At Heathrow, standing at the gate to board the last leg of my circuitous trip between Los Angeles and Hong Kong, a sudden announcement unraveled me. Out of the blue, my flight was canceled.
The news was abrupt, delivered with the practiced neutrality of someone accustomed to disappointing people. Fellow travelers turned toward one another with eyebrows raised and questions half-formed. Someone near me said, “Canceled?” as though repetition might undo the whole disappointing ordeal.
Follow parts 1-3 of this budding romance here.
I felt the same surge of frustration as everyone else, but for a different reason. The 14-hour flight from London to Hong Kong, a journey that required endurance, was long enough. Now it would be even longer. What unsettled me most wasn’t simply the inconvenience but, more importantly, what the delay postponed.
Around me, reactions quickly took shape. One man in a business suit stepped out of line and muttered, “Unbelievable,” as he made a phone call. A woman leaned toward the airline agent. “When’s the next one?” she demanded. Others stayed where they were, bags at their feet, arms folded. I did the same. My boarding pass, moments ago a promise of forward motion, suddenly meant nothing.
“Please remain in the area,” the voice continued. “We’ll have more information shortly.”
Hong Kong was waiting on the other end of that flight. More precisely, someone was. A man who had intrigued me since my last visit a few weeks before had me scheduled to see him again.
Our contact had been sporadic, but charged, as messages flew between us via fax, hinting at something unfinished. Waiting there in that stalled line, I felt the delay sharpening my awareness of exactly how unfinished it all felt.
I waited between faxed transmissions, watching the paper curl as it emerged, so I could read and reread his words before responding. The room itself was nothing out of the ordinary, but the moment was.
When the next announcement came, it clarified matters but didn’t improve them.
“The next available flight will be tomorrow,” we were told. “The airline will provide overnight accommodations.”
A low murmur moved through the group. For some, it sounded like relief. For me, it complicated everything.
Once at the hotel, I sent a brief but caring fax to the man who piqued my interest, letting him know I would be arriving later than expected. The missive was practical and restrained, meant to reassure. I told myself it was enough.
I heard back almost immediately. *How could that be?* he asked. The speed of his reply startled me, collapsing the distance I had been trying to manage.
We wrote back and forth for nearly an hour. The exchanges were simple, even cautious, but sparks flew nonetheless. Each fax carried not just information, but an effort on both sides to steady what had been unsettled as we tried to gently take care of each other from what felt like opposite ends of the world.
The machine in the business center whirred and clicked; these mechanical sounds were oddly intimate. I waited between faxed transmissions, watching the paper curl as it emerged, so I could read and reread his words before responding. The room itself was nothing out of the ordinary, but the moment was.
By the time we stopped communicating, nothing had been resolved, yet our upset had been calmed. That extra day had already begun to shape the reunion ahead.
Finally, I boarded my flight to Hong Kong, although I was a little unsteady. The night before had been sleepless, and the trip offered little reprieve. First class provided fine dining, quiet luxury, and a bed — but I could not sleep. My mind spun out of control as thoughts turned to the delay, the faxes, and, most definitely, the anticipation of what awaited me at the other end. As we flew toward our destination, I felt both exhausted and alert, drained yet impossibly aware.
When I finally arrived in Hong Kong, the choreography at Kai Tak took over as I went through every protocol. Meanwhile, a stretch limousine had been arranged to take me to the venerable Mandarin. Just beyond customs, I spotted the driver for the upscale property since he held a white card with my name neatly printed on it.
Then I saw him.
The British man’s “steed” awaits . . .
As promised, the handsome Brit I met less than a month before this moment was there, too. He had arrived separately, driving a blue-and-silver Z which was unmistakably his. He didn’t rush me or speak right away. He simply looked at me, as if allowing the moment to declare itself. There was a brief pause long enough for my decision to register. The luggage could go with the driver, I said. I would ride with him.
It was a small choice, made lightly while carrying a heavy load.
The limo pulled away with my bags, bound for the legendary hotel, and I slid into the passenger seat beside this man who was no longer a stranger. As we merged into Hong Kong traffic, I understood that the reunion had already begun; not at the Mandarin as initially planned, but here, in the space I had chosen.
It was in that space that I realized this was an important trip. The potential was right between us, proving that going through all it took for me to get there was most definitely worth it.
