Someone reaches out to touch my skin. Pets it gently, like a circus animal. I am a novelty. Permission was not asked, I had my arm behind me, cradling my stuffed packback so I would not strike someone in the head.
I never saw their eyes but their touch was inquisitive. It wasn't by accident they stroked me twice as one would pet a cat. Creating a motion and then repeating it.
I found my seat, seat 13. The numbers are imprinted on little metal plates and spaced out on the back of the bench seats.
The man whom I displaced sits across from me now in seat 9, seat 10 in the middle of the bench is empty, and his wife sits at the end of the bench - seat 82.
The bench that has my seat - the one beside the huge open window - no screen - has 14 in the middle - empty at the moment but we are still at the platform - a young man (well, he looks young to me) is at the end of the bench seat. Less than 12 inches separate us - he is in seat 83.
I am in car 3, it was the first car I saw at the end of the train - I have no idea what the other cars are numbered.
The man across from me has his feet on my bench seat. Close to the side of the train. He gestures for me to rest my feet on seat 10. It seems to be the thing to do so I slip my feet out of my sandals and put the soles against the edge of the bench.
And we pull away no whistle that I heard and I still have seen no staff.
Mrs. seat 82 presses my feet, first one then the other like I have had my feet pressed to warm them. It is a gesture of familiarity from a stranger that catches me unawares.
She leans forward looking at my writing. She knows no English so I know she doesn't understand what she sees.
Then she is gone.
We are separated.
The ticket authorities are here and I am in the wrong car. An 8 hour trip experiencing the gently inquisitive touch of this woman and tasting my feelings about them are gone. Taken from me.
I am in the wrong car, I must move forward. Even though this car was labelled car 3 above the door where I entered it is not 3 enough for the ticket meister clicking his hole punch as one might spin a pen around their thumb. I must move forward.
I gather my things my ticket in my wallet goes back in my purse, my backback I heave down gently in reponse to the reminding gesture of gentleman in seat 83. Also my brown corduroys which I swapped for a sarong and now won't fit in my pack. I don't pack them purse flopping pants over purse and pick up my two water bottles I brought with me - Aura brand 100% natural Cold Spring Mineral Water. I've already drunk from one of them.
I wish I could argue, request to stay but the train car is silent watching me. The train is stopped. Stopped for me? I don't know. I don't ask. I pick up my things and try to convey as much respectful regret into the nod I offer to the woman and I hope the seat mates know some was meant for them.
I move forward to the next car. A woman sits in seat 13, a turquoise shirt works hard to clothe her pregnancy. She looks at me. She doesn't move. The end of her bench is empty, seat 83.
"It doesn't matter, I'll sit here", I say while gesturing with my hand above the seat. Noone says anything. I put my bag in the rack above the seat.
The ticket engineer who drove me forward with a hand gesture earlier is back now. "Not this car."
I ask him which car. Clearly I am not figuring out their numbering scheme fast enough.
"How many cars?"
He tries to express it in English, is unhappy with his result.
"How about I just follow you? I'll be behind you and you tell me when to stop."
This is not the solution and he waves me forward. I walk forward one more car and aim for my target seat.
All men on both benches this time and all the little metal number plates are missing. I can't point at a number behind someone's head and start to set up camp because there is no number. In this car, there is no seat 13.
I don't know what to do so I wait. I move away from the group of men and stand in what I hope is seen as a nonchalant stance.
The ticket clicker comes forward again, he agrees to lead me.
Forward we walk, through the cars. People with bare feet, a child, a chihuahua on a bench seat.
As I enter one car a man takes in his breath as if he has been waiting his whole life for this moment. I move around him. Should he touch me it won't be in the same way as the petting touch when I first entered the train.
We walk forward.
As I walk over a small bridge connecting cars I see the ground move beneath. The train was not stopped for me.
Six, seven cars, I lose count. Past many seat 13's. The clothes get cleaner the further we walk and the women get fewer. Mostly men now - I don't want to sit in any of these cars.
Walk, walk, now a hallway and into a car that is the dining car. Through the dining car, the ticket man extends his arm and pats the bicep of a man sitting at a table - as though he high fived his friend's arm. I wonder if any of the information conveyed in the touch contains his opinion of me. Foolish woman who can't find seat 13, car 3.
We walk on. At some point part of me was aware I have seen no other white person on the train. I refresh that awareness in my brain.
Now a car with coach seats like a bus. Two on each side of the ailse - we all face forward.
Satisfied I am in the correct car, my guide turns and returns to his duties far astern.
I look around for numbers. Above each twosome of seats - with arm rests - is a white plastic plaque with numbers. The row for 13 and 14 is full. Two women sit in those seats; chatting, friends. I turn into the row behind, seats 17 and 18, both unoccupied. I take my purse strap off my body, lifting it up over my head. I push the pack straps off my shoulders and it swings down. Seat 18 is occupied by my belongings. I take seat 17.
The ticket clicker for this car moves backward in the car in front, working his way toward me. Finally we meet and he has my ticket. He reads it and looks up at the plaque for 13 and 14.
He says something to the women. I wish I could stop him. Sitting in that seat has no appeal for me. I want the seat across from the woman with the curious eyes and wide smile displaying her remaining teeth. I wonder if I am the older of the two of us.
I don't want the seat now filed with the begruding energy of the departing half of the twosome of friends.
I argue for the seat I am in. It doesn't matter what seat I have, I tell him, I've already had quite a few. "If it doesn't matter to you." I smile, he smiles. Apparently it does matter to him. The woman moves or is moved, it took place not in English. I hoist my stuff into my latest new seat. Lift my bag onto the overhead rack. I add my pants, like an afterthought not contained but they still have to follow my other clothes. My purse stays with me as do my water bottles. My ticket is placed back in my wallet and my wallet is placed back in my purse.
I sit and face the back of the seat of the person in front of me. A view I have had for 18.5 hours of flight time. I miss the interaction with the woman - she squeezed my foot. She loved me in a small moment. The back of the chair of the person in front of me has no love to offer me - to reach out and surprise me with the intention of the movement.
I catch up on writing what I could not write as it happened. One hour has passed since the train departed. Noone has looked into my eyes since the ticket man finally got me into seat 13.
Bangkok, Saturday March 8, 2014