Love, Lanterns and a Broken Suitcase

by Kerry Gunn-Black

Hong Kong – one of the most populated places on earth. For someone who had never been to Asia before, and who lived in a small Scottish hamlet with a population of circa six hundred people, it was daunting. But I was in good hands. My “new” boyfriend, Ben, was a seasoned traveller. I was sure I’d be fine. More than fine. We’d been seeing each other for six blissfully argument-free months and this was to be our first holiday together. I couldn’t wait!

We congratulated ourselves on how smoothly everything had gone. Asia, we decided smugly, had travel absolutely nailed. Flights on time. Connections seamless. Everyone polite, efficient, calm. We arrived at Hong Kong International Airport, waited patiently at the luggage carousel, and watched as our

enormous suitcases appeared quickly in front of us. No pushing. No shoving. No British-style passive-aggressive sighing. Just order.

We loaded our worldly possessions onto a trolley and set off to find the Airport Express. A train was waiting. We sat down, triumphant, basking in the glow of our own competence.

Then Ben looked at me and asked, quietly, “Where’s your bag?”

“What bag?” I replied. My heart leapt from its normal resting place to my mouth before settling again as I patted my familiar leather handbag on my lap, which contained my passport.

“Your suitcase,” he clarified.

The heart returned. It met my teeth in an effort to leave my body.

“Oh my GOD,” I screeched, leaping up and sprinting off the train, abandoning Ben to deal with the remaining luggage. I hadn’t put my suitcase on the trolley. I had simply… left it.

I ran back into the terminal at full tilt, directly against the one-way system, where I was promptly

intercepted by two armed guards who very nearly tackled me to the ground. I wasn’t inclined to argue with men whose rifles were inches from my face. Unfortunately, their English and my Cantonese were equally non-existent.

I attempted to mime “forgotten suitcase” through frantic gestures and something resembling interpretive dance. It was like a high-stakes game of charades — with guns.

Eventually, a manager intervened. He understood my explanation, escorted me back to the carousel, and — trailed closely by Hong Kong’s answer to Rambo — watched as I spotted my abandoned suitcase sitting exactly where I’d left it.

Relief flooded through me. I hadn’t been arrested or shot, and equally importantly, I hadn’t had to endure two weeks in Southeast Asia without hair straighteners and anti-frizz serum. Nobody needed to see that.

Ben, however, was not relieved. He looked at me with something bordering on disgust. It became

immediately clear that he did not find this incident cute or endearing. This was not a funny holiday anecdote to him. I was irresponsible. I’d assumed our first trip together would be romantic. Revealing, yes — but in a good way. I hadn’t realised it would reveal Ben marching me around a range of tourist spots, rapidly scoring items off a “to see” spreadsheet and turning our idyllic holiday into a box-ticking exercise.

After two very rushed days in Hong Kong where I trailed several steps behind Ben at all times, struggling to keep up with his speed-walker pace, we arrived in Vietnam. I wasn’t prepared for how beautiful it would be. Hoi An glowed at night during the Full Moon Festival, with candles flickering inside coloured

lanterns that drifted slowly down the river. It was the sort of moment that should have been profoundly romantic. However, Ben was sulking because I’d failed to take a photo of him launching his lantern. I

smiled sweetly at him as I pictured him tumbling into the water.

The Vietnamese food was extraordinary. Pho that made me rethink every soup I’d ever made, and curries fragrant and comforting. We took a spring roll class, which I adored. Ben, predictably, did not.

When his rolls refused to cooperate, he became increasingly irate. I resisted the urge to force his badly packed appetiser up his nostril.

In the old town we had clothes made for us from scratch. Tailors measured us and guided us through fabrics and patterns. I felt like a wealthy socialite. I’d never owned anything one-of-a-kind before. It was intoxicating.

We went to Ha Long Bay and stayed overnight on a boat. The scenery at the UNESCO World Heritage Site was spectacular. The wine flowed freely. Mostly because drinking heavily was the only way I could

tolerate Ben by that point. We racked up an impressive bar bill, which felt like fair compensation for my emotional labour.

By the time we were due to fly home, I felt tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Then the zip on Ben’s suitcase broke. This, apparently, was a catastrophe.

Since my case was lockable and destined for the hold, he began forcing as much of his luggage into it as possible. When it wouldn’t all fit, he hovered impatiently over me as I tried to fix his broken zip. I couldn’t. He grew angrier, convinced I hadn’t tried hard enough. I was certain that if I overstuffed my case, my zip would break too — and then we’d really be in trouble. Ben ranted about how I hadn’t helped him when he’d needed it.

I was speechless — nobody had spoken to me like this in my life.

Sensing my mood, he eventually apologised in the departure lounge. To keep the peace, I accepted. But something had shifted. I’d logged it.

Karma was on my side when we checked into the flight too late to get seats together.

I tried to arrange my features into an expression resembling disappointment, while internally

cartwheeling into my window seat beside a pleasant couple. For fourteen glorious hours, I watched box sets and enjoyed the novelty of silence.

Ben visited my row several times to complain about his seat at the back of the plane — surrounded by loud passengers who chatted constantly and bumped his chair. I nodded sympathetically, waiting for him to leave so I could return to The White Lotus.

When the plane landed in Edinburgh, I’d decided.

Some people learn relationships aren’t right over months or years. It only took me one long-haul flight and a broken suitcase zip.

The moment I arrived home, I ended it and bid him a fond “tam biet” as we say in Vietnam. He had the nerve to look shocked that I could possibly reject him based on his appalling holiday behaviour. I shook my head in bewilderment, and congratulated myself on making the right decision … eventually.

First holidays tell you everything. You just have to listen to them.