It only took a bottle and a half of Burmese Pinot noir, but by the time Kate and Wills were en route to Buckingham Palace, I had become engaged to a garlic farmer and The Brazilian had joined the dancing gong band really jamming on the village main street.
Given Myanmar used to be a part of the British empire, I figured these people will definitely be interested in the pauper princess - a real rags to riches story. Finally, someone who represents the interests of the impoverished! The struggle of the dirt farmer class!
Turns out little Katie is no Ronaldo, Michael Jackson or even Ido (Burma's Justin Beiber). Nobody had heard of her.
I guess when you farm 12 hours a day to earn a dollar, you don't care about CNN's riveting debate on whether Kate's dress is an understated yet elegant reflection of today's modern woman, or a simple but regal nod to princesses past (it was clearly the former, Anderson Cooper, you disappoint me).
It wasn't easy to find electricity, a TV, or a TV without Burmese-only state television. After some begging, the owner of Mr. Thumb - the only bar in 'town' - agreed to tap the satellite dish and turn off the soccer game, effectively boring every local to death, but making the North and South American princesses very giddy.
BP and I were the only foreigners at Mr. Thumb's. We were the only women. We were also the only ones who brought not one, but two bottles of our own wine for the occasion.
The young men who came to drown their worries in cheap Burmese whiskey didn't seem to mind. We looked - in theory - like the sexy western girls tugging off their tops on beer posters covering every wall, though we had just spent three days hiking in the humidity and hadn't touched a bar of soap or changed our clothes. Still, the farmer and his friends called us beautiful. That's love.
My new life partner proposed, blurry-eyed from whiskey and water, from the table behind us. Well, it's unofficial.
'Where's my ring?' I'd ask.
'My heart! You take!' He'd yell, moving his hands over his chest and pretending to throw.
'Dude, what the effy eff? I can't take you seriously without a ring!'
'My heart! Taking you, heart, princess!' More throwing charades.
And so it went.
Eventually I gave up and joined the gong band, too, leaving my future/former fiancee pouting. He wouldn't stop pointing to CNN's endless replay of Willy and Kate making out, then pointing to his cheek.
I shook my head gravely. I'm a heart breaker.
Even a ring of garlic would have done, but in the end it wasn't meant to be.
