Around the World and Back Again: A Hobbler's Tale

Back in Sydney yesterday at 11.30 a.m., only 5 hours delayed. By the time I deplaned, I could barely walk.

It happened like this: the United flight Cancun-LAX was delayed about an hour. If it had been on time, I would have had a two-hour window to catch the connecting flight, LAX-Sydney. The delayed arrival, though, was not the only problem. All passengers, even transit passengers at US airports, have to collect their luggage, go through customs, and drop off their luggage again for the next flight. For me, this involved hauling the 23 kg dead weight off the corral and lining up to go through customs (removing boots, loading everything on the belt to be scanned). Then I had to go to terminal 7. (Terminal 7 now is to me like Winston Smith's room 101: my greatest fear.)

Terminal 7 was at least one kilometre from the terminal I where I deplaned. Add to this the fear that I knew I was very late. (I didn't know that my connecting flight was delayed because, of course, even though the terminal in Cancun and LA promised wifi connection, there was none. United informed me that the connecting flight was delayed via email, which I was finally able to access when I arrived in Sydney.)

Despite the delay in the connecting flight, I was still very late. Though very old, I almost ran, dragging the dead weight behind me, trying to negotiate dawdling family groups on the footpath in front of me. A much younger Australian woman, much longer of leg, left me in her dust as she whooshed past toward terminal 7.

I finally reached the baggage drop-off desk. A woman said: "Oh, you're too late." I said: "No I'm not. United was late." She looked at my boarding pass and said to another woman: "Her baggage is already checked in." Then she said that she would take it to the baggage loaders to get it on the plane. By that stage, I just wanted to get rid of it, and if she'd said, you can't take it with you, I wouldn't have been very upset. From there, it was a dash to the boarding gate, where boarding had only just begun.

I had wanted to stop, get something to eat and use the "restroom" but I wasn't going to risk missing UA389. (My previous experience of United, on the shorter haul flights, was that they don't provide free food. And what they sell, at inflated prices, is faux food: crackers, chips, nuts, prepackaged noodles, etc. I looked forward to a 15-hour fast; as it turned out, UA provides free airline "food" and soft drinks on the longer hauls.)

After I wedged myself into the window seat, I realised there was a new pain in my right knee (my good one). Raising the right leg, lowering it, leaving it bent with foot resting on the floor, and walking on it, all gave me pain. A large silent man, who communicated with me by pointing, sat next to me. (I thought that maybe he could not speak when I saw him signing to a little girl on the opposite side of the plane.)

The large man usurped the armrest and as the flight progressed, items of his clothing moved further into my space and wedged me nearer to the window. He snored a bit, farted a bit. Such are the joys of air travel. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to get out to visit the "rest room", so I determined to try to hold it until I saw the woman on the aisle get up, and then I'd broach the subject with the man. If the woman did move, I missed it. Must have nodded off a couple of times, since it was way past my usual 10 p.m. lights out by the time I boarded the plane. Finally, when my self-control was about to give out, I asked the man if I could get out.

When we landed in Sydney, the large silent man began chatting with the woman on the aisle. Not sure why I wasn't blessed with his vocalisation during the flight, but this is just another of life's little mysteries.

I got out of the terminal and my very good, very patient friend, I learned later, was waiting to pick me up, as she had promised she would be. Only, I tried to ring her, but the useless Austpost travelsim was not working. I asked the Pacific islander sat outside the terminal on the same bench as me, if I could use his phone to make a call, as mine wasn't working. I offered him $2. But I'm not sure he understood English or what I was suggesting for the $2. Then I thought: Shall I cry now or put it off until I get home?

I tried the phone again and I managed to get through to my friend's number, but only to voicemail. I wasn't sure if my friend was at the airport, or where she might be. I knew if I were in the wrong spot, I wouldn't be able to walk to the right spot. (When I got home, I got her email telling me where she'd be.) Please forgive me!

So, I'm very sorry to have burdened you with this detailed exploration of the last flight of the journey; I'm sure you also have your tales of torture by long-distance carriers. However, I want to log this experience, so that it becomes something I can refer to in future. We forget these things; we spend minutes and hours, and days of our lives going through these unpleasant (or pleasant) experiences, and I want to remember them.

Not to savour them, so much, as to be able to account for the time spent and the way it was spent.

Fear and Loathing in Cancun

I'm not very afraid but I'm not very comfortable in this playground of sun and sea and sand. The post title is meant to conjure for you, dear reader, the paranoia-inducing atmosphere of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" by Hunter S. Thompson. Not that this writer has swallowed anything for which she could be arrested, but she feels confused and a little off-balance.

This place is like no other I've ever visited, nor would I have chosen to be here unless the Clingon's plans had brought me.

Downtown, where I decided to stay, it is a cacophony of noise and traffic, and while it is possible to cross the wide wide streets, it's not easy, nor is it safe. It reminds me of what I hated about Marrakesh, only there the streets were narrow. Here the main drag is six lanes. There are great roundabouts and broad unfinished "nature" strips down the middle. (The nature strips are dusty crushed limestone, I think.) There are a few pedestrian crossings but the motorists don't stop at them unless there is a cop standing there blowing a whistle.

So tonight I thought I would look at the other part of town (where I decided not to stay) because I felt like a quiet drink, and didn't fancy trying to traverse the noisy stinking miasma which covers the downtown area.

Mr Google told me the bus numbers I needed to get to the hotel zone, just not where to get off when I reached it. The bus driver seemed eager for me to debus; he asked me if I wanted The Peninsula, and I thought that maybe I did.

So I got off, crossed an even wider road than those I had experienced downtown, and walked back along the footpath in the direction the bus had come. Couldn't see the words "The Peninsula" in lights, but instead two or three of the humongous lit-up structures in a row had the neon name "Riu" identifying them. That was all I needed. If it looks like a duck, and quacks, it probably has a bar (you know what I mean!)

(OMG what a noise coming from the inside bar area. All lined with ceramic tiles and shiny surfaces. Impossible to relax with all that din. Just as noisy as the traffic-clogged streets that I'd escaped downtown.)

So I front up to the bar and order a gin and tonic. When I try to pay, the barman tells me it's all included. I tell him I'm not staying at this hotel, but I'm not sure whether he understands me, or if it's too difficult to take money with the present "all inclusive" arrangement.

So that's where you find me tonight, sitting on the verandah with the smokers because it was too noisy inside, enjoying my second G&T.

Now comes the big decision. Am I going to walk out, get the bus downtown without paying for the drinks? It's getting noisy out here now too: a Scandinavian motormouth has been telling a very long and loud story at the next table for the last 15 minutes; or am I going to make a second attempt to pay? (Having a flashback to when I was caught shoplifting make-up, in DJ's when I was 13 and how mortifying it was when I was detained by the store security guy.)

So just made a second attempt to make the waiter understand that I want to pay for 2 G&Ts; no! I don't want 2 more G&Ts, I want to pay for those I've had. I could walk out, I guess, but I really would not like to spend the night in a Mexican gaol if security picked up an unfamiliar face on the CCTV. A face making an exit to another venue after enjoying "all inclusive" at this one. Would put a whole different light on my holiday.

Made another attempt to pay for the two G&Ts, which resulted in the waiter bringing 2 more G&Ts, but I can't get completely tanked tonight. I've got a tour starting at 7 a.m. tomorrow.

Cough! Smoke is burning my eyes. I'm out of here.

Waiting for the downtown bus now.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sent from my iPhone


Sent from my iPhone


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Avenida Carlos J. Nader,Cancún,Mexico

Fiesta in Mexico; a Pall falls over the Writer

I said nothing about NYC. I was so busy trying to see everything but managed to see very little. No time to catch up with you while I was there. But, it's a wonderful town, as Frank said.

Had been frightened of visiting for many years, but I felt safe, if a little crowded out by bloody tourists. I have to go back, stay downtown to minimise the travelling, and stay for at least a week, maybe two. Oh, and I'll go in the spring or autumn next time. Bloody cold!! (Below is the view from the Empire State Building. Waste of time going up really, but we'd left it until the last day, and it started snowing, then raining.)



So, from NYC, a flight to Cancun. We knew we'd have to catch the bus to Merida. We just didn't know it would be so difficult. A delay of about 45 minutes trying to take off from Newark. And in Cancun, the pilot wasn't able to score a gate for nearly an hour. We waited stewing in the tropical sunshine on the tarmac in our NYC outfits.

That meant that the 4.00 p.m. bus to Merida, which we'd intended to catch had already left. The next one was full. The ticket seller suggested we go to Cancun town bus station and buy a ticket from there. More seats available than at the airport. So, we bought the tickets. Bus delays; we wondered if we'd make the bus we'd just bought tickets for. However, we did make the 6.15 bus, meaning we'd arrive in Merida after 10 p.m.

The Clingon had not made contact with the people at VHQ--who were to meet him and take him to his digs--when we got on the bus. Access to the Internet was eluding him when I dropped off to sleep. When I woke just after 10 p.m., he told me that he'd managed to make contact.

Abram was there holding a sign with the Clingon's name on it, when we got off the bus in Merida, and that's the last I saw of the Clingon. As perhaps you can imagine, when the Clingon drops off the rock after 19 years, it's a shock. And there's a bare place: no tenant, now. Does the rock have any purpose when the offspring has sprung off? This rock is bereft.

The bus station is in the hotel area of Merida; I hadn't made a hotel reservation and was trusting to luck. I chose the familiar name: Holiday Inn. Big, but not as huge as a couple of the others in the street. Bid the Clingon goodbye with the fuzzy head that comes from having woken from an uncomfortable nap. Hadn't worked out the money thing, I realised before I went to bed. The Clingon was going to his fate with no pesos, and no way to get any. (Not true, thanks to the powers that be. Although he'd told me earlier that he'd left his bank card at home, apparently he hadn't, and has managed to withdraw money to buy water, and take the bus.)

I didn't say goodbye properly. I didn't kiss him.



So, while Merida sings and dances in a cacophany of competing sound systems; while the crowd parades by the longest cake in the universe; while families and couples and groups wander around, happy, soaking in the atmosphere of the "Three Kings" celebrations (a celebration of the day when the kings visited Jesus Christ in the manger), I am alone, with my glass of white wine, in a crowd of cake-eating humanity which belongs.

I have managed to contact the Clingon by telephone, but it hasn't been easy. (If you're ever thinking of getting the Austpost travelsim, just ask me about it before you pay the $50. There has to be a better way; it must be less trouble and distress to get a local sim that actually works and allows you to text and call whenever you want to.)

However, I was able to get in touch with the Clingon finally, and we will meet tomorrow night to say our goodbyes, and tie up loose ends.

While I've been writing this, the tables laid out on the street in front of the hotel have been cleared. Not sure how it happened, or when it started, but the pieces of the longest cake in the universe have been sold, or cleared away, and now the longest set of tables in the universe is bare. The vendors are walking down the street with bags and tablecloths. Now the tables are folded and the crowd is dispersing. It's all over bar the shouting from the young persons on the P.A.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Avenida Colón,Mérida,Mexico