to be careful. Have tons of fun, take hundreds of selfies and beach shots, but be careful. You are my only sister (which wasn’t true, and strictly speaking, we're cousins, but I got the point), please come home safe, the princes will be counting the days.”

  “I will be careful Mom. And I will have fun. I'll see you right here in one week.” Hugging her tight, I kissed her cheek twice. “Give those to the princes. Enjoy New Year’s. I love you Anna.” I gave her a big smile and a wink, and then got out into the frigid winter air. After dragging my suitcase from the backseat, with my thin jacket doing no good against the icy Washington winter air, I stood frozen, waving to my cousin-sister-best friend as she pulled away from the curb to merge with a line of cars heading into town.

  It had been a real struggle – my travel day wardrobe decision. I knew, for instance, that the plane would be air-conditioned and was a painfully long flight, so I didn’t want to dress too coolly. I also knew that my arrival and the boat trip would be exceedingly hot and muggy. Then I had to wrestle with the fact that leaving town, it was nine degrees outside and returning would be no different. In the end, I had chosen a pair of white linen slacks and a navy blue tank (as a nod to the boat ride) with a thin white jacket and white Keds with navy piping. I thought I looked smashing, and I was determined to brave the cold for the few minutes between car and airport at both ends of the trip.

  So now, with my headlights on, my breath fogging the air and my mind set on much, much warmer climates, I entered the airport at a clip flaunting my breezy summer garb as my Keds led me to the baggage check-in.

  * * *

  My flight to London was fifteen hours. I had lucked out with a window seat and was gazing out at the tarmac, contemplating whether it was really lucky. One, my window looked at a wing and two, I hoped I didn’t have to get up to pee much. Squirming past my seatmates was always the question of; do they get my breasts in their face, or my butt in their lap.

  For all the dozens of flights I have been on, I always, at least once, fall into a stranger’s lap as I try for the aisle and the much needed tiny, itsy-bitsy closet they called a toilet. I am not a big woman, I fall into the average height/weight category, but those plane bathrooms make me think of a coffin every time. A well-lit, strange-smelling coffin with a place to relieve yourself and no silk bunting or wood trim. But coffin. Yep. So maybe I was lucky, or maybe I was going to end up in someone’s lap, the next fifteen hours would tell. I just prayed it wouldn’t be a nun I sat on. No pun intended at all. A trip to Florida a few years back and I actually sat on a nun on my way to pee. Strange things happen to me; it's totally not my fault. I suppose now it’s a pretty funny story but at the time I was mortified and had spent the rest of the flight praying.

  A lovely young British girl turned out to be my traveling companion. I guessed her age to be around twenty-five and she had that quirky, exotic look about her that was at once welcoming and intriguing. She introduced herself as Sasha, which I thought was such a fun name, and we hit it off right away. We spent the beginning of the flight chatting about what I could do with my four-hour layover in London. As it would be between one a.m. and six a.m., we concluded napping in the airport was my safest choice. With that settled, we turned to fashion, talk of the royal family (which she was strangely secretive about – as if we didn’t have tabloids in the U.S. and were aware of what the Brits were up to) and the fun differences of speech in the English/American language.

  “OK, so I get petrol and even britches because pants make no sense either, but what’s up with loo? Why not bathroom, or restroom, or toilet?”

  Sasha laughed. “Oh, you are not the first to ask. We have many serious debates on that question.”

  “Really?” I had no idea that the word was such a talk of the country.

  “No, not really,” Sasha smiled lightheartedly, “but everyone has a theory. In the end, we just blame it on the French.”

  With that, I laughed and noted, “Well, they have donated many words to my vocabulary, I had no idea the loo traced back to them too!”

  Sasha went on to explain that the French had influenced many terms now commonly used in the British (English) language that no one could really explain.

  “Same with American!” (Also English) “Of course ménage à trois, c’est la vie and rendezvous, come to mind... and cliché!”

  “Oh yes, English or American we speak a mutt language and some people do not even realize we just mashed together a bunch of languages, stole really,” she whispered conspiratorially “and then called it our own. Not just French, like omelet, that’s French, but German too, kindergarten and noodle, those are from Germany. And Italy, we use words like bravo and diva that are Italian, but did you know that piano and novel are both Italian words?”

  “No!” I was amazed and thrilled. As I said, I love facts, and this was great info for my future Jeopardy appearance. I briefly considered asking Sasha if she knew how to use an embassy but thought better of looking like a total dolt.

  We spent the rest of the flight coming up with w
ords we recognized had originated from other languages. Bess, the older lady in the aisle seat, chimed in now and again. Sometimes twenty minutes would pass while I killed time reading a book or picking at the terrible airline food and then someone would say; “Extravaganza- Italian!” Or, “Alcatraz- Spanish!” (I said that one, having been to the prison island and remembering the drone of the tour guide.) And “Catsup - Chinese!”

  We were completely entertained, and I was having the best flight ever.

  The fifteen hours was not as painful as it could have been. I slept, napping with my head on a tiny airplane pillow propped against the window and Sasha napped with her head on a tiny airplane pillow propped against me. I didn’t mind, she was nice enough not to drool and she reminded me of my little sister Lily. I read my book and chatted with Bess about knitting techniques; she was a Scottish transplant living in England. I didn’t pry, not really knowing how the English and the Scots had settled their feud or if it was still brewing under the surface. Hundreds of years of battles and strife probably were a sore spot and a confined airplane was no place to awaken those sleeping dogs if by chance Bess and Sasha had any latent grudges. But all told, I was enjoying every moment.

  I love to travel. I'm a bit of an odd duck when it comes to it. I love the planning and the packing, the waiting in line and staring at other travelers. I love trying to figure out where they’re from, where they’re going. Will they have fun or only think of work, or the dog in the kennel, or if they left the stove on? I love the airport seats and the new sights, the lost items and the free hotel shampoo. I am a born traveler; it really takes a lot to get me into a state to not enjoy every bit of it.

  Fighting with a fellow traveler will usually do it. The Snake was the worst traveler ever. We had fought across America and I had vowed never to travel with him again. Not even in a car to the store, or to dinner. We had begun driving separately to any function we attended together a year before the divorce. Now I sighed as the first leg of the journey came to an end. I was discovering the joy of traveling again, now that I no longer had to tolerate a snake as a companion.

  As the plane began its circle of the London airport, I felt I had made two new friends and the three of us exchanged emails, vowing to keep in touch. I realized, that now in the 21st century, it was a very real possibility we would actually keep in contact. With email, Facebook, Twitter, and Skype, there are many quick and easy ways to check in with a person. It wasn’t like a decade or two ago where you don’t call because of long distance charges, or you don’t write because who sits down to write a letter anymore?

  I put my seat in the upright position, checked that my belt was tight and secure, my purse was at my feet with the zipper shut and all my odds and ends safely inside. (The surgery kit was relegated to the suitcase given the sharp eyes and disapproval of TSA.) I then began the preparation for landing. I checked my ticket for the gate to my next flight, checked my passport, checked the time, checked my makeup, my hair, my breath. Yep, I was ready to land and stretch my legs, brush my teeth and have a very late breakfast for dinner.

  I hugged Sasha goodbye after we exited the gate, and turned to wave to Bess before she strode off down the terminal toward the baggage claim. Then I addressed my first order of business and promptly looked around for a real sized, non-coffin, bathroom, and went to freshen up.

  Throughout the bulk of my twenties, I sported a super cute and easy to tend, pixie cut. But upon leaving The Snake behind I had let my hair grow out. Now, after a few years, it reached down my back, long and blonde and incredibly thick. It's easily either my best feature or my worst, depending on the effort put into it. If I blow dried, moussed, curled and pinned, it was Hollywood lovely. If I left it alone, it was heavy and annoying and I looked like an unkempt llama. Most mornings I tortured my hair into a bun to punish it for not waking up looking fabulous and only ever spent the hour it took for the lovely Hollywood effect if I had to face strangers or needed to feel pretty.

  For this occasion, I had French-braided the stuff into two braids that started at the top of my head and ran all the way to the back to then join into one. I then curled the long plait into a braided bun and pinned it at the nape of my neck. Looking in the mirror in the London airport bathroom, my hair was still perfectly in place. The magic of a French braid is one of the many things I am grateful for, especially since it still looked pretty. Delighted I didn’t look like a llama, I brushed my teeth, washed my face and applied mascara, lip gloss and deodorant. With a new spring in my step, I slung my heavy, oversized purse over my shoulder and went in search of that late night meal.

  The London airport is huge. I'm sure the architects had a plan when they built it. There was most likely even some symmetry involved, but unless you’re a pilot viewing that symmetry from above you would never know it. I have been in many airports; the Dallas airport had swallowed a few days of my life when I missed a flight, and literally ran for an hour to get to my connection. That is how big Dallas is. You can run, even with the aid of the moving ground strips that always make me feel like Superman, (or Supergirl) and still miss the flight that your travel agent arranged, with no foresight to the length of a Texas hallway. So although London competed with confusion and size to larger airports I've gotten lost in, I was not intimidated at all.

  I had four hours to solve the maze and I was excited that my traveling was going perfectly so far. This thought had me looking around for anything wooden to knock upon, not one to curse myself with over-optimism or gratitude. I found a counter made of wood as I passed, heading toward a ring of eateries -- only a quarter of a mile away. I gave it three solid taps and continued on, happy I was successful in warding off any curses or bad luck.

  Only one of the eateries had a dining area. I wanted to sit to enjoy my food, so I let the hostess seat me and opened the menu. Happily, the menu listed only a few odd items I didn’t recognize, and more than a few I did and loved. I ordered crepes with a side of fruit and a glass of orange juice. I considered coffee but didn’t want jet-lag and the jitters to war with my stomach when I finally arrived, so I decided against it. Each bite was eaten with relish. Not diced pickles, but pure joy. I love crepes, and apparently, the British have a secret recipe. They were delicious.

  As I ate, I began to plan my stay on a white-sand beach. In reality, I knew there would be no men to meet, not Sawyer, or Johnny Depp, or any little Dutch kids. This vacation would be an escape. A recharge. A healing. No men needed. I planned to swim and tan and nap and drink. Oh, crap! I realized all at once that the brochure hadn't detailed what kind of food or drink they provided. I didn’t really care much about the food, I could put up with just about anything, but there was no way I was going to lay on a white-sand beach and not have a Mai Tai or a Piña Colada. A resort with a bar or a bellhop wasn't necessary, but even with a castaway island as my destination, I would indeed want a drink. Or two. Maybe three.

  I paid the bill, left a generous tip and went in search of my next departure gate, hoping along the way I would find a liquor store where I could buy a few mini-bottles and maybe some juice. Once the plane landed in Malé, I would only have a few hours to make it to the docks where I would board the boat for the island. Baggage claim would eat up one of those hours at least, another would be taking the ferry from the island that held the airport to Malé proper, which was on another island entirely. There would be no time to shop.

  I stopped at a gate that had just finished boarding, and asked the man taking the tickets for directions. He pointed, and gestured, and then finally wrote down on a slip of paper which rights and lefts to take, and even sketched a tiny little map that he reminded me was not to scale. Yeah, perfect. I gave him my best smile and thanks and turned in the direction his first-hand gestures had indicated. He'd said there was a little shop, not far from my gate, which sold alcohol and postcards and candy and such. As I made the final corner on the map, a blue sign clearly marking my gate, I sighed with relief and pleasure. I was two hours early, p
lenty of time to shop for what I would need for my tipsy tanning plans.

  The gate guy had been right. There was a little shop just within sight of my gate. I strode inside and began leisurely perusing all the colorful candy, colorful magnets, colorful postcards and colorful liquor bottles. Everything was so bright and cheery you wouldn’t know it was four a.m. on a gloomy London morning in January. I picked out a magnet with Big Ben on it as a souvenir, along with three postcards: one for Anna, one for my Mom and one for me. Then I went to the candy aisle. I selected a few of my favorites and a couple of new ones to try that I'd never heard of, then added two little bags of mixed nuts. I knew my purse would hold a month’s supply of candy and drinks, but I didn’t want to have to tolerate lugging around the eighty pounds of indulgence. So I grabbed two small bottles of water and headed to pick out my drink of choice.

  The store offered premixed selections that made my day. I chose a Mai Tai, a Piña Colada, a Mudslide and two of the thickest beers they offered. I believe nothing is worse than a poorly-brewed, watered-down beer. To top it off, I grabbed a bottle of vodka in the shape of a flask but made out of clear plastic. I figured if there was juice at my hut, I could mix my own drink If there wasn’t, perhaps there would be mangoes on the island, and I could mix my own drink. Either way, win, win. Finally, I was set -- my purse absolutely bulged.

  At the gate, I found the closest seat to the departure entrance and settled in to read. If I fell asleep, the activity of loading would wake me, and if not, I could be one of the first to embark and not have to jostle my now-giant-purse around strangers as I found my seat.

  I pulled out my now dog-eared book on the Maldives and flipped through pages I hadn't read yet. Barnes and Noble had offered nothing on the Maldives beyond a small book with lots of pictures and very little facts. I had gotten that book too, but had special-ordered this one. It contained history and population counts, laws and religions and maps of the atoll chain. It was a fantastic read if you wanted to study the area and learn about its government or economy, but it tended to bore at four in the morning after a long flight. After half an hour my eyelids began to droop, and I leaned back with my purse in my lap, the strap firmly wrapped over my shoulder to deter any would-be thief.