Reality hit Fran and I square between the eyes this week, and I've been in what can only be described as some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Post Latitudinal Relaxation Depression Disorder, maybe? Whatever... it's official: reality sucks. Jamaica does not. Jimmy Buffett had it right. Pitch it all, hop a boat and sail around the Carribean. During our vacation we partook in the catamaran cruise (a.k.a. the "Booze Cruise") and it dawned on me: "This is the life!" I mean... just look at that sunset?!If Jimmy B can do it, so can I. Do ya think the Tax Man would have a problem writing off a catamaran as a "commute vehicle"?
OK, back to the story... Fran hung the phone up at 12:30 AM. The alarm was set to go off at 2:30 AM. With hackles still raised we tried to get some shuteye before the inevitable wail. Which worked out about as well as the war in Iraq. We were like two kids on Christmas Eve.
Wearily we made our way to the airport, and proceeded to check in our bags at the United (the airline that American bumped us over to) ticket counter. Not that simple. The ticket dude, who was as tired as us apparently, punched in our info and came back with, "Will you be paying for these with cash or credit card?" Dumbfounded, we fumbled through sleep deprivation to explain what happened, all the while trying to keep the rage bottled up. Turns out we had to get tickets from United, then haul ass back over to the American counter to get some other piece of dead tree for confirmation.
Getting the hell outta Dodge (in this case the United States of Incompetence) was looking better and better by the minute. Thankfully, the flight to Jamaica (by way of a layover/connection in Charlotte, North Carolina - were I bizarrely came up with an idea for a post-apocalyptic story) was smooth, albeit most of it was spent sleeping. Upon landing in Montego Bay, we hit the ground running.
I had been to Jamaica a few times back in 2001. Back then the Montego Bay airport resembled a bomb shelter more than an international hub for air transportation. I remember walking into the bathroom and being offered beer, rum and ganja. What a difference 6 years makes! After getting our bags (we thought one was missing for about 10 minutes) and trudging through customs we finally made it to the Couples Welcome Office. In an instant, as McCartney and Lennon once wrote... "all my (our) troubles seemed so far away."That's it for now... keep your web browser locked to the Mad Man for more arresting episodes of the never-ending Jamaica Me Crazy saga!
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