The Backpacking Housewife. Janice Horton
my passport from the kitchen drawer and saved myself all the hacking and bloodshed by calling an Uber to take me straight to the airport.
And at the airport, a strangely calm and rational part of me had stepped up to take control, logged into our savings account via the banking app on my phone and transferred half the money into my account. Then I’d bought a ticket to the furthest away destination listed on the flight departures board. Normally, in planning for such a trip, I’d have certainly travelled economy and I’d have packed meticulously, choosing at leisure which lightweight stylish outfits to pack in my shiny hard-shell suitcase, that came with TSA approved locks and a lifetime guarantee.
But the little voice of calm and rational thought in my head told me I had no choice but to pay for a business class seat because economy was already full, and that buying a rucksack, a couple of sundresses and a sarong in the duty-free while waiting for my gate to be announced would easily suffice on this occasion.
It’s November and, just like me, London was cold and dark and miserable. Yet at the other side of the airport, in the departures terminal building at Gatwick, it was like being in a parallel universe of blindingly hot tropical colours and ultra-light fabrics and high-factor sunscreen and designer sunglasses. It was the middle of the afternoon, but the champagne and oyster bar was pulling in the revellers. Wine and cocktails and beers were being knocked back in the faux oldie English pub and people were partying in the premium lounges like they were already at their destinations. I felt like a gate-crasher to the party.
I bought a few items of clothing and a squishy travel pillow and a small carry-on size backpack, as I’d come through check-in and security with nothing other than my phone and my handbag.
Then, seeing my gate had already been announced and my plane was boarding, I ran for what must have been half a mile to the gate in such a panic that I hadn’t time for reticent thoughts or last-minute misgivings.
On boarding the plane, I’d planned to have just one glass of wine and then, in my extra-large, extra-comfortable, extra-reclining, extra-expensive seat, to sleep for the whole journey. Then I wouldn’t have to think about what I was doing, where I was going, and what on earth I would do when I got there. But instead, I drank my welcome glass of champagne with gusto and then continued drinking wine while watching back-to-back movies for twelve hours instead, until it felt like my eyes were falling out my head and we were descending into Bangkok.
Early this morning, I was woken by the light of a brand-new day scorching through a gap in the floor-to-ceiling curtains and across the king-sized bed towards me like a hot laser beam.
I was covered in sweat from a nightmare. It was every married woman’s worst nightmare.
In it, I was standing in my bedroom doorway at home with my mouth open but mute and with open eyes that couldn’t blink, watching my husband thrusting himself ecstatically into the naked, voluptuous and pendulous flesh of someone I’d previously called my best friend.
It was horrifying. It was disgusting. It was sickening.
On waking, realising where I was and that it had been real and not just a nightmare, I leapt from the bed to rush to the bathroom to throw up. But I could only dry-retch, as I’d eaten nothing since I could remember. Reeling back into the bedroom, I checked my mobile phone and saw that I had lots of ‘call me back’ messages from my two worried sons.
I also saw my phone was almost out of charge, but I didn’t have a two-pin charger.
Instead of calling my sons back, I texted instead.
I’m fine. I’m at the Holiday Inn in Bangkok. Don’t worry.
I’d already spoken to my mum and my sons from Gatwick. I’d been in a bit of a state.
Well, that’s an understatement, I’d been in a hell of a state.
My mum had been just as distraught and as angry as I was when I told her what Charles had done to me. Josh and Lucas aren’t children anymore, they’re grown men in their twenties – so although they, too, were upset, they’d also understood my reasons for leaving their father.
‘Mum, stay right where you are. I’m coming to get you!’ Josh, my eldest, had insisted.
‘No. darling, please, I need to get away. I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘Where is there? Where are you going, Mum?’
‘As far away from your father and his whore as I can possibly get!’ I’d yelled into my phone.
Now, feeling faint with hunger, I brush my teeth and shower, before slipping into one of the lightweight dresses I’d bought at Gatwick and deciding I’ll be brave and go down for breakfast.
I seem to be operating on autopilot. Not so much thinking but functioning. My head hurts from crying, jetlag and dehydration. Downstairs, I manage to buy painkillers, a two-pin plug adapter in the hotel shop, and order coffee and a chocolate chip muffin at the lobby café. It’s 1 p.m. local time and so breakfast has apparently been over for quite some time.
The café is busy. I sit at a table next to a couple of middle-aged American ladies who are chatting to each other enthusiastically over a tourist map and planning their afternoon sightseeing. ‘I say we go to the Grand Palace and the Emerald Buddha,’ says the blonde one.
‘Or, we could head over to the temple on the river and save the palace and the Buddha for tomorrow?’ suggests the redheaded one.
I listen. These are all places I’ve dreamed of seeing myself for as long as I can remember.
But now, in such stressful, horrible and lonely circumstances, I doubt I’ve the confidence or the courage to go out amongst the heaving crowds of strangers to explore alone.
Which makes me question what I’m doing here, if I’m too scared to even leave the hotel?
I could have stayed in London and done the same thing, after all.
The two women suddenly stop talking to each other and look directly at me.
I’m tearing my muffin apart into bite sized pieces.
‘Which would you recommend, honey? Have you done the palace yet?’ asked the blonde.
I falter at being spoken to so unexpectedly. I guess I’m still feeling invisible.
‘Oh, erm, I’m sure you must go and see them all.’
‘Oh, you’re English,’ they both say in unison, sounding delighted. ‘I love your accent!’
I nod. ‘Yes. But I just arrived here last night, so I’m not really the best person to ask.’
‘There is so much to see. If you’re wondering what to do first, then our advice would be to go to the floating market. It’s wonderful. We went last night, didn’t we, Marcie?’
Redheaded Marcie nods eagerly. ‘Oh, yes, you must. There’s wooden boats on the river all piled up with things for sale and local food being cooked right from the boat. It’s amazing!’
I smile and nod my head again as if I’m agreeing, but I don’t want to go to a floating market. I don’t want to go to the palace. I just want to go back up to my room and close the curtains and cry. But I only have another couple of hours or so to decide to either book another night at this hotel or to move on. But to where? I really don’t know yet. I don’t know what to do. What an odd feeling it is to be so disconnected from normal life.
Here I am; a stranger in a strange land full of strangers.
Yet this feeling of total anonymity has ignited something within me too.
It’s a weird feeling. What is it? Excitement? Freedom?
I realise I could start my life anew. I could be someone else entirely, if I wanted.
Because no one knows me here. No one knows anything about me.
Marcie and Joanie continue