by Ning Cai
The bathroom was spotless and I appreciated the locally-made soaps that had been laid out for our use. I felt uneasy about the room though, imagining the spirit of the owner floating around. Did she die in her bed? I cleared my throat and thanked Yasunari as he left, closing the door behind him.
That was when I realised that there weren’t any locks or security latches for privacy. The original door still had the old keyhole design so I could peek through to the other side. I pointed this out to Pam.
“If there were other people in the B&B besides us and the owners, I’m not sure if I’d feel comfortable leaving our stuff here, with the door unlocked. Don’t you think?” I rubbed my chin as the BFF examined the door and the open keyhole.
“I’m sure he’ll give us the key if we ask for it,” Pam reassured me as she staked her claim to the right side of the bed. “It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Relax.”
Thanks to the B&B’s Wi-Fi, I found out that we were not staying at Lizzie Borden’s house. I said a thankful prayer, but the place still spooked me a little and we found ourselves whispering to each other in our room.
“Let’s head out for dinner,” I suggested. “And you can ask Yasunari for the keys.”
We found our B&B guy in the kitchen, quietly cutting vegetables.
“Yasunari?” the BFF called out to him at the door. “I think you forgot to pass us the keys to our bedroom and main door. We’re heading out to dinner and don’t want to disturb you.”
“Oh don’t worry,” Yasunari smiled. “The front door’s never locked. Enjoy your dinner in town!”
“Wait, is that safe?” I raised an eyebrow, not to mock our B&B owner because I did like him, but I just wasn’t convinced.
“Of course,” Yasunari stood up straighter, a small frown on his face. “We’re like family here.”
“So it’s okay to leave our stuff in the bedroom upstairs?” Pam asked gently. She shot me a look, the “shut-up-Ning-let-me-handle-this” look.
Rolling my eyes at Pam, I chewed on my lower lip and walked away. I couldn’t help but feel a little incredulous because even when I was living with my folks, we all had keys to our bedroom doors and we always locked the front door when we went out.
I was giving Barney a massage when the BFF joined me in the living room. “Yasunari suggested a nice dinner place, let’s go. He’ll be here so it should be safe. C’mon!”
Picking up the car keys, I stepped out of Maplecroft, not quite sure why I was still feeling unsettled.
* * *
We returned from dinner at around 8pm, to a still and empty B&B where no one seemed to even notice we were back, or that people had entered the house. After climbing up the creaky stairs to our room, we once again found ourselves speaking to each other in hushed tones.
“You remember Mang’s good advice about booking B&Bs run by gay men?” Pam whispered as I brushed my teeth at the sink. I nodded. My mentor Mang was an avid traveller herself and shared her observations that establishments run by gay couples are usually wonderful and managed with pride. “That’s why I booked this place.”
Pam frowned as she twisted the cap off our shared tube of toothpaste. “That formula’s always worked for us. Till now.”
It’s true. Pam and I generally prefer B&Bs instead of hotels where you’re just a room number. B&Bs have different personalities and we have been to many establishments run by gay men and our stays had been awesome. Everything from the cooked breakfast, the warm service, the aesthetics of the place, the brilliant conversation, even the eye candy. Yes, most good-looking men happen to be gay.
Maplecroft was depressing me a little. The B&B looked like it could use a new paint job and the energy around it seemed a bit old and sad. A shy and reserved man, Yasunari didn’t have a warm, boisterous personality... a character trait that I feel is essential in a B&B owner.
“I’m so tired,” I whined as I patted my face dry with a towel. “I don’t even think I’ll be able to wake up in time for his 8am breakfast.”
“Go to sleep,” Pam shooed me away. “We’ll head to the Ben & Jerry’s factory and graveyard tomorrow. I’ll wake you in the morning.”
But as it turned out, an early night was impossible because Yasunari soon started playing sad piano pieces downstairs. The music echoed around the quiet house and travelled upstairs through the thin walls of the old house. I growled in frustration and shoved my head under my pillow.
“Please... make... it... stop...”
* * *
Oudtshoorn, Capetown, South Africa September 2011
Rays of lovely South African sunlight shone through the trees outside as I admired the beautiful day. Zoe and Huw, the young owners of 88 BVR in Oudtshoorn, were chatting with us since it was late morning and the other guests had already left the breakfast area.
The BFF was happily digging into the chocolate and coffee muffins that the couple had freshly baked and I was finishing up my juice. I found Zoe and Huw’s story amazing. They’d met in London at work, married after dating for a couple of years, lost their jobs when recession hit, and when visiting Zoe’s family in Oudtshoorn, they chanced upon a B&B for sale and decided to use their life savings to buy it.
“It was a piece of shit,” Huw described animatedly. Pam calls him the older brother I never had because she thinks we have the same kind of humour. “Walls in need of a paint job, broken doors, dusty dirty floors... but we bought it, and did it all up ourselves!”
“And since we’ve never run a business before, we went out to get books about running a B&B!” Zoe grinned. “It was hard work and to be honest, there were times when we looked at each other and asked...”
“What the hell are we doing?!” Huw guffawed, finishing his wife’s sentence. Zoe laughed along with him and launched into an embarrassing story about their first day running their B&B, where they screwed up the breakfast orders because things got a bit crazy in the kitchen. They have since employed two maids to help out in the mornings.
I giggled at their funny stories, touched by the two lovebirds. 88 BVR isn’t a grand or impressive place but the rooms are practical and the B&B is in a nice location. The owners, Zoe and Huw, have vibrant personalities and they recently snagged the prestigious award on TripAdvisor.com for being the #1 B&B in their area. I was truly impressed by how far they’d come. The BFF was truly impressed with their muffins.
“Can you please email me the recipe?” Pam begged, already on her fourth muffin. “It’s soooo good!”
* * *
Canggu, Bali, Indonesia November 2011
“Tell me again what’s Bliss Sanctuary for Women!” the BFF chirped as our car passed by many emerald fields of rice paddies. “Is it a B&B? Why is it women only?”
“Like I said, I don’t quite know what to call it,” I gave an honest shrug. “It’s a new concept and they only have four rooms so it’s super exclusive but people are already giving it fab reviews. I booked it because we get to go for free yoga sessions every day, plus an hour and a half of free massage every morning, and all meals are provided.”
“Sounds like heaven,” Pam grinned.
“Bliss,” I corrected the BFF with a wink. Our car came to a stop in front of a traditional Balinese estate and Putu, our driver from Bliss, said he would take our bags. We were warmly ushered into the place we would stay at for about a week before finally coming back to Singapore, after nine consecutive months of travelling around the world.
As we walked through the tranquil garden, the peaceful sounds of running water already made my soul smile. A voluptuous Australian woman standing by the welcoming swimming pool greeted us with a big smile. “Hi Pam and Ning! Welcome to Bliss Sanctuary for Women, I’m your hostess, Zoe.”
* * *
I felt royally pampered at Zoe’s with all the massages by Wayan, the resident masseuse at Bliss, after my early morning Kundalini yoga sessions at the nearby yoga retreat. Zoe had an iPod filled with soothing music and messages of positive affirmations for use during the
massages, which was a great touch. I often found myself falling asleep midway through the sessions, only waking up when Wayan gently shook me, since I had the earphones plugged into my ears.
Zoe has a great personality and during our first meal together, the enterprising thirty-something shared that she was actually involved in a serious accident back in Australia, which made her decide to “seize the day” and do something she really wanted.
She came up with an innovative concept of having a place just for women to chill out in, where they can simply “bliss” out. No worries about not having makeup on because guys were not allowed. It was a place for women, by women. She was right. I had no qualms being naked or having my boobs on show when Wayan was giving me her heavenly oil massages, because we were all women. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.
“I had people actually calling to ask if it was a lesbian joint,” Zoe giggled as she sipped her lime juice. “That’s why I laid the no couples rule, to make things a little clearer. Bliss is a great place for women travelling alone, and I hope to bring this concept to other parts of the world.”
I liked Zoe’s concept and made friends with the other two Australian ladies staying with us at Bliss. Desiree’s husband had paid for her vacation and Anita’s children got it as a treat for her 50th birthday. They all fawned over photos of Pam’s twins when she showed them John and Jeremy’s pictures on her iPhone.
Zoe’s collection of books was awesome. Pam and the other ladies were checking out her collection of DVDs as I looked through Zoe’s bookshelf. The tall blonde stood next to me and pointed out a few of her favourite reads. I realised we had very similar tastes, preferring autobiographies and self-improvement books over fiction.
“I’m very particular about what books I put out,” Zoe murmured as she pulled out her copy of the Dalai Lama’s Art of Happiness for me. “Words are energy.”
“Hey, do you use that scooter?” I pointed at her moped, which was parked next to the Bliss mobile. “Can we use that?”
“Sure, but we have bicycles too if you want to cycle by the paddy fields. I personally wouldn’t use the scooter; it’s not very safe. I had an accident a couple of months back when my thong somehow got stuck on it, and I crashed.”
I blinked. “Your thong?”
“Yeah, but don’t ask me how it happened,” Zoe shrugged her tanned shoulders.
How does one get her thong stuck... while riding her scooter?
* * *
Putu, our ever-smiling driver, dropped us off at Ubud so we could do some shopping. Anita, Desiree, Pam and I were walking along a stretch of retail shops when the Australian ladies stopped in front of a store selling flip-flops.
“Crikey, look at that huge thong!”
I stared into the shop and realisation hit me. Aussies call flip-flops “thongs”! I sniggered and continued on my way. How hilarious was it that I’d thought she meant thong... as in G-string panties?!
10
mes garçons à paris
Paris · June 2011
PAM
On such a beautiful day in Paris, it felt wrong to be nursing a broken heart.
The sky was a clear blue, with tufts of cotton wool clouds floating lazily above. It was noon and the familiar green cross display outside the pharmacy at Rue de la Convention indicated that it was a cool 19 degrees on this fourth day of summer.
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and strode briskly back to our Paris apartment. As I glanced up at the blue sky and inhaled the crisp air, the immense beauty of the moment caused a huge lump to rise in my throat and tears to spring to my eyes.
Just a few hours before, my twin boys had walked this same private walkway with me, their knapsacks slung across their chests as they followed me up to my apartment, en route to the metro station, to pick up their boxes of Ladurée macarons. I had put the macarons in our fridge to keep them cool before their long journey to Singapore.
Fast forward an hour and I was at Charles de Gaulle airport, saying my final goodbye to my sons at the departure gate, and feeling their little arms wrapped tightly around my waist, refusing to let go.
Tears threatened to burst forth then but I held them back. I forced a big smile and kissed their heads and promised them that I’d see them again really soon, perhaps in some other part of the world? I made them pose for a photo for me, with their fingers raised in a ‘V’, and we waved goodbye frantically, as if the harder we waved, the faster it would bring us back together.
I had left for the airport with them in a flurry of activity, lugging bulky luggages and navigating the metro and RER stations with their many accompanying flights of stairs. On the metro train, which the boys had come to know so well, it had become a habit to gather them close to me. They reached up to my collarbone. Had it just been three months since I last saw them? How fast they have grown!
Oh! How accustomed I’d grown to them making a beeline for the seats closest to the train exit and flipping those folded seats down, and then before alighting, scrambling to the door before anyone else so that they could be the first to pull the lever and push open the doors! The novelty of a Parisian metro train door! Would I still feel that novelty with them gone?
As I physically tore myself from them at the departure gate, and watched them disappear up the escalator, waving wildly to me, I felt a dull ache in my heart. Can one’s heart be full of sorrow and yet empty at the same time?
Just to be physically apart from them – their little warm bodies, their spontaneous hugs, their cheeky smiles – and knowing that it would be at least six months before I could tuck them into bed again with a kiss, tore my heart into a million pieces.
Have you ever experienced how hard it is to fake a smile when your heart is breaking? Or to be in the midst of a happy crowd – of families, friends, travellers – and feel wretchedly alone?
I took the RER train back to Paris alone. I saw the same suburban landscape whiz past me outside the train window, the summer sun shining brightly, but it felt like a completely different reality.
When I reached the apartment, I flopped on the bed and burst into tears. Everything about Paris – from the street outside my apartment where we had strolled together to check out the morning market, to the stairs where they had trudged up in their squeaky Crocs – reminded me of my twin boys.
How would I survive another six months apart from my children?
Some days, I questioned my decision to travel the world and write a book. That day was definitely one of them.
I know every journey has its ups and downs. There will be good days and bad days, days when you feel like you just want to pack up and go home, and other days when you wish this 9-month adventure would never end.
On the day my boys left Paris, I felt like my decision to travel the world was the dumbest one I’d ever made. I felt that the trip had stolen three precious months of my life with them, months of not waking up to their toothy grins, their daily chatter, their after-school stories, even their ridiculous squabbles that used to drive me nuts!
And it would be another six months before I could be reunited with them again. At that point in my journey, I felt like those were the longest six months of my life.
* * *
We had arrived in France from New York two weeks before Ning was scheduled to start her basic Patisserie course at the world-renowned Le Cordon Bleu. After settling our accommodation and Ning’s school registration, we took the metro to Montparnasse to pick up a car from our car rental sponsor, Hertz, and we were off again on a French road trip!
Oui, two glorious weeks in the French countryside to explore Normandy and Brittany in our silver Mercedes-Benz. It was the first time I’d driven a Merc, and boy did I feel royally spoilt!
When we returned to Paris the weekend before Ning was supposed to start school, I knew close to nothing about Paris. And the very next day, I was supposed to head to Charles de Gaulle airport at 8am to pick up my boys, who were spending their school holidays with me!
I was still unfamiliar with the Paris metro system and the RER trains that run from the city centre to the suburbs. And I had to leave the house at 6am to ensure that I made it to the airport on time to see them sail through the gates. Roaming the streets of a foreign city on my own at 6am was something I had never done before.
But seeing John and Jeremy’s boyish grins at the Paris airport made the entire ordeal worth it. It had been three months since I last saw my children and just holding them, smelling them, kissing them, and hearing their familiar voices filled my heart to overflowing.
“Hey mum,” Jeremy greeted me with a cocky grin. That’s how I can always tell it’s Jeremy on the phone or on Skype.
We’d been Skyping throughout my U.S. road trip, across six time zones, from Hawaii to New York. Now that Ning and I were in France, the boys and I had Skyped across 12 time zones. We were constantly rescheduling our call times, depending on where Ning and I were in the world. No better way to teach them about the World Clock and that Singapore isn’t the centre of the universe!
And finally, we were now in the same time zone. Reunited, in the beautiful city of Paris!
We took the RER and metro trains back to Rue de la Convention. Their hotel was just down the street from our apartment, about three minutes’ walk away. But I didn’t want to lose any precious time with them so I got us a hotel apartment on the top floor and moved in with them for the duration that they were in Paris.
“Can we go to the Eiffel Tower, mum?” John asked, unzipping his bag and pulling out a large sketchpad and a box of pencils.
“Ooh, what’s this, John?” I laughed as I watched him lay them out on his bed.