Gifts of power. Tale #1: The gift of a Cunard-insignia ballpoint pen.
Received March 2022 aboard Queen Mary 2, the Atlantic Ocean
I once heard that when you sleep, your brain clears itself of superfluous thoughts. Sleep is an ocean wave, smoothing out the hundreds of footprints, castles, ditches and holes constructed during the day. After the wave has passed over the sand, only the most sturdy of hills, or deepest of holes leave an impression. These are the memories we keep. The moments or bits of information that stand out from the rest.
After travelling from place to place for seven years, there are certain moments that stand out as remarkable: a surprising interaction, a memorable meal, or an incredible act of generosity. I also carry with me certain items — tokens I’ve been given along the way, that have proved useful at crucial moments.
These are gifts of power.
March 15, 2022: Southampton, UK
Garth, I think I locked us out.
You didn’t.
I’m so sorry. It closed behind me. It locks automatically.
Kat.
My phone is in there.
MY phone is in there.
And my laptop. And my wallet.
Well, I don’t know what to tell you.
At this point, I had already sagged my way down the wall. I had gone from euphoric to splayed on the carpeted entryway as the knowledge that everything we owned in the world was now locked inside our room, along with the key.
I had been so cocky that day as well, having survived our transatlantic voyage, successfully conveying not only my faux-mink coat, flapper dress, and peacock feathers across the sea and through the suburbs of Southampton, but also my Blundstones, HD teaching webcam, and spice keep. International borders and global pandemics be damned, I was a shrewd and capable adventurer-woman ready to be in the world again. I may have gotten my sea-legs on international waters, but as the wooden door to our perfect oasis of a room clicked shut, my stomach turned. Day one of our adventure, and I had gotten us in an impossible spot.
We had absolutely no way to contact anyone who could let us into our room, for it was the dawn of the post-pandemic travel era: gone were the days of bureaucratic hostel check-ins, and round-the-clock reception. Now, everything was remote, socially distanced and contactless, in all senses of the word. Not only did we see zero people upon arrival, but we weren’t even given a key to the front door. Instead, we had been texted a twenty-digit pin to enter the home, which neither of us had bothered to write down as we bounded inside.
After leaning into the minor panic and perhaps accepting the prospect that it could be several hours before we had access to those requisite resources of food, money and internet, we decided to have a look around the place. Surely there was an emergency contact list? Or perhaps another boarder would emerge, and we could use them as the conduit to reach our host?
We searched in vain for another guest. The kitchen had all the evidence of life with its sink full of unwashed dishes, but not a soul in sight. The living area was empty as well, its stuffy and dimly-lit atmosphere uninviting. Only my small suitcase remained there, the one which was to be donated to the charity shop as it was full of the fancy dress wear I used on the Queen Mary.
I found the phone number before Garth. It was posted on the wall, safe behind a glass panel. There were two contact numbers. We were saved!
But no, we weren’t. Not yet. The technology required to make contact, normally so ubiquitous, was not at hand. And so our escapade continued as we searched for a land-line or another human with a phone.
As we became more desperate, we got smarter. We could solve this riddle. With two of us, one could venture out to find a phone while the other would stay behind so that the untenable Da Vinci-coded door could be opened. But, blast! The coveted phone numbers were locked behind the pane of glass, and this was not quite a ‘Break in Case of Emergency’ situation. If only we had a means of taking a photo, or perhaps something with which to transcribe the sacred text. Aha! The final quest — find a writing implement from the pre-digital age.
Fatigued by hunger, we searched the flat again, thoroughly. We braved the rank kitchen, finding only drawers of eclectically sorted cutlery, and an empty jar with a smattering of salt caked on the bottom. We found secret doors, leading to secret rooms with more crannies to search and were dismayed that not one pen, pencil, sharpie nor magic marker could be found.
I began to devise a singalong jingle of the mobile numbers for Garth to memorise when a thought occurred to me. I made my way back to the solitary suitcase which I left in the living room and opened it find the miraculous answer to this final challenge:
My gift of power.
It was our final night on the Queen Mary 2. Our transatlantic passage was a fairytale dream, as we dressed to the nines each night, posturing as two people who wouldn’t bat an eye at white-tie service, ballroom dancing and limitless dessert. Our wardrobe was a compiled from found items in Brooklyn’s finest second-hand shops. Garth had enough pocket-squares to ensure that our reds and blacks matched, which emboldened us to mingle with the other holidaymakers, sip martinis and feel dazzlingly fabulous as we approached the shores of England.
Each night we would be shown our table by the maître d’, and we got to know the sommeliers and waitstaff. On that final night, I had written a thank you note and handed it to Thomas, the head waiter. He was touched and reached into his pocket to give me something in return. He extended to me a weighty ballpoint pen, embossed with Cunard’s insignia.
‘Oh, that’s alright’ — I faltered, but something compelled me to accept his gift. I put the embossed ballpoint pen into my pleather vanity purse.
The pen was there, nestled in with my Cunard ID card, and tube of red lipstick. The rest was simple. The phone numbers of both our hosts were written on a piece of paper, and Garth left the house. After no more than twenty minutes, he returned, purposeful, for he had received the next piece of the puzzle. We walked to the service room, found a lockbox and opened it with the new code. In this box were the cleaners’ set of of keys, and at last, we could open our room.
We had been incredibly fortunate that this international mishap had taken place in an English-speaking country. Garth had found a small veterinary clinic two doors down and was able to explain the absurd situation to the baffled nurse.
And we knew that we needed to pay back the favour, so we walked in the drizzling rain to the nearest supermarket and selected the nicest bouquet five pounds could buy. We rang the doorbell of the vet clinic, and our hero nurse received her cellophane-wrapped daisies with nonplussed joy.
Since then, we have stayed in a hundred more houses, and not once have we misplaced our key. We learned our lesson well.
But we suspected that this incident was something more — that the universe was playing with us.
A gift of power may not be recognisable when first bestowed, nor may it be taken seriously. Whether or not it is taken for granted doesn’t make a difference, provided it is taken.
What other items in my bag would aid me on the road ahead?
