Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad: A Modern Air Travel Adventure

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I would have a preferred a strict "No Bag Left Behind" policy, but I suppose two out of three ain't bad...

I would have a preferred a strict “No Bag Left Behind” policy, but I suppose two out of three ain’t bad…

“You can only check two bags,” the man in front of me said for the second time. Seeing my expression – and no doubt both questioning my grasp of the English language AND grateful for the counter that stood between us at this point – the airline representative repeated himself yet again. “You can only check two bags. There’s a strict embargo going into Santiago.” Perhaps I would have been better able to process this information if I hadn’t just slid all three of my to-be-checked bags to this man. The three bags I’d spent a week packing and repacking. The three bags containing everything I thought I’d need during the 3+ months of my extended stay in the Dominican Republic. The three bags which, incidentally, I’d had no trouble checking in online the second I was able to do so 23 hours 59 1/2 minutes prior to departure. I couldn’t do anything but stare. First at the man in front of me – whom I’m sure really is a very nice man and I feel horrible about the things I was thinking toward him – and then at those three beautiful bags. Because I want you to think, just for a minute, what it’s like to pack for a trip of that length. Three and a half months in another country, one with a climate completely different from your own. A country where not all of the comforts of home are readily available. And where it is nearly impossible to ship anything without considerable expense and red tape. As you can probably imagine, a great deal of angst went into that process. It seemed never ending. And it wasn’t until I zipped up the final bag that morning that I felt a sense of calm. I was even a little proud of myself, because I felt like I’d struck the perfect balance: prepared, but not ridiculously over-packed. And now this man was essentially sending me back to the drawing board with only the narrowest of windows. I could have wept right there but, frankly, I knew I couldn’t spare the time. The cut-off was quickly approaching. Would it have been different if we hadn’t hit unexpected construction on the way to the airport? Maybe. But even with more time, the task wouldn’t have been any easier. My mind was already working, trying to calculate what was in each of the (very full) bags. What did I absolutely need? What could I live without? Because I wasn’t going to waste time arguing. The important thing was ME getting on the plane, after all. And I couldn’t risk running afoul of the air-travel gods any more than I already had. “I need 2 minutes,” I announced, reaching around to pull 2 of my 3 bags to the side. (Which sounds easier than it was. Keep in mind these were two rolling duffle bags stuffed to the gills.) I unzipped both, picked the one that held the most essential items and, as quickly as I could, removed as many non-essential items as I could. A half seconds later, they were replaced with the most important things from the other bag. Or what, at that split second, I thought were the most important things. Only, of course, I wasn’t half as calm and collected about it as I’m making it sound. I was nothing short of a hot mess. Time crunch or no, I was still distinctly aware of the fact that I was the floor show for the other passengers in line. As a result, that three-month supply of feminine hygiene products I had the foresight to pack didn’t make the cut. (A decision I may very well come to regret.) What felt like 30 seconds later, heart pounding and palms sweaty, it was time to zip up the overstuffed case. In my post-adrenaline haze, I had no idea what made it in and what didn’t. And I was too shell-shocked to care. Thankfully my mother, who had so graciously offered to drive me to the airport in the first place, had insisted on coming in with me. So she was there to take possession of the poor lonely suitcase I had to leave behind.

Post-adrenaline rush

Santiago-bound at last!

As for me, it took the entire first leg of my trip for my nerves to quiet. But now, a few days later, I’m settling in to my home-away-from-home in my tropical paradise. And I can’t for the life of me remember what was so important in that other bag. Because, let’s be realistic: this is hardly the worst airline horror story I’ve ever heard. Heck, it’s not even MY worst airline horror story. And it’s not like I’m never going to see the contents of that bag again. All that truly matters is that I’m in this beautiful place, following a lifelong passion and living a life that still feels a bit like a dream. And if I bit of worry or angst starts to creep in, well…I have the rustle of the wind in the avocado trees, the crowing of the neighborhood roosters, a view of both the ocean and the mountains, and the gentle clatter of the keys on my keyboard to remind me just how lucky I am. Besides, this is supposed to be an adventure, right? It wouldn’t be fun if it was too easy.

Sunrise over the avocado trees on my first morning. #100DaysInParadise

Sunrise over the avocado trees on my first morning. #100DaysInParadise

Mumsy to the Rescue

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It was midnight by the time I finished packing. I had two hours before I needed to start getting ready for the airport. It was silly to even bother going to bed, but I had it in my head that I’d fare better in my travels if I could just get an hour and a half of sleep.

I blame Facebook for implanting this notion in my head. Because I’m sure that’s where I read that 90 minutes was the optimal length of time for a nap. (If I read it on Facebook, it must be true, right?)

With visions of missed flights dancing in my head, I set two alarms. I even checked them twice.

Ten minutes later – or so it seemed – the first alarm went off. I silenced it with a practiced hand and settled back against my nest of pillows. Closing my eyes, I prepared myself to make the most of the handful of minutes until the second alarm sounded.

Only it didn’t.

The next thing I knew, it was 2:40. Precariously close to the 3:15 departure time I had planned. Especially given the fact that I had to not only shower, but also undertake a minor luggage restructuring. (I was a little too close to the airline’s weight limit on at least one of my two bags, and I wanted a bit more breathing room.)

Lord knows what time I would have finally woken up if not for my savior: my mother. Or Mumsy as I’ve got most people calling her. (Much to her chagrin, I might add.)

I was so grateful that she came to my rescue that I’ll forgive her the fact that she was up at 2:30. And when she didn’t see me up and about, decided that rather than start her search in the most obvious of places (my bed!), she’d take a look in the garage first.

Really, Mumsy. The garage?

Before you think me an ungrateful wretch, please know that, once we were en route to the airport and my nerves had settled, we had a good laugh about this. And she knows she my undying gratitude for coming to my rescue. (I thanked her every 5 minutes in my frantic race to get out the door and then every 3 ½ minutes on the ride.)

It wasn’t the first time, of course. I couldn’t begin to document all the many occasions – and ways – in which this amazing woman has been there for me. I’d like to think it works both ways, but let’s be honest, we’ll never be “even.”

I owe her so much, for everything from bringing me into this world up to and including what is perhaps the biggest show of support of all.

No, I’m not talking about making sure I didn’t miss my flight. Or that she’s kept her ribbing to a minimum after having to pick up the pitching wedge I so carelessly left on the ninth green after our golf league a couple of weeks ago. (Typically it’s the other way around.)

It’s the fact that she understands my need to hit pause on my career path. She may not be completely in love with the idea, but I like to think she’s proud of me for making the rather gutsy decision to take some time to write. And she also understands, at least to a certain extent, my desire to do it in different surroundings.

Because by making sure I got to the airport in time to make my flight – bound once more for the Dominican Republic – she was making sure my dreams didn’t get derailed before I even got started.

Thank you, Mumsy. For always being there for me. For understanding me better than I sometimes understand myself. For always having my back. For always being up for a crazy adventure. For all you’ve taught me about life, unconditional love and the importance of making a difference in this world one moment and one person at a time.

Even if you do sometimes forget I’m not longer 15.

Yes, my father was and is my hero. But so are too.

Love you, Mumsy.

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Pistol-packing Mumsy! See, I told you she always had my back…

My Paradise: Costambar, Dominican Republic

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I’m going to write.

That was the excuse I gave people when they asked me why I was going back to the Dominican Republic for a month.

It wasn’t a lie, per se. I did plan to write. Maybe even paint a little. But the trip was about more than that.

The 5 Gringas: Mumsy, Jules, Kathie, Nona y yo.

The 5 Gringas: Mumsy, Jules, Kathie, Nona y yo.

It’s not often that I’ve felt a true connection to a place, but that was what happened when I spent two weeks in Costambar – a small, gated community just west of Puerto Plata on the Dominican Republic’s North Coast. The trip was a much-needed getaway for my travel companions and I. (One of those travel companions was my friend Kathie, who offered up her house in Costambar for the trip.)

Almost as soon as I arrived, I knew I had to come back. I didn’t just want to come back; I needed to. I had healing to do, and decisions to make, and I felt like I could do that here.

But I couldn’t really explain that to people, for to do so would be to admit how claustrophobic I was feeling. How stifled I was by my usual surroundings, how overwhelmed by the opinions of those around me, all of whom knew just what I should do next. How much I needed some time to just BE. To refill the well inside me that had run dangerously low while I was trying to be everything for everyone. (Forgetting in the process that I had to take care of me, too.)

And I needed time to remember who I am as a person, and as a writer. Because one thing I’ve realized these last few months is that somewhere, somehow I’d gotten so far off track I wasn’t sure I could find my way back.

The view that won me over. (Taken that first morning.)

The view that won me over. (Taken that first morning.)

Until, that is, I came to Costambar. I knew this place was special from my first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean glimmering in the early morning sun. We’d arrived in the wee hours of the morning, but neither the late hour of our arrival or the 24 hours of travel hell we’d endured to get to our destination, were enough to keep me from waking at first light to get my look at paradise.

Now, some people may think paradise is a 5-star resort, but not me. Oh, I can appreciate the finer points of life as much as the next girl. But a developer’s idea of perfection is not my definition of paradise.

Don’t get me wrong, Costambar does meet the classic definition of paradise. It has palm trees, lush tropical foliage, sandy beaches, a seemingly endless string of sunny days and crystal clear skies, and an ocean that contains more hues of blue and green than I’ve ever imagined. There are amazing restaurants, cabana bars on the beach and some of the best rum in the world. But it’s more than that.

It’s the rhythm, the idiosyncrasies, the character (…and the characters!) that speak to me along with the sounds of the wind in the palms and the dull roar of the surf on the reefs. It’s the rooster that crows every morning (and sometimes all night). The motoconchos whizzing by. The horses and chickens on the golf course. The pomegranate, fig and banana trees I can see from my windows, all heavy with fruit. The flowering trees I can’t yet name. The seductive beat of the bachata, merengue and salsa – dances I can’t hope to master with my gringa hips.

I came here quite by accident, or so I thought. I was looking for a vacation spot, and Kathie offered up her place. It was that simple.

But as soon as I saw the ocean on that first morning, I knew it was no accident. I was meant to come here. And only a few days in, when I could feel my heart starting to beat in time with this place, I knew I would come back. The only question was how soon and for how long.

And here I am. Three weeks into a four-week stay in (my) paradise. Already plotting my return.

And, yes, I’m writing. Every day. Painting a bit, too. I’ve only just scratched the surface, but there is so much more there. I can feel it. Already the threads are there, I just have to tug slightly and they start weaving all on their own.

It’s just the rhythm of this place. It has seeped into my bones.

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