Trials of a travelling woman

Press, 18 February 1986, Page 26

Trials of a travelling woman

By

SUSAN KUROSAWA

“It’s not easy being a lone female traveller, especially in countries not quite plugged into the concept of a businesswoman. . .

I had been sitting in the middle of the Indian palace-hotel dining room for almost an hour. The place was the size of the average town hall; all the tables were set up and none were occupied save for one by an attractive French window where two corpulent Indians were flashing fat ruby rings and discussing the declining state of the gumboot industry.

I had walked for what seemed like five minutes to reach my table; the desultory waiter had ushered me to my seat, shoved a menu in my hand, and retreated to swat flies and doze bythe kitchen door.

I set fire to my menu using a match from a box which had been thoughtfully provided on the ashtray. I held it up and waved it like a distress signal which, I suppose, is exactly what it was. My fingers were almost burned before the waiter smelt the smoke and came sprinting over with a jug of iced water.

“I’ll have the chicken curry, please,” I beamed, as he jumped up and down on the dying menu. I think it was his order pad he was tearing up as he shuffled off to the kitchen.

Poor sod. I had been a disappointment to the lot of them since the moment my new Italian leather pumps had tapped across the hotel’s marble lobby. Their books told them to expect a Mr Kurosawa; they had readied themselves to receive a Japanese businessman, perhaps someone with connections in the electronics field. The accounts department was all aflutter at the prospect of new adding machines.

A hideous argument broke out when a short woman with suspiciously round eyes arrived to bag Mr Kurosawa’s room. “I am afraid you are being an imposter!” the front desk clerk announced.

“Look, I’m Mrs Kurosawa,” I protested.

“Very well, then, we’ll be waiting until your husband is joining you and then you may be having his room.” I tried to explain that the last I heard of Mr Kurosawa he had a sushi bar in San Francisco and it was fairly doubtful he would be showing in the south_of India that night. I was ignored and banished to my table in the middle of the dining room. After the menu-burning incident they let me have Mr Kurosawa’s room. They probably figured I would be safer behind locked doors.

It’s not easy being a lone female traveller, especially in countries not quite plugged into the concept of a businesswoman. Why am I not at home where I belong stitching Mr Kurosawa’s socks and keeping his bean curd on the boil? Why indeed.

Earning a living is one good reason! An insatiable desire to move around the world is another.

I am not a unique specimen. There are women just like me plugging in their travel irons and drip-drying their nylons in hotel rooms all around the world. Given this astounding fact, why is it that hotels supply special sockets for electric razors but never include a bathroom plug for hairdryers and heated curlers? There are always plenty of suit hangers but rarely a double-clip type for a business skirt. Pernicketty shoe-shine machines are especially designed to crunch fingernails and they are only ever equipped with no-nonsense black or brown polish. Don’t hotel managers realise that really good Italian leather pumps only ever come in maroon, grey, navy and terracotta?

And, sometimes, I wonder if I’m starting to sound like a male of the species. At a leading Hong Kong hotel I rang down to the main restaurant to book a table for a business dinner. My companion for the evening was to be a Chinese journalist. A female journalist. “Yes, Mrs Kurosawa of room 945,” I confirmed in my most feminine twitter.

We floated in at the appointed time, papers were shuffled, the head waiter was summoned and we were led to a table for three. “At what time will Mr Kurosawa be joining you?” he chirped, “Well,” I replied, “if the traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge isn’t too bad and he can get on the first flight, he should be here by, say, breakfast.” “You won’t be needing these, then,” he snapped, removing printed matches from the table. Apparently it was one of the restaurant’s special little extras to have matchboxes embossed with the names of their dinner quest. He took away Mr Kurosawa’s matches and returned with replacements half-an-hour later. Mrs Kurosawa’s name was spelt wrong. I don’t think it was a mistake. Then there was the time I was

paged at Tokyo’s Narita Airport. “Mr Kurosawa, Mr Kurosawa,” they parrotted six times in six minutes. No Japanese men approached the counter so I timidly tip-toed over and stood in front of the demure ground hostess. “That’s me,” I offered. “Huh?” “I’m Mr Kurosawa. Well, actually, I’m Mrs Kurosawa but ...”

“Where is your husband?” she accused.

I decided then and there I would write to the elusive Mr Kurosawa and demand he send me a huge supply of his sushi-bar business cards to distribute to the hordes of people in hotels, restaurants and airport lounges around the world who were vitally interested in his exact whereabouts.

“Just give me the phone,” I ordered. “Mr Kurosawa will take her call now,” she informed the operator. You begin to think that perhaps you are a man after all. A rather short, squeaky-voiced male who carries a voluminous handbag and pesters hotel roomboys for extra sachets of herbal bubble-bath. You look for telltale whiskers in the mirror, panic when you find you can go in a notch on your bra strap, and start to tip everyone in sight, just like bonafide blokes. Luckily, just when you decide you’ll no longer make a fuss when bellhops address you as Sir, you won’t cry when your hotel account is marked Mister, even though you’ve been there for a week and have charged a manicure and bikini wax to the bill, and you’ll make the most of it when the air hostess insists on giving you “Big and Bouncy” to read instead of “Macrame Monthly,” along comes a nice man. A proper, pipe-smoking man with a pin-striped suit, unplucked eyebrows and musk after-shave who asks if he can buy you a pale peach daiquiri. Then you allow the frilly blouse to escape from under your tailored jacket and decide that being a broad abroad is not such a bad thing after all.