Untitled Part 7
Sitting in the coffee shop they'd agreed to meet at, she reminded herself that this was just a short term friendship. In a day or two, they'd go their seperate ways, exchange email addresses and never think of each other again. But when he walked in, the smile leapt to her face and her heart pounded. She knew she was in trouble.
He sat down next to her. "Sleep well?" he asked.
"Mmm, sort of."
"What do you mean?"
"I just had a nightmare. No big deal."
He looked at her, but she looked down at the menu that the waiter had just brought over. "I can never choose with these menus. There's so many choices." He gave her a look, but didn't pursue it.
"Have you thought about what you wanted to do today?" he asked after a moment.
"I'd love to take a bus out to the ruins and just wander through them. I've heard they're amazing."
"Is that the place where you can rent bikes and cycle around? I'd be up for that."
They both ordered breakfast; she settled on the fruit and yoghurt topped with museli and honey, he chose pancakes with fresh bananas chopped on top. They discussed the merits of living in a country in which fresh fruit of such variety was always available. On every corner loitered an old woman with a cart filled with chopped fruit in bags, every restaurant meal came garnished with fresh pineapple, and bananas or coconuts grew in every back yard. Back home the growing season was short, and the only fruit that grew wild were berries. The first time she had seen a banana tree she had marveled at how they grew upside down to how she's always assumed. And hiking through the jungle, she'd been amazed by the wild trees where fruit grew off the trunk like a strange fungus. And kinds she'd never heard of, like Jack fruit and Manao.
After breakfast they made their way through the steaming streets to the bus station. If she forgot she was in a third world country while walking the city streets, the bus stations always hit it home. Dirty, crowded and hot, there was never air conditioning in the crowded structures. Fans whisked the hot air back and forth. Booths selling trinkets and snacks were scattered about. The people waiting always had baskets and packages rather than luggage. Young mothers strapped babies to themselves with blankets. The buses, especially to more remote regions, had baggage racks on the roof where large sacks of rice were tied on. A few saffron monks wandered through, the only travellers not burdened with large packs and bundles.
Outside, the doors were crowded round by taxi and tuktuk drivers, hassling the newly arrived passengers. Skinny, mangey dogs wandered in and around the benches, searching for scraps of food, or lay panting in snippets of shade.
The smells were pungent. Food being cooked by the vendors, diesel fumes from idling buses, sewer stenches from the bathrooms; they mixed and mingled in the heat, competing for strength in weary travellers noses.
The road was cratered and pockmarked as though it had been bombed in a recent war and the puddles that formed after the rains were deep enough to drown in.
(there's still more... this is the most I've ever written as one story...)
He sat down next to her. "Sleep well?" he asked.
"Mmm, sort of."
"What do you mean?"
"I just had a nightmare. No big deal."
He looked at her, but she looked down at the menu that the waiter had just brought over. "I can never choose with these menus. There's so many choices." He gave her a look, but didn't pursue it.
"Have you thought about what you wanted to do today?" he asked after a moment.
"I'd love to take a bus out to the ruins and just wander through them. I've heard they're amazing."
"Is that the place where you can rent bikes and cycle around? I'd be up for that."
They both ordered breakfast; she settled on the fruit and yoghurt topped with museli and honey, he chose pancakes with fresh bananas chopped on top. They discussed the merits of living in a country in which fresh fruit of such variety was always available. On every corner loitered an old woman with a cart filled with chopped fruit in bags, every restaurant meal came garnished with fresh pineapple, and bananas or coconuts grew in every back yard. Back home the growing season was short, and the only fruit that grew wild were berries. The first time she had seen a banana tree she had marveled at how they grew upside down to how she's always assumed. And hiking through the jungle, she'd been amazed by the wild trees where fruit grew off the trunk like a strange fungus. And kinds she'd never heard of, like Jack fruit and Manao.
After breakfast they made their way through the steaming streets to the bus station. If she forgot she was in a third world country while walking the city streets, the bus stations always hit it home. Dirty, crowded and hot, there was never air conditioning in the crowded structures. Fans whisked the hot air back and forth. Booths selling trinkets and snacks were scattered about. The people waiting always had baskets and packages rather than luggage. Young mothers strapped babies to themselves with blankets. The buses, especially to more remote regions, had baggage racks on the roof where large sacks of rice were tied on. A few saffron monks wandered through, the only travellers not burdened with large packs and bundles.
Outside, the doors were crowded round by taxi and tuktuk drivers, hassling the newly arrived passengers. Skinny, mangey dogs wandered in and around the benches, searching for scraps of food, or lay panting in snippets of shade.
The smells were pungent. Food being cooked by the vendors, diesel fumes from idling buses, sewer stenches from the bathrooms; they mixed and mingled in the heat, competing for strength in weary travellers noses.
The road was cratered and pockmarked as though it had been bombed in a recent war and the puddles that formed after the rains were deep enough to drown in.
(there's still more... this is the most I've ever written as one story...)
posted by Deirdre at 10:38 a.m.
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