Dry run

I am really good at going on holiday. It's one of my special skills I regret that I can't put on a CV. I know how and when to get the cheapest flight. What to pack, what not to pack. Flexibility of itinerary is paramount. Avoid this area, eat that, wear sunscreen, and no, you can't swim to the next beach along. It's always further than you think.

I arrive, impatient to hit the ground running, but God has other plans for me. There are a lot of things I need to break and struggle with and deportation to shirk.

Earlier, on a stopover, while rummaging in my overloaded bag for the nth time, I dislodge a bottle of perfume and it smashes spitefully to the floor. When I lived in Gotemba, I would only wear this at weekends, free from my small town constraints, adventuring around Tokyo in a heightened state of being, smothered in jasmine. But it is not to be taken with us, but left behind in a pool of broken black plastic and pink scent that always stained my skin. But I have made Kuala Lumpur airport smell beautiful.

In the quiet of the first unfamiliar morning, long divisive curtains marking the bunks and breeze between soft swinging linen, I shatter a powder compact into oblivion. Later, I will drop my tweezers, the only implement that stands between me and Groucho Marx, and blunt them. Flip flops that previously moulded themselves to my skin, and seemed to become part of my feet, rub and bleed and leave welts on my flesh. And that afternoon, as I rise out of the ocean, a small stray dog can be seen on the edge of the beach, marking its territory all over my dress and bag. It is still warm when I get to it, too late, and dark yellow. This will be hilarious in a week, surely.

And I am sulky, and dead inside, and tired and sad. Maybe I will just the waste the first week, I think, and maybe that will be OK. I have cheerful Canadians to carry me through. After tackling the beach, the three of us get Lebanese food and an ill-conceived strawberry shisha, then slip into the pool for a moonlight bathe. It is all too surreal for my confuddled heart to understand. I feel like I want to thank the boys for the pleasant day out I've had, but I really must be getting back to Japan now, to loiter in my apartment. There is washing up to be avoided and Gossip Girl to be watched in my pajamas. M to text on the phone I don't have anymore.

But it's had to ignore the scent of frangipans and the low swooping bats over our heads and the easy friendliness of my companions. Tomorrow will be better. Today was hardly awful.