Part One; Chapter Two.2
Gradually it become time for Chris to present his passport and flight stub, exhausted yet excited at the same time. He was slightly nervous, expecting the immigration officer to ask for proof of a return flight–something that he wouldn’t be able to provide. The woman in her late 40s with bags under her eyes stamped his passport and immigration form, jotted something on his three month tourist visa, and handed it back. He was quite relieved to be stamped through without hassle. It was a small burden that had been on his mind since he took the chance to buy a one way ticket at a travel agent in North Denver. His guidebook that he bought in a used book store stated that proof of onward or return transition is required, but luckily that policy wasn’t enforced.
His two check-in items included an over-sized 85 pound luggage piece and black guitar case; He came to Asia fully stocked with books, clothes, CDs, camping gear, and a 20 pound American junk food stash; Within the fragile-stamped hard-shell case was Chris’s prized possession: A year old white Fender Tele-coustic.
Struggling to move such a load towards the welcome lobby, Chris wished he hadn’t packed so much. Just to his luck, he came across a stray luggage cart. ‘I wish all airports had these—at least for free,’ he thought. He relieved his weight burden with a sigh before proceeding towards claims. Just when everything seemed to be in place, his unzipped carry-on backpack, half-heartedly stacked on top of his main luggage piece, rolled off spilling out chocolate candies, cereal, and an open plastic bottle of iced tea, leaving the accompanied guidebook, brochures, and other documents that spilled out in a sticky mess on the floor.
To his dismay, a little Asian boy, no older than eight, ran by pointing at Chris’s mess pointing and laughing obnoxiously—which turned the faces of dozens of passengers within vicinity, offering smirks.
“Shit, how embarrassing!” He mumbled to himself as he kneeled down to retrieve the documents and guidebook.
“Here, let me help you.” A kind gesture by a girl with strawberry blonde hair kneeled down to help the boy gather his things. Their eyes locked for a brief moment.
He half-smiled. “Thanks so much, You don’t have to…”
“Mai pen rai ka” She responded in an impressive Thai accent as she rapidly fanned a sticky brochure dry. Chris stared back at her in confusion.
“Oh sorry, you’re not Thai are you? You look Thai. You know, it’s hard to tell.”
“Well no and yes, I’m American but I’m half Thai. Well, my mom’s Thai but she never spoke Thai at home, so I can’t speak or understand much.” As their eyes met again, Chris took the opportunity to introduce himself to this gorgeous girl. “I’m from Denver. Name’s Christopher Stevens, or just Chris, how about you?” he extended his hand
Jenny handed Chris the salvaged brochure-pamphlet.
“Jennifer Rockwell, Jenny’s fine. I’m originally from Santa Barbara but live here now. I just went back home for Christmas.” A pleasant impression was planted in her eyes–of a handsome boy only inches higher eye level than herself, “That brochure of yours for Bangkok University International College–are you planning to study here?”
“Yea, I’ve been accepted already and am going to register for classes next week. Why, you know anything about it?” Chris’s curiosity was aroused.
“Well, yea, I’ve been studying there for two years now. I’m a Communication Arts major. What about you, what will you study?”
“What a small world.” Stroking his bangs behind his ear, he gave her his full attention. “Marketing I guess,” He stood up securing his bag back on the luggage cart. “Though I’m not sure if I really want to spend my days here in a classroom.” His head gestured to the floor. “So, what about all this mess here?”
“Don’t worry about it. People get paid to worry about these type of things.” Just as Jenny said that, an older dark skinned woman wearing a blue custodial uniform walked up with rolling mop bucket equipped with broom and mop. The moment and timing were as if Jenny had scripted and staged the entire scene.
