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Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 05
🕑 Added 2023-06-21 18:02:01 +0000 UTCMarch 3rd.
Dear Journal,
Oh, Journal, where do I even begin? It's all gone horribly wrong! Yesterday's energy and the adrenaline rush of new experiences have all been replaced by a dreadful sinking feeling, a pit in my stomach.
I returned from my exploratory outing yesterday, bone-tired and worn out from the heat. The cold shower I took upon reaching my hotel room felt like sweet balm on my hot, sweaty skin. Exhausted, I wrapped myself in the hotel's threadbare white towel and practically fell onto the bed, surrendering to the weight of the day. I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, my body’s desperate plea for rest winning over any ideas of dinner or further exploration.
When I woke up this morning, I found myself shivering; the cold bites of the aggressive air conditioning prickled against my bare skin. Sleepily, I stumbled over to my suitcase, intending to wrap myself in the comfort of familiar clothes.
But Journal, the shock that awaited me! The suitcase that I unzipped was most definitely not mine! Instead of my well-folded clothes, my bulging eyes were greeted by an assortment of women's apparel, from lacy undergarments to flowing dresses. The fabrics, delicate and soft, were a stark contrast to the rugged jeans and cotton t-shirts that should have been there. The sight left me dumbstruck, my mind whirling in panic as I tried to comprehend what had happened. My suitcase had been replaced, or I'd taken the wrong one!
In a daze, I ran to the bathroom across the hall, hoping against hope that the clothes I had discarded on the floor were still there. But the tiles were gleaming, cleaned, and devoid of my garments. My clothes were gone, perhaps swallowed up by some unseen laundry entity or stolen by another guest.
Desperate, I reached for the hotel phone, dialling reception. Amirah, sweet, flirty Amirah, was the one who answered. With an underlying current of panic lacing my words, I inquired about my clothes, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. But instead of the comforting words I hoped for, she offered the blunt truth - I should have known better than to leave my clothes in a shared bathroom.
Her words stung, more so because I knew she was right. What was I thinking, leaving my clothes unattended in a shared space? But the sting of her words sharply contrasted with her genuinely concerned tone. "Is there anything else I can do to help?" she asked, her voice sincere.
"Everything's fine, Amirah, thanks," I lied, the reality of the situation sinking in. I had no clothes, and I was starting my new job in less than a week. I felt a wave of shame wash over me, the taste of embarrassment bitter on my tongue.
After turning off the ravenous air-conditioning unit, I sank onto the bed, the cold seeping through the thin towel into my bones. My face buried in my hands, I sat there, the seconds ticking by with each hum of the room's ageing fan. The humdrum of busy Jakarta streets drifted in from the window, but I was consumed by the maelstrom in my mind.
Could I borrow clothes from another guest? No, I barely knew anyone in the city, and it seemed an outrageous request. What about buying new clothes? The language barrier and the daunting task of navigating an unfamiliar city in a mere towel squashed that idea. Maybe Amirah could lend a helping hand? The thought of admitting my predicament to her made my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
Left with no other options, I turned my attention back to the suitcase. As much as it felt wrong, I had no choice. I was too cold, and, well, you can't exactly walk around the city or even the hotel completely naked, can you?
I cautiously approached the suitcase again, as if it were a dangerous animal ready to strike. Rifling through its contents, I cast aside the most feminine items. A lacy red dress, a hot pink tube top, a pair of sequined shorts - these were not for me. No matter how desperate I was, I couldn't bring myself to don such overtly feminine clothes. But to my dismay, not a single pair of pants graced the case.
And so, Journal, here I am. Today's illustration is a far cry from my typical sketches. A self-portrait, one that I hope will tickle my future self, depicts me perched on my room's tiny balcony. The attire? A silky blue women's blouse and a flowing black skirt.
The blouse is an odd sensation against my skin, the silky fabric far more delicate than the cotton I'm accustomed to. The skirt, while unexpectedly comfortable, adds an unfamiliar weight to my lower half, a constant reminder of my predicament.
(See illustration 05)
Despite the uneasy feeling, the simple act of sketching has introduced a sense of calm. Yet, the anxiety isn't completely diminished - a constant echo of my clothing crisis. The sights and sounds of Jakarta continue to pulse around me as I sit on this balcony, the unfamiliar fabric of my temporary attire swaying gently with the breeze.
A new journey begins, Journal. It's not what I imagined when I arrived in this vibrant city, but it's a journey, nonetheless. The mantra, "New place, new me," takes on a whole new meaning as I contemplate the day ahead. For now, all I can do is sit here, the unusual swish of the skirt a poignant reminder of my peculiar predicament, and wonder, what now? With no apparent solution in sight, I need to devise a plan. The question remains - what will that plan be?
David.
