It was my full intention, laptop in hand (read: carry-on) as I boarded the plane, to keep up with blog posting while I was away last week. And I did do that. For one day. Thank you. That was Friday the 22nd, and oh, look here we are over a week later and I am finally finding it in me to catch up. And if this were Twitter, I would end that statement with a hashtag something like #geewherehaveweheardthisbefore, because we most definitely have heard this before.
It’s just that I have such an easy tiiimmme unplugging, you know? Yeah, I know, your heart breaks for me. Moving right along. Because this trip, though somewhat planned, turned out to be even so much more than I knew. And I want to retell it. In parts. You’re welcome.
The Point of the Trip
Now then, the point of the trip itself: Operation Sneak Onto An Island. I actually didn’t call it that, but I should have, because that’s what I had to do. And the whole point of that was that two friends of mine, I’d call them island friends, although they live stateside most of the time like me, you, and the rest of us that freeze several months out of the year. But I met my friends on the island, and therefore they are island friends. And they were having an anniversary celebration, complete with a vow renewal ceremony. Because they were married there, and they wanted to celebrate there, ten years later. (And those last several sentences, and likely those that follow, would give my college English professors a heart attack.)
My friends, the ones having an anniversary, were celebrating on Friday the 22nd, and they invited me months and months ago, when I was still employed and restricted from vacation time (ah, those were the days!), and basically had zero hope of being able to attend. It was a sad thing when I had to turn down that invite. But! Then I quit my job, and became a full-time, temporary loafer, so no longer was I tied down. Combine that with an unheard of low fare alert I received just a few weeks before the actual date of the event and a couple of other veerrrryy generous friends who allow me to bunk with them more often than I deserve, and the surprise covert operation was a done deal.
Keeping this secret was so difficult for me. It meant not saying anything on my blog, and therefore Twitter, or Facebook or to any mutual friends (minus a few in on the covert operation). A little reaffirmed fact about me: I can keep a “bad” secret with me until death, but ask me to keep a fun secret and I am impossible. But when I got to show up and surprise my friends, and then be a part of their celebration, it was worth it.
It was the home of these same friends I brought my friends down to stay in back in October for my 30th birthday, you might remember, and well, just like the island itself, it can be a magical place.
It was a beautiful celebration in a beautiful place, and I’m certainly better for having been part of it, not to mention friends with all these wonderful people whom I met completely by timing and chance.
Speaking of Timing and Chance
Here’s where the story gets even more interesting.
I arrived on the island the night before my friends’ celebration, which meant that all of the 21st I was either in an airport or on a plane. Somewhere between 10 and a billion hours of voluntary torture is what it takes to get down to the Caribbean from the Western U.S., and my lands as worth it as it is, it kicks your ass. There is no other way to put that, it just plain kicks your ass. And because of my secret, I couldn’t complain about any of it on the Internet. I know, right?!
On the last leg of my trip, in the Miami airport (which, in my opinion, has not moved out of the category of AWFUL in over a decade) I collapsed on a vinyl chair and drank what was probably my fiftieth caffeinated beverage of the day. A couple sat down next to me along with another man, and before long I saw that they were smart, because they were drinking beer. We started chatting, and I’d noticed the girl had a long garment bag with her, which could only mean one thing: Island Wedding.
Soon we found out we were not only on the same flight but sitting in the same row on the plane, where I did join in the beer drinking after all. We talked about the islands, about weddings, about love, about life. It was great. And I only had one beer, so I know it really must have all been real.
I also know it was real because at this point, I know that’s just how things happen in the islands. It just is. Whether you’re there, on your way, or somewhere in between, when that place is involved I’m telling you, good things and good people just come into the picture. I can’t explain it, I don’t necessarily want to, but I know it’s true. So when the happy couple, who I’d learned were actually eloping, asked me to take photos of their wedding, I was not entirely surprised. Shocked? Yes. Intimidated? Yes. Questioning their sobriety? Yes.
Long story short, though, they were sober, I was sober, and I went out two days later and photographed their very beautiful, very quiet, very perfect island wedding ceremony. We sailed to a small island, just the couple, the captain and his first mate, and me. It was a beautiful day, and I was grateful for the invite. And that day, I also got to put “Photographer” in the field for occupation on a customs form, which was a highlight I won’t soon forget.
Serendipitous, I tell you.
Stranded in the Islands
Three days later, after beaching and hiking and generally finding absolutely nothing to complain about all day every day, it was time for my quick trip to end. I woke up at five in the morning, my friend (bless her!) drove me across the island, I caught a ferry, caught a taxi, went through customs, and ended up in the airport. Kids, it is a long day just getting to the airport, and you’re not even on the plane yet.
I’ve tried various ways of explaining this next part, but I can’t seem to do it better than I did in the emails I sent to a couple friends when they asked, paraphrased, HOW THE HELL DO YOU GET STUCK IN THE TROPICS? My response, below:
The plane I was supposed to leave on broke, something about a cooling fan, so they couldn’t go anywhere (fine by me, the pilot says no and I’m totally cool with that, right?) but the thing is, to even get to the airport I have to take a car ride across the island, then a ferry, then a taxi from the dock to the airport, and then deal with customs, which is fake as compared to most customs, but nonetheless, customs, and then sit in an airport with, literally, no PA system (at least one that can be heard). IF YOU CAN IMAGINE.
So, when someone says the flight’s not leaving and they’ll either book you on a later one (maybe) or one the following day it’s like, um, NO, because what you went through just to get there (not to mention packing up the flip-flops and breaking out the parka) is just not worth going all the way back for 12 hours. So, since I was going to be coming back anyway, I demanded it be at least a 48-hour extension. And by “demanded” I mean spoke very kindly, smiled, and observed all cultural and customary manners. Ha.
And that’s how I got to spend a couple more days “stranded” in the Caribbean. I was staying with friends, so they gladly took me back in. Which is something I will never figure out as long as I live, how I got friends such as these. Crazy. Serendipitous. All of it.
The End.
Until next month.
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