Despite nearly being attacked by a barracuda (although I'm sure he went back to his little barracuda friends and claimed I attacked him) , we had a wonderful time in Grand Cayman. And since we had an early evening flight, we even got to spend the entire last day there, soaking up the island and buying a few souvenirs (gotta get that magnet!)
The return trip, however...
Get there two hours early, they told us. Check-in, security lines, these things take time, even at smaller airports, they told us. There could be traffic, they told us. "They" were wrong.
No traffic, no lines, actual people to check you in and take your bags (imagine that!), it was a dream come true. Until we got into the terminal with one hour and forty-five minutes to kill. Then it was a nightmare.
First of all, there were about 100 seats and 200 people. Everytime a flight was called, a new round of musical chairs began. As one set of people raced for the tarmac, another raced for the empty seats, leaving in their wake a path of squashed toes, bruised shins and banged heads. Wow. Fun and games.
Those poor unfortunate souls who were too slow to get a seat were condemned to wander until the next announcement, mentally assessing the lucky winners and trying to figure out which ones were headed to New York vs. Georgia (okay, that one was a no-brainer, but some were tougher, like Missouri vs. Iowa).
Although we were among the lucky ones to have seats, Rose and I chose to join the crowds wandering in and out of the shops in the terminal, which took all of five minutes. There were a grand total of two tacky souvenir shops (I know. Tacky and souvenir are redundant), two over-priced watch and jewelry shops (in case you absolutely, positively could not leave the island without that Rolex), one shop which sold nothing but rum cakes (thirty different flavors. It was sort of like Baskins and Robbins for adults.), and a bar that boasted a line of people that stretched from one end of the terminal to the other (I believe the ratio is two rum cakes equal one drink, although some people were trying to speed things along by eating rum cake while they stood in line for a drink. Hmm, not a bad idea.)
While we joined the fray and purchased those last-minute, must-have T-shirts and baseball caps(it was either that or eat rum cakes until we went up a size), Tim plugged in his ipod, closed his eyes and tried his best to pretend he was back on the beach. Every few minutes, he would open one eye and glare at someone for inching a bit too close to our empty seats, then resume singing along with Billy or Bruce (which is probably what had people keeping their distance more than the glaring).
At last our flight was called and we boarded our plane for Miami and another two hour layover...only this time without the pizza and hot dogs.
Turns out that in order to make up for not opening the food stands early in the mornings, they close them early in the evenings, which really cuts down on your options. Oh, and the flight was delayed, so we actually had a three hour layover (yea us!).
But we knew none of this as we deplaned, went through immigration, collected our bags (the last ones off the plane, naturally), stood in line at customs, schlepped our bags over to another terminal, stood in line for security and then finally found our gate where there were 200 people and only 100 seats (wait. This seemed familiar. Where had I seen this before?)
At this point though, we didn't care about the seats as much as we cared about our stomachs (the rum cakes were looking pretttty good right about now). From our trip down, we knew our food choices were limited, but we were okay with pizza and hot dogs for dinner.
Except that as we (and thirty other people) approached the stand, one of the employees closed the security gate and announced that the restaurant was closed.
Sparing a longing glance at the fortunate people on the other side of the bars (Wow. I couldn't believe I was actually envious of someone about to choke down airport pizza), we all turned and headed for the hot dog place... which was also closed.
Now in a panic, we all surged toward the final choice before raiding the newsstand for Snickers and M&M's, Chinese. I was beginning to feel like I was caught in a cattle stampede, only I was one of the cattle! Food. Must get food.
Fortunatley (or unfortunately since the only thing worse than airport pizza is airport Chinese food) we made it through the gate just in time. In retrospect, we might have been better off on the other side.
Surly employees slopped bottom-of-the-barrel, over-steamed Chinese leftovers onto styrofoam plates with all the culinary style of a prison chow line.
"Next," they snapped. "What do you want?"
Well, let's see. My choices are chicken and mushrooms without the chicken, beef and peppers without the peppers, or steamed veggies that look like they've been scraped off the bottom of someone's shoe. Tough choice, it all looks so good. Ah, but I can have all the steamed white rice I want with water, I mean broth, over it? Today is my lucky day. Load me up. Them's eats!
Needless to say, we were a bit hungry and cranky by the time we finally got home, along with being on a sugar buzz from too many Twizzlers.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Vacation Fun
I have always been pretty lucky when it comes to travel.
On our Alaskan cruise when things got really rough and people were hanging over the side of the ship, I was bellying up to the midnight buffet. In Morocco when others were popping immodium like candy, I was actually eating candy. At the Great Barrier Reef when the crocodile showed up on the beach for a little luncheon snack, I was on the other side of the beach snacking on lunch.
Last month though, my luck started to run out.
On vacation in Grand Cayman, I was the only one who wanted to go to Stingray City. Every time I tried to bring it up, Tim and Rose would hold up their hands and say,"Steve Irwin." (crocodile hunter guy)
Okay, how about snorkeling at the lagoon? "Steve Irwin"
Glass bottom boat? Even they couldn't use Steve Irwin as an excuse there. "Three hours sucked out of our day to watch fish? Have fun. Be sure to take lots of pictures." Party poopers.
And so we spent our days lounging on the beach and lolling in the surf (not that I'm complaining, mind you.).
Until day two, that is, when the fish showed up.
At first, there were one or two white fish (about six inches long) swimming past us in the crystal clear water. Okay, not the most comfortable feeling when you don't know a trout from a great white, but no one else seemed to be panicking so...
And then, suddenly, there were more. Like three dozen. All surrounding us. Well, mostly me. Just hovering and staring and making little fish bubbles. I think they thought I was one of them, only bigger. Maybe a giant albino white fish goddess and they had come to worship.
Now we were feeling very uncomfortable. In a heartbeat, Rose threw Tim in front of her like a living shield and quickly backed away toward the shore leaving me to the mercy of the swarm. Thanks. (Actually, the only reason I didn't do the same thing was because she beat me to it.)
As their leader, I was fortunately able to command them to disperse peacefully, but anytime I stood still for longer than a minute the rest of the week, there they were again (and me without my self-tanner) staring and bubbling.
But at least they were harmless. Unlike the stingray who showed up days three through seven. If Mohammed won't got to the mountain...
This fellow decided that he needed to bond with us too.
"Watch out!" one of the other beachgoeers warned us that first afternoon. "There's a ray headed toward you!" Huh?
We zigged, he zagged. We ended up a lot closer than we wanted to be. He glided and twitched his tail.
Suddenly, I was not so anxious to visit with a stingray. Eventually, he settled down and buried himself in the sand, so that all you could see were his eyes and the tip of his very long, very barbed tail. Not reassuring.
I spent the rest of the week jumping at every rock or piece of driftwood on the ocean floor, waiting for his daily glide-by and tail twitch.
Sea life if sooo much cuter in a Disney movie when they are all singing and playing seashells like drums.
And them came the piece de resistance.
Bobbing about happily in six feet or so of water (I was not going to step on Mr. Ray.), I kicked Tim accidentally.
Even as I apologized, my brain was registering the fact that he was on my right, but I had definitely kicked something on my left. Hmmm. Before I could figure out how this was possible, Rose shrieked, "Hey, a really big fish just came toward me."
And as Tim scoffed at her and chided me for not knowing the difference between flesh and blood and a rock (yeah, like they feel the same. Puh-leeze. How dumb does he think I am?), a guy a few feet away yelled, "Barracuda!" and pointed towards us (Hah! I knew it wasn't a rock!).
As we hastened toward shore in a recreation of the fourth of July shark scene in Jaws, we looked and, sure enough, there it was. A nice, big, three-foot long barracuda. Staring and chomping some wicked-looking teeth.
Like Mr. Ray, Barry visited us daily, staring and chomping, and like with the white fish, Tim once again became a human shield (this time it was me, and I not only got in back of him, I climbed him like a tree - I did not want to become lunch!). Although Barry didn't seem to hold a grudge against me for kicking him, I wasn't taking any chances. When he showed up for his daily visit, I got out.
Eventually, our fun in the sun ended and we came back home to the states and headed for Denver.
Ahh. Good old Denver. 5,280 feet above sea level. 5,280 feet above stingrays and barracudas. 5,280 minutes (four days) of altitude sickness.
Headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, sleepiness. The first two days there, all I saw were the four walls of our hotel room. Good thing I brought my camera and bought a guide book and map. I got misty-eyed just thinking of Barry and Mr. Ray.
Drink lots of water, the room service waiter told me. Drink lots of water the housekeeping staff told me. Drink lots of water Tim told me. Drink lots of water everyone told me. So I did. And it helped. Then, I only had headache, dizziness and 5,280 trips a day to the restroom. Not fun.
Eventually, I got the symptoms down to a few hours of dizziness a day and only 3,000 trips to the bathroom. And then it was time to go home.
Thank God. This travel stuff was killing me.
On our Alaskan cruise when things got really rough and people were hanging over the side of the ship, I was bellying up to the midnight buffet. In Morocco when others were popping immodium like candy, I was actually eating candy. At the Great Barrier Reef when the crocodile showed up on the beach for a little luncheon snack, I was on the other side of the beach snacking on lunch.
Last month though, my luck started to run out.
On vacation in Grand Cayman, I was the only one who wanted to go to Stingray City. Every time I tried to bring it up, Tim and Rose would hold up their hands and say,"Steve Irwin." (crocodile hunter guy)
Okay, how about snorkeling at the lagoon? "Steve Irwin"
Glass bottom boat? Even they couldn't use Steve Irwin as an excuse there. "Three hours sucked out of our day to watch fish? Have fun. Be sure to take lots of pictures." Party poopers.
And so we spent our days lounging on the beach and lolling in the surf (not that I'm complaining, mind you.).
Until day two, that is, when the fish showed up.
At first, there were one or two white fish (about six inches long) swimming past us in the crystal clear water. Okay, not the most comfortable feeling when you don't know a trout from a great white, but no one else seemed to be panicking so...
And then, suddenly, there were more. Like three dozen. All surrounding us. Well, mostly me. Just hovering and staring and making little fish bubbles. I think they thought I was one of them, only bigger. Maybe a giant albino white fish goddess and they had come to worship.
Now we were feeling very uncomfortable. In a heartbeat, Rose threw Tim in front of her like a living shield and quickly backed away toward the shore leaving me to the mercy of the swarm. Thanks. (Actually, the only reason I didn't do the same thing was because she beat me to it.)
As their leader, I was fortunately able to command them to disperse peacefully, but anytime I stood still for longer than a minute the rest of the week, there they were again (and me without my self-tanner) staring and bubbling.
But at least they were harmless. Unlike the stingray who showed up days three through seven. If Mohammed won't got to the mountain...
This fellow decided that he needed to bond with us too.
"Watch out!" one of the other beachgoeers warned us that first afternoon. "There's a ray headed toward you!" Huh?
We zigged, he zagged. We ended up a lot closer than we wanted to be. He glided and twitched his tail.
Suddenly, I was not so anxious to visit with a stingray. Eventually, he settled down and buried himself in the sand, so that all you could see were his eyes and the tip of his very long, very barbed tail. Not reassuring.
I spent the rest of the week jumping at every rock or piece of driftwood on the ocean floor, waiting for his daily glide-by and tail twitch.
Sea life if sooo much cuter in a Disney movie when they are all singing and playing seashells like drums.
And them came the piece de resistance.
Bobbing about happily in six feet or so of water (I was not going to step on Mr. Ray.), I kicked Tim accidentally.
Even as I apologized, my brain was registering the fact that he was on my right, but I had definitely kicked something on my left. Hmmm. Before I could figure out how this was possible, Rose shrieked, "Hey, a really big fish just came toward me."
And as Tim scoffed at her and chided me for not knowing the difference between flesh and blood and a rock (yeah, like they feel the same. Puh-leeze. How dumb does he think I am?), a guy a few feet away yelled, "Barracuda!" and pointed towards us (Hah! I knew it wasn't a rock!).
As we hastened toward shore in a recreation of the fourth of July shark scene in Jaws, we looked and, sure enough, there it was. A nice, big, three-foot long barracuda. Staring and chomping some wicked-looking teeth.
Like Mr. Ray, Barry visited us daily, staring and chomping, and like with the white fish, Tim once again became a human shield (this time it was me, and I not only got in back of him, I climbed him like a tree - I did not want to become lunch!). Although Barry didn't seem to hold a grudge against me for kicking him, I wasn't taking any chances. When he showed up for his daily visit, I got out.
Eventually, our fun in the sun ended and we came back home to the states and headed for Denver.
Ahh. Good old Denver. 5,280 feet above sea level. 5,280 feet above stingrays and barracudas. 5,280 minutes (four days) of altitude sickness.
Headache, nausea, upset stomach, dizziness, sleepiness. The first two days there, all I saw were the four walls of our hotel room. Good thing I brought my camera and bought a guide book and map. I got misty-eyed just thinking of Barry and Mr. Ray.
Drink lots of water, the room service waiter told me. Drink lots of water the housekeeping staff told me. Drink lots of water Tim told me. Drink lots of water everyone told me. So I did. And it helped. Then, I only had headache, dizziness and 5,280 trips a day to the restroom. Not fun.
Eventually, I got the symptoms down to a few hours of dizziness a day and only 3,000 trips to the bathroom. And then it was time to go home.
Thank God. This travel stuff was killing me.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Getting There Is Not Half the Fun
Over the last few weeks, I've logged a lot of air miles. About 15,000 to be exact (sort of). First up, our trip to the Bahamas via Miami.
I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.
At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.
Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.
American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.
Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.
But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.
By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).
The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.
"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."
Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?
By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.
Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.
I couldn't wait for the flight back.
I'm pretty sure the pioneers crossed the plains in their covered wagons in less time and with less aggravation. Couple hundred Dakota warriors coming at you with bows and arrows? Punishing heat, choking dust, having to hunt for what little food there is? Don't make me laugh.
At least they didn't have to get up before 3am to be at the airport by 4am for a 6am flight to sit for three hours at another airport in Miami to then fly another two hours to stand in a customs line for one hour only to finally, finally get to the hotel to be told that the room wouldn't be ready for another three hours. Hey, no problem, we'll just hang around the pool in our grungy, travel-rumpled clothes and sweat. No, really. It'll be a fun way to kick off the vacation.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I forgot to mention the absolute ball we had checking in and boarding our flight.
Because it was an international flight, we couldn't do curbside check-in where there were only a dozen people in line. Oh no, we had to go inside with the rest of the four thousand half-asleep people and jostle for position in the line, er lines, at the counters.
American Airlines apparently decided it would be a real hoot to watch everyone try to form lines for the machines with no roped-off maze, no arrows, no signs, not even a measly trail of breadcrumbs for help. It was like trying to find a parking space at the mall two days before Christmas with a final "everything-must-go" blowout sale in progress. It can be done, but it isn't pretty.
Then, you had to drag your bags over to a separate counter for tags which necessitated joining yet another unruly line with even more unruly people. One woman finally appointed herself crossing guard and tried to direct the flow. "This side is baggage check-in, that side is for ticketing. There are three windows open, but only one line." Yeah. She was real popular. It's never wise to tick off a sleep-deprived mob.
But, we finally did make it to the third and final line-- the baggage drop-off line (well, the final line in the checking-in process, not the final, final line. We still had two more lines to go through before that happy event.) We added our bags to the mountain of luggage that continued to grow at an alarming rate since there was only one person putting it on the conveyor belt (Gee-- a Friday in August. Perhaps the airline could have looked into their crystal ball and foreseen that there might have been just a few people going on vacation?), and sprinted for the security line.
By some miracle, we made it to the gate as the plane was boarding and even managed to grab a cup of coffee from one of the stands (no actual food, it was apparently too early to be selling food. Wouldn't want to interrupt anyone's beauty sleep by having them actually be at the airport early when only ninety-seven flights were leaving with no food aboard).
The flight crew evidently didn't realize (or care) that they were dealing with sleep-deprived, hungry, teensy bit cranky people and greeted us with a twenty minute diatribe on the do's and don't's of air travel.
"You must sit down quickly. Do not try to put things into the overhead and hold up the line. Step out of the aisle and wait until their is a break in the line to do so. You must slide your bag in wheels first. If you have two bags, you must put one under the seat in front of you. If you are in a bulkhead seat, you may not have a bag, a purse, a briefcase, a newspaper, a drink, etc. at your seat. It must all be stowed in the bins above. You must fasten your seat belts and leave them fastened even when the captain has turned off the sign. You may not use the lavatory up front if you are in coach. You must use the ones in the rear of the plane."
Well, good morning to you too. Does anyone else remember the days when they actually welcomed you aboard and tried to make you forget that you'd just been herded like cattle and crammed into your six square inches of space like a sardine?
By the time they finished this speech, plus the required, "we'll be flying at an altitude of..." and "Join our sky miles credit card program..." (yeah, like that'll happen), we were getting ready to land. So much for the in-flight entertainment.
Getting off the plane, we made a beeline for the two food places open in the terminal where we had a choice of pizza or hot dogs. Ahhh. Breakfast of champions.
I couldn't wait for the flight back.
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