After six months of long-distance separation, my partner and I were finally reunited in Thailand. I had been working in Brighton and Erin travelling around Australia. During that time I only ever saw Erin in golden hour photos or on pixellated FaceTimes. Their three-year visa seemed impossibly long, and so they decided to cut their trip short. While waiting for Erin I wandered around Bangkok Airport, marvelling at the smallness of the bananas and imagining the moment I’d see them for the first time. As PDA is frowned upon in Thailand, I wondered how I’d manage to keep our reunion calm and respectable. But then the security guard at the arrival gate switched posts, and now the door was being guarded by a butch about our age. I took it as a good sign. I missed the moment Erin walked through the door because I was texting them. They appeared right in front of me; after all those long months, it felt like a dream. Arriving in Bangkok at night was an extension of that dream, stepping out of the air-conditioned taxi and into the hot, thick air, watching as the navy night sky was lit up by a blur of headlights and neon signs. The city was awake. Deep in jetlag, we were awake with it.
As a queer couple, you never know how travel is going to go. How locals will react to you. Whether societal values mirror their laws. Thailand was one of the most welcoming, friendly places I’ve ever been to. On the very first night, any nerves I had melted away. That first weekend in Bangkok was occupied by the curiosity of new insects landing on our legs and getting over the culture shock. Balmy afternoons spent sitting outside bars, a smile from a waitress, a cold bottle of Chang. Open front stores, tailors and dress makers sitting on stools, waiting for customers. Sticky Pad Thai and glossy papaya salad. That weekend was brief, joyful, exciting, like looking over my shoulder and finding that Erin was behind me.
We moved down to tropical, verdant Phuket. Walking down the rain-soaked road to Kata Beach, a woman on a moped zipped past us, one hand on the handlebars, the other holding her baby. Palm trees towered above us. Stopping for coffee, we were warned to watch out for falling coconuts, which dropped and smashed onto the pavements. At night, the streets were alive with a chorus of singing frogs. Small, pale chingchocks ran up the walls. Roadside cafés served sweet, salty pork belly and hot, sour Tom Yum. At our resort, I left my copy of Our Wives Under the Sea outside on a deckchair, where it was, ironically, saturated during a downpour. I woke to the smell of warm rain and stiff pages. A waitress at the resort fancied Erin. She took extra time mixing the sunset of their Mai Thais, stopping them to chat at breakfast, always giggling and flirting. The way her colleagues teased her put me at such ease.
-june26-pr.jpg?w=145&resize=145,100&ssl=1 "Inside the new Monsieur Dior restaurant in Saint-Tropez")