I
was beginning to wonder if I had lost my travel mojo; that innate ability to jump
on a plane, fly to a never-before-been-to country, and hit the ground running. The
night before I left for The Dominican Republic, I sat on the couch, looked at
my over-stuffed suitcase, and seriously questioned just what the heck I was
doing. It’s not like I recently won the lottery or sold a thousand books – although
I did just have highest sales month ever, so what was I doing flying off to an
island in the Caribbean?
By
the time the airport shuttle picked me up all my doubts were forgotten. But
then there was the journey itself. Even though the total flight time was a mere
nine hours, I swear this trip was nearly as bad as flying all the way to South
East Asia. The actual time on the plane was nowhere near as horrendous, but the
after effects were absolutely worse.
First
there was the woman who shared the airport shuttle who, for some reason,
thought that drenching herself in patchouli oil was what one did before flying
on a jam-packed airplane. As soon as she popped in the van, I through my scarf
over my nose and the driver rolled down both windows, which he kept open on the
freeway and over the bridge. I survived without getting a migraine, but I wondered
what would happen to all her fellow passengers on the flight over to London.
Then
there was the security screening. When did it become such a nightmare? Two
years ago, they searched and scanned and questioned as much as they do now, but
I don’t remember it taking that long. This time, it took about an hour and a
half, filing through a never ending loop-d-loop line. Stupidly, I dumped my
water at the beginning of the line because a sign told me to. An hour into the
wait, I started to fell dehydrated, claustrophobic, dizzy-ish, and wondered if
passing out would speed up the process. I honestly don’t know if I will be able
to tolerate that again. Maybe check in at 2am and crash out in the waiting room
overnight.
The
flight from San Francisco to Mexico City, a mere four hours, was especially
comfortable because I had three seats all to myself. It was an uneventful
flight, and since I had never been to Mexico City, I loved looking down on the millions
of sparkling nighttime lights that went on and on and on.
We
were about two minutes from touchdown when suddenly the engines roared and the
plane shot straight up in the air at quite a steep angle. No one panicked, and I
assumed we weren’t being hijacked because that would have happened at altitude.
But when the plane finally leveled out, and it felt like we were on our way to
Cuba, I questioned my original assumption. The pilot eventually came on and
explained that some other plane had been parked in our runway. How close a call
that was, or who was in error, I’ll never know, but I did enjoy this new
experience.
Once
through Mexican customs and back into the waiting lounge for another three
hours until my next flight, I realized I needed to eat something more than the
soggy croissant with Velveeta I’d been fed on the way down from SFO. It was
when I was traipsing through the Mexico City airport, trying to find food that
cost less than $15, when it struck me that I was hauling around way too much
weight.
When
the heck was it that I decided that a roll-on carryon was not the way to go,
and had opted for a laptop backpack? It’s not like I am getting any younger,
and it’s not like my funky knee is getting any better, yet here I was burdened with
15 extra pounds in backpack weight and 5 more in my purse. (Which makes me
sound like a real wimp. I can easily carry 20 extra pounds, but parts of my
body strongly object.) Added to that, I had
spent the previous two days working in the garden and hauling stuff around. My
knee was a wreck.
Trying
my best to ignore all that, I grabbed a reasonably priced cheese sandwich at
Starbucks and headed over to wait for my plane. As someone who needlessly
worries about being at the wrong gate, I checked with knowledgeable personnel
several times. On the final check, I was told that no, my flight was not
leaving at Gate 58, but at Gate 71, at a completely different wing. I took off
for said gate, walking like a 92 year-old, and swearing a blue-streak inside my
head every time my right foot hit the ground.
I
finally got there and grabbed a seat. And then the lady directly behind me
started hacking loudly. Germ-a-phobe that I am, I got up and found another
spot. But then the guy across from me appeared to have a fatal disease. He had
a washcloth over his mouth and was coughing and sneezing and blowing his nose, sweating
profusely, and looked like he should have been hospitalized. This musical
chairs game went on several more times before I finally just stood at the
entrance to the gate. It appeared that fully one-third of my fellow passengers
were not at all well.
By
now, I was seriously limping and guess I look old enough that no one questions
if I ask to pre-board. (of course, I always go on after the babies and
wheelchairs.) Once settled in, I waited for the other passengers to board. I nervously
watched as the deathly ill man strode down the aisle and sat in the seat in front
of me. Great. Four hours with the bubonic plague within spitting distance. But
no one was next to me and the seats behind were empty, so I was able to move
back one row….until the sick guy moved into my original seat. I wrapped my
scarf around my nose and hoped my generally excellent immune system was up to
the task of fighting off airborne bacteria.
I
won’t bother mentioning the seven drunken 40-something-year-olds because they
finally stopped hooting and hollering and fell asleep.
It
was 6am when I got off the plane and headed into the Santo Domingo airport. A
few steps inside, and I realized I was really in my beloved tropics. I stood
still, closed my eyes, and breathed in that wonderful humid air…even if it was
tinged with a bit of jet fuel. Customs was a snap, and then it was outside to
get a taxi. A lovely drive into town, with my own personal tour guide.
Back
in the good old days, when I had even less money and there was no internet, I’d
get a ride into town and start looking for cheap digs. This time, after much research,
I booked a place online. It was double what I am usually willing to pay, but I wanted
to be in the Colonial Zone and not worry about a thing for a few days. It
turned out to be nice enough and the people here are great, but even if I had
all the money in the world, two days would be enough. Sometime after taking a shower
and trying to get some sleep, (which was not something I had done much of in
the previous day or two), I started to once again question what the heck was I doing
here.
I
went out for a walk in a sleep-deprived, food-deprived state, and immediately saw
why everyone loves this country and the colonial zone, which I will write more
about at a later date. But I basically felt like crap. I’d gone without sleep
and food before and there was only a three hour time difference. What was up? I
bought some horrible food at a restaurant, but had a lovely chat with the
waiters. I then went back to the hotel and tried to search for other hotels so
that I could visit them today.
Oopps….the
internet connection does not work in my room. Between sitting on the floor in
the outside hall, and checking with hotel names I had jotted down before
leaving, and then trying to find them on a teeny-tiny map, I was set to explore
come morning.
I
woke up today feeling fairly refreshed, ate breakfast, packed up my list and
went in search of housing. It turns out my travel mojo hadn’t left me. I not
only found a great place, I found a fantastic place! It’s like it fell out of
the sky for me. It may have been a 24-hour delay, but I still have it in me to
hit the ground at a fast pace. Thank goodness! I was seriously starting to
worry.
The
Spanish is also starting to kick in. Blabbermouth Kate says hi to everyone she
passes and comments on their cute kids; which really doesn’t do much for
fluency. However, can’t-tell-left-from-right Kate constantly gets turned around
and needs to ask for directions. I’ve talked to dozens of policemen and army
guys and waiters, who very kindly and slowly, tell me which way to go. I
sometimes get sidetracked, and then just ask another lovely local. Today when I
got twisted around, (and for the life of me, I have no idea how I did so because
I swear I was on the same street the whole time), I stopped in front of some
official building. I said to the young military man, Can you help me? I’m lost again. To which he replied, You were lost, now you’re not! He
might have reserved that comment had he seen me five minutes later asking for
directions again. If I just had a map, none of this would be quite so bad.
The
stars are aligning and this is set to be one wonderful adventure!
(Better
pictures, with more explanations to come. need to get this up before I loose the connection again)
Kate
It was evident that the cigar making equipment was 101 years old. Wooden work stations, wooden cigar forms and drying racks. The presses were of steel, but appeared equally antique. After watching Sr. Rodriguez work, I wondered how automated cigar rolling could ever compete with what he was doing. 
When he had finished off his work, he led me to the room with shelves of cigars, sorted into various sizes. I asked about the differences between sizes. Did they taste differently? He explained that there were only two flavors; strong and suave. The different sizes were a matter of preference. Did I want ones the size of cigarettes, or the Winston Churchill big boys? Considering these were going to large men, I chose the Churchills'. 
It was evident that the cigar making equipment was 101 years old. Wooden work stations, wooden cigar forms and drying racks. The presses were of steel, but appeared equally antique. After watching Sr. Rodriguez work, I wondered how automated cigar rolling could ever compete with what he was doing. 
When he had finished off his work, he led me to the room with shelves of cigars, sorted into various sizes. I asked about the differences between sizes. Did they taste differently? He explained that there were only two flavors; strong and suave. The different sizes were a matter of preference. Did I want ones the size of cigarettes, or the Winston Churchill big boys? Considering these were going to large men, I chose the Churchills'. 
