Proof of Identity

Wednesday was a sad day, for it was the day Megan had to return to Bangkok.  We spent the morning puttering around on our motorbikes, with only a vague tourist road map for direction.

“Enjoy tomorrow,” Megan told us bitterly.  “Think of me, standing in front of my students, hating life.”

Megan is an English teacher and to say that she hates it is a weak description of the truth.

By mid-day, our carefree wanderings and daily benadene applications had come to a close, and it was time for Megan to ride her motorbike back to town, then catch a tuk-tuk to the airport.

“Crap,” she said as she packed.  “I hope they let me on the plane.”

“What?”  I said.

“I don’t have any ID.”

“Where is your passport?”  I was flabbergasted at the concept of travelling within a foreign country without one.

“My school has it for some reason.”

“Your driver’s licence?”

“Stolen on Phi Phi.”

“A credit card?”

“With the driver’s licence.”

Megan rummaged through her bag.  “Aha!”

She presented a flimsy, non-laminated card.

“My Thai health insurance card.  Oh, good, it does have my name on it.”

I believe it said something non-specific, like ‘M. Fitzpatrick.’

“Megan, they’re never going to let you on the plane.”

“I’ll have to try.  If not, I’ll have to get a tuk-tuk to the bus station and take a bus back to Bangkok.”

She shook her head.  “I really don’t want to do that.  They’ll let me on the plane.”

Jared and I accompanied her to her motorbike, where she fastened her trusty yellow helmet for the last time.

“Good luck,” we said solemnly.

“Thanks,” she said.  “Tell me what Pai cooks for dinner tonight.  I’ll live through you.”

She motored down the leafy path and was gone.

“She is never going to get on that plane,” Jared said, shaking his head.

“I know,” I said.  “I just hope she gets back to Bangkok.”

Pai made some sort of unidentifiable, yet unbelievably delicious, smorgasbord of Thai food for dinner.  After we ate to excess, we waddled over to the internet station.  No email from Megan.

The next morning, after no exercise and another massive breakfast, we checked email again.

“They let me on the plane,” Megan wrote.  “I could tell they didn’t want to, but they did.”

Only my sister.

One Response to “Proof of Identity”

  1. I can just hear Megan saying it, too, so nonchalantly, just hours before needing to board: “Crap. I hope they let me on the plane. I don’t have my ID.” Y’know. No big deal.

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