Captive
by Marlene Mason
LIVERPOOL AIRPORT, UNITED KINGDOM
The counter agent hands me a fluorescent green
laminated card with a giant number three on it.
"I would like an aisle seat, please. The bulkhead
row, if it's available."
"Well, you are number three. There's a good chance
you will get that seat."
"Pardon me?"
"You are number three."
"Yes? But which row? What is my seat assignment?"
I ask slowly, unsure if she heard me or is just
amusing herself with 'Prisoner' reenactments.
"You don't have one. Go upstairs to International
Departures, and then downstairs to Gate Two. When
they call numbers one through thirty, queue up. Since
you are number three, there's a good chance you will
get any seat you want."
Is she joking? "What about a boarding pass?"
"You don't have one, just that card. Make sure you
board the Malaga, and not the Barcelona plane. All
the planes are leaving from the same gate."
Guess not.
"You may even want to ask the flight attendant, as
you board, just to make sure you are on the right
plane."
"Do we queue up in numeric order?"
"Uh, no, but that won't matter."
"So, basically, when they call numbers one through
thirty, make a mad dash for the front of the line,
yes?"
We laugh. She out of politeness and duty, me out of
mild hysteria.
"They will call one through thirty, then thirty-one
through sixty, and then everyone else. There are
plenty of seats. You'll probably get the seat you
want."
"Because I am number three," I say.
I am tempted to let pseudo-Tourette's take over, and
ask how many of their planes have crashed, and how
they will know who the survivors are if they don't
know where people are seated. But I think better of
it; most everyone would be dead anyway so it doesn't
really matter does it? Yes, that's comforting.
Real Tourette's must be an awful thing. A guy with
Tourette's once asked me out. There's no punch line
to that, by the way. Tall, attractive, intelligent,
good sense of humour, well-off. Size thirteen shoes.
He would have been perfect accept I kept obsessing
about what he might say to me in bed. Phrases like
'have you screwed the lid on the mayonnaise jar', 'I
need to hose the car down', 'the price of melons has
dropped', kept flashing in my head until I broke out
in a cold sweat, and politely declined his offer.
I go upstairs, to the bar. I commit a pharmacological
faux pas and order a vodka and orange to wash down
some Xanax. It's ten-thirty in the morning, and I'm
going to commit a social faux pas by drinking before
noon. I do this so I don't create an international
aeronautical faux pas at thirty-thousand feet by
telling the flight attendant, through cupped hands and
a head stuffed down between my knees, that I want to
get off the plane.
All the tables are taken, but a lone young woman I
recognise as number two smiles, and offers to share
her table with me. We exchange names and
pleasantries. I feel guilty for drinking alcohol at
this hour and explain to her why I am doing so, so she
doesn't think I'm some deranged alcoholic. I tell
her I'm meeting an old chum from America in Malaga.
She tells me she's meeting her boyfriend there. She
tells me he bought her ticket, that he lives in
Dublin, and that she hasn't seen him in a long time.
She also mentions her mom doesn't approve of him, and
he's never been to her house. I suss he's married,
and she confirms my suspicions.
She flicks a short blonde bang out of her eye, and I
notice she is older than I thought -- early thirties.
She lights up a cigarette and looks nervous. "Mum
worries about me."
"That's what mums do."
"She had me sectioned last year, for my own good."
Why me?
She continues unprovoked, "I had to stay in the
hospital for a while, until they thought it was okay
for me to be on my own. See, I thought he was trying
to contact me, so I showed up at the airport. But he
wasn't… I thought we could read each other's minds. I
thought he was telling me, telepathically, to meet him
at the airport."
Which airport I ask?
"Manchester."
After a polite length of time I tell number two I am
heading down to International Departures. She thinks
this is a good idea, and follows me. I manage to
single out a lone seat in a row of senior citizens. I
take up root, focusing my gaze on the departure door.
We're about to board a fluorescent-orange Greek-owned
plane with a fifteen-foot high eight-hundred number
splashed on the side. I feel a little queasy,
recalling an article I'd read about Greeks having the
worst security record. But that was about their
airports, not their planes, I remember.
I get the bulkhead row aisle seat, and a Nerja-bound,
middle-aged couple who decide they want to adopt me
for the flight. They think it's a good idea if they
buy me drinks, and I don't disagree. The wife isn't a
good flyer either, but she's afraid of falling out of
the plane, not confined spaces. As long as she
doesn't look out the window she's fine. The wife is
drinking brandy and the man scotch. The sky is clear
and the view as we hit the continent, and the
snow-dappled Andorran peaks, is spectacular. I order
a vodka and tonic.
MALAGA AIRPORT, SPAIN
I get off the plane and head for baggage. I stand
for what seems like hours but is really only twelve minutes, and get my
one piece of luggage. I sling my daypack on my back
and head for the front door, praying my friend wants
to take a taxi and not "do the traveller thing" and
walk to a bus/train station, as she'd told
me she intended in our four months of emails before this
trip.
I see her, and she has a huge grin on her face. The
closer she gets I realise the grin is not just a
smile, but borderline mania.
"Oh, my God! I am so glad to see you." She erupts;
the volcanic lava of her love is getting ready to
smother me.
"I'm so glad to see you." We hug and taxi drivers
are staring at us. We are a show in progress.
"No, I'm really glad to see you."
"Of course you are."
"No, it's awful, I thought I could do this. I got to
the hostel last night and started crying. I can't
understand what they are saying."
"You need to get your money back on that Spanish
course."
"I can understand what they are saying, kinda, I
just don't...you don't understand. This is scary.
It's a third world country, it's dirty, I couldn't get
any money, no one speaks English, I couldn't even find
food. I walked into a cafe last night. Some old man
looked at me, I couldn't speak, I started pointing to
my mouth and rubbing my stomach."
This is my feminist,
speak-her-mind-no-matter-the-costs, friend. I am
tempted to begin espousing about my last three and a
half years spent living in the UK, travelling in the
Latin countries of Europe, and giving the precise
definition of first, second, and third world
countries, reminding her this is a mostly first,
sometimes second, but think better of it.
"I landed in the morning, I couldn't get any money.
I couldn't find a place to stay. It took me nine
hours to find a place. Then, I couldn't find food. I
was sitting in the courtyard, I started crying--"
"You're just tired, from the flight. I'm like that
when I come back from America, it's worse travelling
west to east--"
"No, this is awful. I thought I could do this,
travel on my own."
I think back to conversations we had years ago. She
never wanted to leave the US, she had no desire. She
never thought foreign guys hot. I silently wonder
what her motivation was to go on this trip, but am
selfishly glad she did as I am afforded free board.
We are both excited, smiles ripping us in two.
She hugs me again and says, "Let's get a taxi."
"I am so glad you said that. The best thing, I have
found, when travelling and you get to a city you've
never been to before, and you are stressed and don't
know where you are going and want to
scream-cry-die-curl-into-a-foetal-ball is to get into
a taxi. All stress melts away, the cost doesn't
matter, the feeling is priceless. I always have taxi
money, for when I first arrive, no matter where I'm
staying. Although, agree the price before we take
off," I add abruptly.
LA CALA MIJAS, COSTA BRAVA
The taxi whizzes down the south coast of the Spanish
Mediterranean. I catch the resemblance to Mallorca,
which I visited the previous year, and the feeling the
driver wishes he understood more English as our
verbosity has him glancing in his rear-view mirror
ever few seconds.
My friend is talking excitedly. My preppyish,
silicone-enhanced, alcoholic, stripper friend has
morphed into a makeup-less, ankle-bracelet wearing,
non-drinking, ISP telesales executive. I am shocked.
"Ankle bracelets? I can't believe you wear ankle
bracelets."
"I've always worn them," she lies.
I believe she believes she has always worn them, but
why let it drop? "No you haven't."
"Of course I have."
"I would have noticed. You always used to wear
leggings and half tops. You never wore ankle
bracelets. It's very trendy right now."
She ignores my comments. Jet lag, sleep deprivation,
and fear have made her uncharacteristically
submissive.
We tell the taxi driver we are staying in La Cala
Mijas. Forty minutes from the airport, he takes the
exit, and relief sets in: we are home.
No we're not. The taxi driver has parked the car,
diagonally, in the middle of an intersection. He
demands the paperwork my friend has on the time-share.
He says he cannot find the address we requested. I
begin to stress. He looks at it again. I think we've
made a huge mistake. Thankfully no cars are coming.
Finally, he looks up. We follow his gaze. In unison
we see, two doors down, the apartments we are meant to
be staying in. Laughs all around.
Our apartment is all marble surfaces and turquoise
textiles, spacious and clean, situated a block from
the beach. The whole village is low-rise,
non-touristy, quiet. We drop off our stuff and head
for the uncrowded beach. Nothing but topless Germans,
men and women, and Sangria for me, for the rest of the
afternoon. As the afternoon melts to early evening,
we turn our sunbeds to face the sun.
I love the way bougainvillaea seeks to tame the
blinding whitewashed walls of the Mediterranean
villas. Spain is a Latin country, but its topography
is very feminine in aspect. I begin to think this is
why its male population has the spirit of "machismo."
Like the Balearic Islands, its limestone coastal
mountains appear deeply crenallated like a woman's
secret, simultaneously drawing you in and offering
danger, a soulmate to the Pacific Northwest's
volcanic mountain range. I am amazed at how familiar
Spain seems to me, how similar to California and not.
The landscape of California is rugged and masculine,
and the people are feminine, "in touch with nature,
their feminine side." I think of yin and yang, of
natural balance. The only thing strange to me about
the Med is how the sun sets over the mountains. I
tell my friend of this, how it seems so unnatural for
the sun not to be setting in the ocean. I love the
California sunsets and miss them I tell her. She has
lived in California all her life, yet she confesses
she has never seen the sun set in the Pacific Ocean.
She says she is afraid to, that if she saw it, it
would be too great a thing, too perfect. I have never
associated the word "fear" with my friend. I begin to
realise how big of a deal it was for her to come here.
ROCK OF GIBRALTAR & ALGECIRAS
My friend is moping. Guess she's still jet-lagged.
It's been three days. The only thing we have in
common this morning is our immediate dislike for the
middle-aged American couple sitting behind us, whom we
instantly nickname "the Costanzas" from Seinfield.
Every time they start speaking, we look at each other
and then, like a couple of schoolgirls, not
thirty-year-old women, cover our mouths with our
jackets, muffling laughter. They are even travelling
with their son, Joe, to whom we are soon introduced. Joe is
newly divorced, we are also told. We sink into our
seats, trying to look as unattractive as possible.
Our guide has passed around a clipboard, asking to
fill in our names, passport numbers, and our
nationality. The list is moving smoothly along until
Mrs. Costanza gets it.
"Oh, look honey, there's one, two, three..."
She counts, out loud, all the Americans on board.
Then she proceeds to do the same with the Brits.
There are more Americans on board, she tells the whole
bus, but really only meaning to tell her husband. I
begin to think maybe the Brits know something I don't
about this trip. Then I quickly remember: when Brits
go on holiday, they don't get up at five in the
morning. Most of the all-night discotheques in
Torremolinos and Benalmadena don't shut until six.
When my friend and I boarded at six this morning, I
could have told you who the Americans and who the
Brits were. I didn't need the public service
announcement. The Americans are all in fuschia and
turquoise shell-suits, or are wearing shorts and tank
tops, appropriately dressed for visiting Catholic and
Muslim countries. My friend nudges me, telling me we
could have worn shorts. I glare at her, and she
rescinds her coming argument.
One German family is also on board, a mother and two
daughters, we initially assume. Later we realise they
have a husband/father person with them, but he has
placed himself at the back of the bus, away from his
family. More happy travellers, my friend says. I
think to myself, "he's a wise man."
We pass the millionaire playgrounds of Marbella and
Estepona. I finally see the Rock of Gibraltar, and I
nudge my friend. We think it's pretty cool, that is
until we get to the Port of Algeciras. My husband
kept telling me to go on the tour that goes on the
Rock. No thanks. What the travel brochures don't
show you is that Algeciras, the city situated at the
shore of the isthmus, is an industrial waste pit of a
city. A huge, hazy brown cloud hovers above.
Petroleum processing plants' smokestacks billow
constantly and the beach is littered. Once again I'm
reminded of California, only this time it's of Concord
or Benecia.
I go to buy some bottled water at the port while we
wait for the ferry to dock. I don't usually flash
large notes, but I need to break a ten thousand-peseta
note. The counter-girl hears my American accent,
sees the large note, and tries to hand me change for a
five-thousand peseta note. I catch her, and she
frowns, handing me my other five thousand. I wonder
how many times it works for her. This is the first
time someone has tried to short-change me in Europe.
Algeciras leaves a, pardon the pun, bad taste in my
mouth.
Aside from the smoke cloud, the southward sky is blue
and clear. The bay looks calm, deceptively so. As
soon as we're on board the hi-speed catamaran, and out
into the Straight of Gibraltar, the boat begins
rocking. I don't get seasick, and my friend has a
strong constitution. Nonetheless, we choose the top
deck, and she refuses to leave her chair. At one
point she heads for the bathroom.
Tables of young Moroccan men stare at my Amazonian
friend as she walks past.
She comes back within a minute, advising that if you
don't want to become ill, don't go into the toilets.
The smell is horrible, and it's warm in there.
I take her advice, and instead go to the counter and
buy some crisps and a coke, and an éclair for her. I
mean well. She does eat it, but still doesn't leave
her chair.
I go outside, topdeck. Everyone is cramming into a
corner, trying to get photos taken with Gibraltar in
the background. It feels good out here, the wind is
whipping by, and I feel fully alive.
PORT OF CEUTA, NORTH AFRICA
The words "day trip to Morocco" should never be used
in conjunction with "do you want to go on a." No.
The words "no fuckin' kinda way will I go on a"
should always proceed the words "day trip to Morocco."
I didn't realise this when I thought it would be an
exotic and interesting idea to go to Tangier instead
of the Alhambra for the day. It isn't a
"Cronenbergian-Naked Lunch-come to the Kasbah, we'll
make beautiful music together" experience. It is more
along the lines of "some Colombian named Rolando has
just stuffed our passports into a shopping bag and
handed it over to the Moroccan Border Patrol in
exchange for some Moroccan tour guides who immediately
begin ranting about women in Parliament and having to
ask permission from wife number one to marry numbers
two through four, and I never even told my husband I
was going to Morocco" experience. For obvious
reasons.
Fifteen minutes past the border and my friend is
pretending to sleep so she doesn't have to talk to me.
Earlier in the morning she said she would not be
handing over her passport to anyone.
We are driving through the surprisingly lush Atlas
Mountains. Farm country, horse and plow style. Women
walk through the fields and look strangely Asian to
me: they are wearing large, round straw hats held down
with scarves. I keep thinking I will take a picture
of a petrol station sign in Arabic with a picture of
the continent of Africa on it, but don't.
Two hours later, we stop for lunch in a tent in
Tangier. A five-star tent we are told. There is
entertainment, and a bar. They are serving
over-priced locally produced beer. I buy one, and a
bottle of coke for my friend.
The group of twenty-six is composed of mostly
male/female couples, with the exception of myself, my
friend, and a beautiful, dark-haired, English property
developer. Besides Rolando, the German daughters, and
a glamorous looking African-American couple from
Atlantic City, we appear to be the youngest of the
group.
The Costanzas are afraid to touch the food without
cutlery. I dish out the soup because no one else at
our table can seem to figure out that the big wooden
spoon in the pot wasn't blessed with animation. Mr.
Costanza asks where the cutlery is while I break off a
piece of bread and begin mopping soup. My friend and
the EPD follow my lead. The next course is cous-cous
and chicken, and fresh vegetables. I warn my
health-conscious friend away from the raw vegetables.
The EPD takes a picture of my friend and I. We have
no makeup on, have covered every inch of skin, sans
face and hands, and pulled our hair back so we don't
look conspicuous. My friend is very tall and looks a
little butch without makeup and I'm smaller, my face
more soft and round. The EPD will no doubt be
showing her friends back in London how hip she is. I
can hear the Saturday night, Rioja-laced dialogue now,
"on safari in Morocco," she'll say, "I photographed
some non-indigenous lesbians that proved to be very
tame and almost friendly."
©2001 by Marlene Mason
