“I don’t need your chivalry,” she says. “And I’m certainly not going to be in your debt.”
And I’m not going to argue endlessly with someone who is clearly taking satisfaction in loathing me.
“Fine,” I say. “We’ll split up. Make yourself happy. But let’s at least get you a phone first.”
“Fine,” she says.
“And it would be nice if we could bury the hatchet until then.”
She gives me a smile so big and fake that it’s worse than a scowl.
I look up the nearest electronics store and we walk twenty minutes in the heat, defeating the point of the clean clothes.
She gets the cheapest, shittiest burner phone they have that still has international texting.
“Give me the number,” I say. “And take mine. Just in case.”
She at least doesn’t fight me on this. She also uses my phone to get the number for the colleague she spoke to last night.
Once we’ve exchanged information we stand awkwardly on the street.
“Well,” she says with a shrug. “Goodbye, I guess.”
“Uh, yeah. Good luck with the passport.”
“Mmmhmm. You too.”
I feel like I should hug her, or at least shake her hand or something, but this is a reflex borne out of manners, not something either of us will enjoy.
So I just nod at her and walk off in the direction of the High Commission.
It’s anticlimactic.
It makes me impossibly sad.
I commence an exhausting, repetitive, frustrating day navigating the labyrinthian process of securing emergency travel documents. I will not recount the precise details of this, save to say it involved many forms, a succession of beige rooms, less than friendly consular employees, a less than flattering passport photo, and a new travel booking made on an airline app so buggy I was tempted to throw my phone at the wall.
I’m told my documents won’t be ready for pickup for forty-eight hours, as they are experiencing a backlog in processing applications. This effectively means three more nights on this island. Since by then the cruise will be almost over, I abandon the idea of meeting the ship at a port and book my flight directly to London.
I then look for a hotel on the beach. I might as well stay somewhere nice while I’m trapped here—this is supposed to be a holiday, after all. I must beevery bit the princeling Hope thinks I am, because I physically relax as the cab drives me into a lush resort complex, past a manicured lawn to a grand Colonial-style building with the glint of the ocean behind it. I crave functioning AC, hot water, room service. Which will be all the sweeter in blissful solitude, without the resentful digs of a bellicose travel companion.
At the check-in desk, a very helpful woman says they have a beautiful ocean-front suite available. “I just need your passport and a credit card,” she says.
“Oh…” I say. “I’ve actually had my ID stolen and won’t be getting new documents from the High Commission for forty-eight hours. But I can pay in cash.”
She frowns sympathetically. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says. “But I’m not able to check you in without an ID. And we require a credit card to take the deposit.”
I curse myself for not thinking this through. Of course they need this. It’s standard procedure at every hotel.
But I am not above begging.
“You can’t make an exception?” I ask. “I have the police report about my ID. And I’m happy to put down a large cash deposit for incidentals.”
She gives me a tight smile, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, but it’s our policy.”
“Ma’am, I’m desperate.”
I can see that her sympathy is waning.
