Our last day at the Maldives. It’s been an absolute pleasure and an honor. This journey wasn’t just about the breathtaking views, the luxurious villas, or the crystal-clear waters—it was also about the people. The souls behind the scenes who made every moment here feel effortless, who greeted us with warmth, who worked tirelessly to ensure our experience was unforgettable.
The buggy drivers, the servers, the bartenders, the tour guides, the excursion leaders, the receptionists, the shop employees, the ship captains—they came from all corners of the world. Maldives, Sri Lanka, Tibet, Mongolia, India, Indonesia, Bangladesh. Each one with a story. Each one trying to survive, to carve out something better for themselves and their families.
I listened, truly listened, to their stories. And if there’s one thing that became abundantly clear, it’s this: no matter where you’re from, we’re all just trying to make it. To live. To do our best.
Everyone in our group understood this. Well, almost everyone. We tipped generously because we knew—what was a few extra dollars to us meant the world to them. We could always go back home, work harder, earn more, and do it all again. But for them, that extra tip could mean food on the table for their family, shelter, necessary clothing, and/or receiving health care treatment. I know what it’s like to have almost nothing, to wonder where my next meal would come from. I also know what it’s like to be in the service industry, where kind words and a little financial generosity feel like heaven-sent blessings.
Our final sunrise is beautiful as ever. A masterpiece of gold and blue skies spilling across the horizon, casting one last enchanting glow over paradise.
We made our way to the lobby, following protocol—checking out, dropping off our luggage, going over the final bills and charges before signing off.
Breakfast was back to the basics. A simple, satisfying plate of veggie scrambled eggs, chicken sausages, and hash browns. And, of course, an Americano. The coffee here had been consistently good, and I wasn’t about to break the streak on my last morning.
We lingered in the dining area, soaking in the last of this dreamlike experience until the buggy arrived to take us—along with our luggage—for the final farewell.
Farewell, The Residence. I will miss you.
A quick 15-minute boat ride took us to Kooddoo Airport, where we waited for our seaplane. Another couple of hours to sit, reflect, and—of course—start planning the next adventure.
Talk of Zanzibar and Dubai swirled around our group. Apparently, Five Star and her sister had met a sheikh the last time they were in the Maldives, and he had hosted them in Dubai. They had all stayed in touch, and now, there was serious conversation about places to go next. Honestly? I’m down for either. Next time, I’ll be better prepared—with my SPF and bug repellent.
When the seaplane finally arrived, I was lucky enough to snag another window seat. There’s something about looking out at the world from above that makes me feel transported, even before I reach my next destination. Below us, the islands stretched out like emerald gems against the endless blue. Massive yachts dotted the waters—ones I hadn’t noticed when we first arrived.
The Maldives, in all its splendor, slowly faded from view. Le sigh.
Malé airport was an absolute zoo.
Three rounds of customs. Endless lines. And of course, the moment I needed to pee the most, I was stuck in a queue that I refused to abandon. No way was I starting over at the back just for a bathroom break.
By the time I cleared all the security checkpoints, relief was finally mine. I have never felt so relieved and my bladder was thankful.
Afterward, I made a beeline for Gloria Jean’s, grabbing a sausage pastry and an Americano. And because I have no self-control, I had the nerve to waltz on over to Dairy Queen and get an Oreo Blizzard. Yes. Yes, I did. No regrets.
We parked ourselves at the terminal for another couple of hours. Duty-Free was an option, but my bags were already at their limit, and the last thing I wanted was to deal with customs in London.
Boarding was smooth, and the travel gods were smiling on me—I had a window seat and no one in the middle seat. Just another female passenger on the aisle, and we both silently appreciated the extra space.
As we settled in, I noticed the flight attendants spraying the cabin with aerosol. Bug repellent? Some kind of disinfectant? Whatever it was, I was grateful for my face mask. No way was I inhaling that stuff.
Five Star popped over to my seat with an offer—an upgrade to upper class with her. I considered it for a second, but honestly? I was good where I was. The food in London would be exquisite, and according to the squad, this upper class didn’t compare to Emirates first class anyway
While they dined on a four-course fine dining experience, I had veggie pasta, quinoa salad with chickpeas, butter and bread, cheese and crackers, and a brownie. Not bad, honestly. It was still better than any American domestic airline food.
I tried watching Anora, but it wasn’t hitting. Maybe I’ll give it another go at home. Instead, I switched to Chicago PD and let the soundtrack of my playlist carry me through the long haul..
We still had quite a ways to go, another eight plus hours.
Dramamine worked its magic, and I drifted in and out of sleep.
At some point, Five Star swung by and handed me a bag of chips she had snagged from upper class. I’m not one for Bloody Mary’s, but I have to admit, it tasted pretty damn good.
Apparently, Five Star was being harassed by the flight attendants. She hadn’t realized that filming onboard required permission, and they had asked her to delete the footage—even though she had only recorded her TV screen, with no people in view.
Strange.
I had taken photos with no issue. But she had her suspicions. As an Asian woman with darker skin and parents from a communist country, she’d dealt with profiling before—especially in London. She had even been detained at Heathrow once, simply for traveling with a friend from Iran. Despite living in London for five years and being married (and later divorced) to a British man, she had never truly felt accepted there.
I couldn’t speak to that level of harassment. My experiences had been different— childhood bullying for looking different. But if something were to happen while we were together, one thing was certain—I wouldn’t leave her behind. I’d do whatever I could to help.
Dramamine pulled me under again, but like clockwork, I miraculously woke up just in time for snacks.
A cheese and vegetable sandwich, a drink. Simple, but satisfying.
Sleep took me once more, and when I woke up, London was just beyond the horizon.
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