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I'd fallen into bed at 1am in Antigua,
Guatemala, and my alarm went at 3.15am for the taxi minibus to the
airport. I couldn't get my rucksack closed so in the end dragged it
down onto the street half open and got the taxi man to help me.
Monique came down to wave me off, bless her. I've had so much fun
with her and hope we keep in touch.
It took about an hour to get to the
airport. It was dark, misty and cold and I felt very tired. We passed
a terrible crash at one point where smoke was rising from a car
smashed to pieces. It made me think if I hadn't messed around trying
to get my bag closed, we would have been on the road a couple of
minutes earlier and we might have been involved in it. The difference
a minute can make sometimes.
The check-in all went smoothly, I paid
my $3 departure tax and went to sit in the gate area. I was confused
when I read Miami on the computer above the gate so went to ask
someone and discovered I would, in fact, be flying to Miami,
collecting my bags and then on to New Orleans. Nice to know.
After 5 months of travelling through
South and Central America, it was no wonder that Miami airport was a
culture shock. The police seemed loud and over-controlling. “Come
on”, a guy bellowed, “get your documents ready, move along!”.
The food was expensive ($8 for a sandwich, $2.80 for a small bottle
of water) and the people walking around all seemed very flashy and
fashion-conscious. On the plus side, I got to put my paper in the
toilet instead of in the bin next to it. I said goodbye to the Dutch
couple I'd been chatting with, grabbed myself some sushi (if I'm
going to pay $8, I'd rather get sushi than a sandwich) and tried and
failed to get wireless internet (there was a charge; isn't it ironic
that the richer the country, the harder it is to get free wifi?) What
with long queues at passport control, however, I didn't have long
until I was boarding my flight to New Orleans.
We flew over some amazing-looking
islands with long stretches of golden beaches and extensive causeways
which connected pieces of land way out at sea to the mainland. When
we landed in New Orleans and I disembarked, the first thing I noticed
was the heat and then that the signs which were all in English and
French instead of English and Spanish like in Miami. The atmosphere
also seemed a lot more laid back.
As I followed the signs to baggage
claim, I suddenly saw Garry leaning on a wall. It took me by surprise
as I didn't think the general public were allowed in that part of the
airport. We had a big hug and it felt so nice to see a familiar face
half way across the world. I quickly entered Garry's world: his car
was large and smooth, his house beautiful and stylish and his
girlfriend, Krista, tanned and gorgeous. Once I'd be shown my room
(what a luxury!), I gave them the presents I had bought (it was a bit
disappointing to see Garry already had a hammock but never mind), got
changed into a skirt and top and we all headed out for pizza.
We bought a bottle of wine back from
the restaurant to enjoy at the house. At some point during the course
of the afternoon/evening, Krista told me that Michael Jackson had
died. I was shocked. Isn't he the kind of person you just imagine
always being around? And how strange to think that if I ever have
children, I'll have to tell them, “so there was this singer, called
Michael Jackson. He died before you were born.”
Garry's work mate, Anne, came round to
help us with the wine and before I knew it, we were heading out to an
80s club. It was a great setting – like an old theatre with a huge
video screen and, most importantly, lots of room to dance. Michael
Jackson tunes played throughout the night, we drank cuba libres and I
danced away until the fact that I'd only had two hours' sleep the
night before started to take its toll. I had a rest on the stage
behind the curtain until the security man told me I couldn't sit
there. We headed to another bar for a change of scene and I managed
to pick up a bit more energy although some glass in my toe stopped me
from dancing further (when will I learn not to dance barefoot?).
Garry's friend, Keith, drove us home around 3am. What a day it had
been – from waking up in a Guatemalan house, to a surprise flight
to Miami, to dancing in downtown New Orleans.
