One way ticket

Three years. I wondered if he had changed since the last time I saw him, already quite different from those long years when we met as almost kids.

I’ve arrived to this new, yet somehow familiar country, inhaling the heat and the dust, that I’ve missed so much that I sometimes hated my new homeland for its purity and... sterility.

As I rode on the old bus that smelled of mildew, my sole focus were the mountains in the late afternoon sun. Scorched and dry with patches of that oh so familiar limestone. My homeland was a few hundred kilometers away, but there and then, it was just behind those mountains, just behind the horizon of the airport.

Night had already fallen by the time the bus arrived to the city center, moving painfully slowly through the traffic jams, chaotic infrastructure and the neverending cranes building a new skyline.

With the night, the city had suddenly felt so foreign, although the smells of southern cities were picking at something in the back of my head. It wasn’t until that moment that I felt alone, walking through narrow streets to find the place I got for the night.

Thomas’ flight was delayed, and with shameless relief I decided to indulge in my vices all by myself that evening. Out of the shower and into the fresh white linen, a bottle of wine in my hand, the AC blasting and a mindless flick on the TV, still logged into some former tourist’s Netflix account. Sucker.

It was after midnight that I was awakened from a drunken sleep. I figured I could get tipsy on the first evening. Emerson would disapprove, but it didn't matter, Thomas was here. We met at the gates, and I instinctively hugged him, which he reciprocated but the surprise on his face was noticeable.

Both tired, we went to the room without much talk. I continued my slumber until he joined me in the bed. He noticed the empty bottle of wine, but he didn’t say a word. I knew he didn't judge.

Much less awkwardly now, in familiar silence, we pressed our bodies together in an embrace, sticky heat radiating from him, in stark contrast with the cool of the room and the bedsheets. It didn’t seem to bother either of us as I nuzzled against his neck, and we shared a few pecks before drifting to sleep.

Not how I imagined this reunion to go, but then again, I hadn’t really thought about it much, this whole job some abstract way for me to pretend I am on a holiday, like I had a choice over my actions. But I welcomed the feeling of slumber and fantasy with both hands, in a hug. I was ashamed to admit, I finally had him, just like the old times, if only for this job.

We woke up before the alarm, still enmeshed though not as close, even though the AC ran all night. I was half-asleep when he pulled me closer. It was a gentle yet stern pull. Probably the same words could be used to describe him.

Only now, in daylight, with eyes still half shut, was I able to notice the changes on him. His short hair stubble pleasantly scratching my hands, the hair on his chest tickling my face, and the soft flesh of his torso warm and tanned. His eyes were still half closed too, when we kissed and when he started stroking my body, although I couldn’t tell if he noticed all its changes as closely as I did.

We still haven’t spoken a word while I stroked him, his hand also between my thighs, laying side by side, gently caressing each other’s backs and heads with the other free arm.

The first words he uttered, still with his eyes closed but with a voice very much awake and stern, even though almost a whisper, were “Continue doing that”.

Not even a “please” from this fine English gentleman. And so I did, even though I wanted more. He finished, with loud sighs that satisfied and excited me simultaneously. Only then did we open our eyes while he said sheepishly, “Sorry” as I went to grab the towels and clean the mess.

It’s exactly how I remembered him; socially awkward, stiff in his interactions both verbal and physical, shy, yet even selfish when it came to sex.

We stayed in a lazy embrace a few more minutes, discussing the plans for that day. Pay for the hotel, cash only, find some desperately needed coffee, and a bus to take us to the next destination, away from the main city and into the mountains.

There were no timetables in this country, and I relished the feeling of not being hurried and moving at our own pace, even though at times I found his a bit too slow. Maybe it was my over-vigilance and stress, maybe it was his habits he picked up while away for so long in Arabic countries and hot climate weather, a habit I once had while living in similar conditions.

“Are you trying to cover the receding hairline with the shaved head?” I teased. His hair had always been lush and black.

“By the time the vacation is over, it will be as long as your hair, you will see.“ he replied sternly.

It wasn’t mean. I hadn’t yet settled into this new buzzcut that was a result of a recent job, and that was now in that unflattering growing-out phase that still hadn’t settled on my head as if it was still protesting the cut, and made me look like a weird porcupine. I was not feeling attractive, but it was practical.

We called a taxi in the streets that looked less threatening now, maybe it was the daylight, maybe Thomas’ presence. The heat was already clinging our clothes to our bodies.

The taxi driver was in his 60s, spoke little English but, as most older people in this country did, spoke fluent Italian. I could understand a lot, having read comic-books in Italian, and, finally, speaking fluent Spanish and some sloppy Portugese.

But Thomas surprised me with his fluent, albeit accented Italian, this being at least the 6th language that he spoke, that I knew of. I felt a bit of pride in the top of my chest, and maybe some jealousy too.

He was in his full spirits while discussing with the driver, and while looking at him in his white linen button-up shirt and sunglasses, traversing the hectic traffic and dry landscapes around us, I could imagine him in the back of a taxi in Cairo, or Lebanon, or all of the other destinations that he had lived and ventured in, always alone, without crossing my path.

I managed to chirp into the conversation from time to time with my limited language, and both Thomas and me tried to not stir in our seats too much or give away the malaise when he asked us about how we met.

Since I had told him that I was Spanish, as it said in my passport, the driver couldn’t imagine how an Englishman and a Spanish person met. We looked at each other, settled for “meeting in school” and left it at that.

Thomas struck an innocent conversation, about the man's life story. That's always the best way to assess a country, through the drivers.

He spoke of working abroad, as usual. I had travel experience, some prior language knowledge, and although coming from a second-world country, unlike Thomas and his upbringing, it was nowhere comparable to what this driver must've lived.

When he spoke of coming back, that too, gave me another dimension of compassion for the old man, as I had yearned to go back to my country after almost 10 years of self-inflicted exile. I couldn’t get away from it so simply in my current jobs and positions.

The bus stop was an empty lot that you couldn’t even call asphalted or concreted, it was a flattened mass of orange dirt covered...something, full of holes and busses and minibuses and people roaming all over, without any cover, a table, or even an entrance.

Under the scorching sun, we found our transport with the direction we were looking for printed on a piece of cardboard. The same mountains I saw upon arrival the day before were shining peach pink under the sun in the distance. We had no idea when we would go or arrive, but it didn’t matter.

In this part of the world, a timetable is a much less tangible measurement than a full bus. So we waited, taking huge chugs of lukewarm water from our bottles and scoffing at the sun burnt western tourists entering the bus wide-eyed with fear and insecurity. We might want to blend in more.

Just before we finally got going, after 20 minutes of waiting, Thomas said “You know, I was really having a lovely time with the taxi driver. Until I learned he’s a fascist”. I chuckled and added “An Italian fascist” to which he responded, amused, “Well, fascist in general, but yeah, he just tapped at the source”.

The drive was over three hours without any AC. I envied scornfully his ability to read, especially in these conditions; on bad roads and a 40 °C weather, as someone who battled road sickness their whole life.

I was also envious of his book that he seemed so immersed in. I knew this wasn't the time but since the last time I saw him left a big mark on my heart, I tried listening to some audiobook halfheartedly, ignoring it. There was poverty budding before us at all sides.

It did remind me of home, but not quite, with veiled women selling grilled corn cobs by the side of the road, along with horse carriages with melons, and absurdly kitsch hotels and casinos with their golden gates and fake Greek god statues in the middle of nowhere.

We would nudge each other occasionally, not to miss such a sight, until his tan hand reached for mine and settled on my thigh, his face still engulfed in the book, unchanging in expression.

He’s always had a severe case of the resting bitch face, now even more noticeable with the sharpening of his features, dark and hawk-like. It was all the more rewarding to see him smiling all the way up to his eyes, his usually taught skin crinkling into a completely different face when I’d glance at him sometimes.

I knew we were playing on dangerous territory here. This was not a vacation.