‘Water and a whisky.’ He smiled and it was glorious. Glorious teeth. Beautiful lips. It seemed to melt her too because she almost skipped away saying she’d be ‘Back in a jiffy.’
‘So, what do you do?’ Norse God asked.
‘Well I … um … I’m travelling.’
‘I gathered that, considering you’re on a plane.’ He stared at me, up and down. I was hoping my long, dark blonde hair wasn’t the humid mess it had been in Thailand, even in the airport – humidity did bad things to my hair. I instantly regretted the, lets wear something comfy on the flight idea and hoped he didn’t mind my oversized black jumper, white singlet top and black stretchy leggings.
‘I meant, what do you do for, uh … income?’
Perhaps he was struggling with the thin cabin air, or he’d taken a valium too, because I thought, did he just ask what I did for money?
‘Gentleman first.’ I smiled at him, thinking I couldn’t tell him I’d most recently been working at Los Tacos in London, where the Mexican/Spanish fusion of fast food meant the kitchen deep fried everything before it went out; enchiladas, burritos, tacos, you name it – they were cooked, or worse microwaved, and then dipped in a vat of bubbling oil until they were crunchy. It was like serving a heart attack on a plate, but people gathered, usually very drunk people, for a plate of golden crispiness, stuffed with low-grade minced beef.
I shuddered remembering all the double shifts I’d had to do, just to be able to cover my rent and save for my next shoestring trip to Europe. I’d eaten pot noodles for breakfast, and free heart-attack tacos for lunch and dinner. Oh, the glorious life of a backpacker. Before that, I’d been a little more successful, working for a few years as a glorified filing and coffee girl, aka PR Assistant, but when the company hit a downturn, I was made redundant. And I needed another job pronto. But no one was willing to hire someone whose visa was almost up – hence why I ended up at deep fried Los Tacos hell.
‘I’m a buyer for clothing companies. Spend a lot of time in Asia, India, but now on the way back to meet some friends for a holiday in Fiji, before I’m off to New York.’
Yep. I definitely couldn’t tell him about what I’d really been doing for work.
I jumped in before he could ask about me again. ‘Family? You have kids?’
A wife? I asked silently.
‘No kids. Single.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh?’ My stomach flipped. Maybe this was happening. ‘Me too.’
‘So, you didn’t say what you did? Or where you’re off to?’ He said.
‘I’m heading back home to Sydney, via Fiji, after travelling for quite a while.’
‘How long?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Wow. Where did you go?’
When I first left Australia, all those years ago, I went all ‘Girl Meets World’, being single and independent, trekking around Argentina, Chile, Peru and Bolivia. In Panama, I got a job at a bar, and there was an Irishman I liked – but I think I liked his accent more than I actually liked him, and despite some flirting, nothing ever happened. I did a whirlwind tour of the USA, shoestring style, before being persuaded by friends to join them at their swanky new villa in Bali.
Bali was hot and humid, full of post-career, corporate hipsters obsessed with yoga classes and shots of turmeric juice. At my yoga class, or the local market where I sold jewellery and bags, everyone smelt like sweat and none of this laid a good ground for romance. The closest thing to a crush was a drunken kiss with an English backpacker, who thought my name was Alyssa for the first hour. He was quite good-looking and funny, until he decided to have five vodka shots in a row, and passed out on the sand.
The only other thing of note happened during a full-body massage from Wayan, a local healing man. My towel slipped off accidentally as I was turning on the table, exposing one pale boob to the elements. He rushed out of the room, blocking his eyes, saying, ‘Sorry, Miss Emma, sorry,’ as if he’d tugged the towel himself and now had to deal with the nightmare consequences of this action. This was not the idea I had in my head when I read in Cosmopolitan magazine – that no matter how you look when you’re naked, men aren’t going to complain. Nope, they’re just going to rush from the room screaming.
After two years in Ubud, I flew to the UK, where I travelled around Wales and Scotland, and learnt I had a love for whisky and was especially fond of haggis.
I was adamant that I didn’t want to live in London. London was just a larger, busier, more historical version of Sydney. And I needed something entirely different. Although my friends urged me not to, I moved to a small riverside town by the border of Wales, where everyone lived in quaint little cottages, and it rained a lot. I rented a granny flat from a lovely family who had a veggie patch in the backyard – my dream – but the winter seemed to go on forever and froze all the seeds, so nothing ever grew. I spent days drinking tea, and painting the misty, rainy moors – and I wasn’t bad. In fact, I thought my paintings turned out really well, and even considered selling them at the local markets, but in the end, I totally chickened out.
That life was glorious. No men though, unless you count balding fifty-something businessmen at the counter in Boots, who raised their eyebrows at me as if they were looking for a bit on the side. Erm, no, thanks. (Embarrassingly I later realised this eyebrow raising was probably due to the fact that I’d been queuing from the wrong side of the counter, accidentally jumping in front of people. Apparently, the English hate queue jumpers but are far too polite to actually say something.)
After a few months by the river, my bank balance had dwindled – living in the UK is a lot more expensive than Bali. And even though I tried my best, I couldn’t get a job. Turned out the town only wanted engineers and concreters, and I can’t even pour a drink without spilling it, let alone a concrete slab.
Down to my last few hundred dollars, I took the train to the city. London. Where everything was grey. In a small windowless office, I was interviewed by a senior manager for a public relations role. I’d worked in marketing in Australia as an assistant before I’d left, so I’d seen a lot of PR and events, but not actually done much more than send emails and organise people’s calendars and travel.
When they offered me the job on the spot, I said, ‘Absolutely!’
I moved to London and into a house of ten people. Ten. And it still cost more than half of my salary for a teeny room, with a single bed and a tiny window. There was even a queue to get into our damp small shower every morning (thankfully, I had learnt queue etiquette by then, because that kind of behaviour in a house of ten people would probably get you stabbed at night).
I smiled at Thor. ‘I started off in South America, travelled for a while through the US, and Bali, then flew to England and, of course, around Europe. I loved it – the food, the people, the mountains, especially the smell of pine forest in the middle of Winter in Austria, the Alps are so beautiful.’
‘That’s a lot of travelling.’ He paused and lowered his voice. ‘Isn’t it horrible being cramped back here in economy? It was a last-minute flight for me, and business class was full. You too? And how did you save up enough to stay in hotels for seven years? You must have some job.’ He leaned in excitedly, as if I was about to tell him I was heir to a throne.
Yep, Thor seems to be all about the dollars, I thought. Well, this love affair will be short lived then. I looked at him and said in a small voice. ‘I didn’t live in hotels. I lived in a house in London with ten other people. I worked at a Mexican fast food restaurant, and I spent most of my travels staying in hostels, because I was backpacking.’
He laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke, throwing his head back and slapping his knee. When he saw I wasn’t joining him, he stopped abruptly. His lips turned down slightly in disgust.
‘Backpacking.’