Thursday, April 22, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Cruise Vacation - Part 4
Airport boredom... Goofiness ensues when someone glances at the moving sidewalk thing and says,"Hey! I have an idea."
Cruise Vacation - Part 3
At last we reached our boat... sighhh. Paradise. Here are a few photos of our happy place:
"Goodbye, Jamaica!" From on top of the boat.
"Goodbye!" from the other side of the boat. I never did really retain the difference between 'port' and 'starboard' even though Jim must have explained it a thousand times. I have decided that I would not make a good sailor.
Wind. It made things interesting.
This is the main promenade inside the boat. It was like a mini mall with many shops and a handful of eating establishments. But, overall, it seemed to be mostly about jewelry and liquor. Jewelry stores, in particular, were the most popular kind of tourist store both on and off the boat. No matter where we were in the Caribbean, when we just wanted to buy some sunscreen or water somewhere at a little grocery store, all we could find were diamonds and flashy gold watches... Apparently, jewelry was "duty-free", and this is another term I'm still unsure about.
After Jamaica, we tethered in Grand Cayman. Yes, we ventured off the boat (by ferry) to do a little souvenir shopping even though we originally thought we might never get off the boat again.
In Cozumel, we decided to go on a snorkeling excursion. Here, on the left is the back of our boat, "Freedom of the Seas." On the right, is the front of "Voyager of the Seas."
Grand Cayman - pier view. No touch-ups to this photo. I've been asked. The water is just THAT blue.
The line up of our catamarans. We snorkeled and enjoyed some beach time.
"Happy TEN years of you, dear!"
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Cruise Vacation - Part 2
And then there was Jamaica. I was expecting a paradise of laid back, steel drumming, smiling people. Sun, sand, warm. Ehhhh.... some revising of my expectations was necessary.
As we arrived in Montego Bay, I immediately remembered how intimidating the immigration process was while entering a foreign country. Long lines of people, shuffling a few inches at a time, destined for stalls where stern looking officers made approval or rejection their business. Approval to enter the country is clearly the norm as I don't see anyone being frisked or handcuffed. I don't see guns drawn and pointed. I don't hear whistles blowing. But why does offering up my papers automatically seem to make me feel like a criminal trying to pull a fast one? My eyes are wide, my breath is short, and my knees are wobbly. When I was a teenager, I was nervous and scared to death as I tried to enter Germany with a passport my dog had completely chewed up only days before my trip. I believe my hand shook as I timidly showed the grim German officer my passport. He was gruff and large. And he looked down his nose at my mangled passport in his hands, huffing at what I'd produced for him to examine. Thankfully, he laughed and made fun as he recognized the obvious marks of a "hund." He even elbowed his buddy to get in on the joke. Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I wanted to throw up.
This time, entering Jamaica, I believe I was just as nervous. My passport was fine, but Jim and I were unable to complete the mandatory box that read, "Destination/Name of Hotel." WE HAD NO IDEA where we were going, and each time we told this to a Jamaican official further down the line, you could see the obvious suspicion and frustration written all over their faces. "What do you mean you don't know where you're going?" Oh yeah... you'd better believe we ended up in the gray, rectangular interrogation room.
Jim explained as best he could. There was a clear and unexpected communication gap. One wouldn't have thought so, as both sides of the conversation were offering English. But that gap was wide. Things had to be repeated slowly and loudly over and over. I began to feel like the elderly woman that is always leaning her left cheek toward you and saying, "Eh? Eh?"
"I'm sorry. We missed our boat in Florida. WE DON'T KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING. We've been told to contact Royal Caribbean cruise line once we arrived and that they'd send a driver to pick us up." Each time we explained this, the Jamaican listener never had to speak. It was clear what they were thinking, "IDIOTS."
When my suitcase did not turn up and we had to file a claim in the lost baggage line... "IDIOTS."
When we went through customs... "Go ahead" [IDIOTS] was the flat and expressionless response.
And then there was George, our driver, that finally met us on the other side of all of the red tape. He reminded me of a Jamaican version of my grandpa as he rushed into the building, attempting to scoop up our bags in one motion, hurriedly ushering to us to come find him out front in the bossiest and no nonsensing-est of ways. His likeness to my grandpa eased some of my worries that shoved their way into my mind: His lack of a name tag. His unmarked and trashy Toyota van. His aggressive driving. His inability to explain any detail of where he was taking us. His conversation on a cell phone about his current passengers (us), and his decision to conclude that phone conversation with, "Don't tell nobody 'bout this, k?" Jim, later remarked, "This is how all scary kidnapping movies begin." I'm glad he didn't say this aloud in the moment.
I don't think we breathed as we sat in the back of his windy van during the hour and half long trip to Ocho Rios. I'm pretty sure that my fingernail imprints are still evident in the tattered plastic that covered his upholstery. But with him, we went. What choice did we have?
George ended up taking us to a local hotel named Crane Ridge Resort. It was pleasant looking enough from the outside. And we relaxed slightly at our safe arrival. George assisted with our registration as guests. And in the days that would come, he'd checked on us, sometimes twice a day. Each time the phone in our room rang, it was George.
His chosen phone conversation opener was always, "Are you ok?" Honestly, this was an unnerving question at the time, but in hindsight, completely appropriate. We found we weren't exactly welcomed guests in Jamaica. Whenever we would venture out, we were sized up by the locals and never smiled at. Jamaicans don't offer smiles as freely as Americans do, but one is sure to get a fair share of disguised eyerolling and alien looks. Again, I could read their thoughts, "IDIOTS."
The country was not clean, nor was our room. Hair was in the bed. Slime all over the slippery tile floor. Constant booming music came through the paneless/screenless windows that were only covered with wooden shutters. There was a locking door... but what was the point? Everyone there knew the room the Americans were staying in. Even the lifeguard did not need my confirmation to verify my room number as he verbally rattled it off by the pool. "You are in Room 17," he would say, pointing. I understood that much. I also understood, "Why are you here?" (A question that was more of an accusation than anything.) Whenever we left the room, we took everything valuable. Room ransacking was an expectation, at this point.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
"Hello? Yes, George. I'm okay."
The boat arrived two days later, and we sprinted to it as fast as we could. Jamaica, we weren't sad to leave you, I'll admit. At least I got my suitcase.
As we arrived in Montego Bay, I immediately remembered how intimidating the immigration process was while entering a foreign country. Long lines of people, shuffling a few inches at a time, destined for stalls where stern looking officers made approval or rejection their business. Approval to enter the country is clearly the norm as I don't see anyone being frisked or handcuffed. I don't see guns drawn and pointed. I don't hear whistles blowing. But why does offering up my papers automatically seem to make me feel like a criminal trying to pull a fast one? My eyes are wide, my breath is short, and my knees are wobbly. When I was a teenager, I was nervous and scared to death as I tried to enter Germany with a passport my dog had completely chewed up only days before my trip. I believe my hand shook as I timidly showed the grim German officer my passport. He was gruff and large. And he looked down his nose at my mangled passport in his hands, huffing at what I'd produced for him to examine. Thankfully, he laughed and made fun as he recognized the obvious marks of a "hund." He even elbowed his buddy to get in on the joke. Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I wanted to throw up.
This time, entering Jamaica, I believe I was just as nervous. My passport was fine, but Jim and I were unable to complete the mandatory box that read, "Destination/Name of Hotel." WE HAD NO IDEA where we were going, and each time we told this to a Jamaican official further down the line, you could see the obvious suspicion and frustration written all over their faces. "What do you mean you don't know where you're going?" Oh yeah... you'd better believe we ended up in the gray, rectangular interrogation room.
Jim explained as best he could. There was a clear and unexpected communication gap. One wouldn't have thought so, as both sides of the conversation were offering English. But that gap was wide. Things had to be repeated slowly and loudly over and over. I began to feel like the elderly woman that is always leaning her left cheek toward you and saying, "Eh? Eh?"
"I'm sorry. We missed our boat in Florida. WE DON'T KNOW WHERE WE'RE GOING. We've been told to contact Royal Caribbean cruise line once we arrived and that they'd send a driver to pick us up." Each time we explained this, the Jamaican listener never had to speak. It was clear what they were thinking, "IDIOTS."
When my suitcase did not turn up and we had to file a claim in the lost baggage line... "IDIOTS."
When we went through customs... "Go ahead" [IDIOTS] was the flat and expressionless response.
And then there was George, our driver, that finally met us on the other side of all of the red tape. He reminded me of a Jamaican version of my grandpa as he rushed into the building, attempting to scoop up our bags in one motion, hurriedly ushering to us to come find him out front in the bossiest and no nonsensing-est of ways. His likeness to my grandpa eased some of my worries that shoved their way into my mind: His lack of a name tag. His unmarked and trashy Toyota van. His aggressive driving. His inability to explain any detail of where he was taking us. His conversation on a cell phone about his current passengers (us), and his decision to conclude that phone conversation with, "Don't tell nobody 'bout this, k?" Jim, later remarked, "This is how all scary kidnapping movies begin." I'm glad he didn't say this aloud in the moment.
I don't think we breathed as we sat in the back of his windy van during the hour and half long trip to Ocho Rios. I'm pretty sure that my fingernail imprints are still evident in the tattered plastic that covered his upholstery. But with him, we went. What choice did we have?
George ended up taking us to a local hotel named Crane Ridge Resort. It was pleasant looking enough from the outside. And we relaxed slightly at our safe arrival. George assisted with our registration as guests. And in the days that would come, he'd checked on us, sometimes twice a day. Each time the phone in our room rang, it was George.
His chosen phone conversation opener was always, "Are you ok?" Honestly, this was an unnerving question at the time, but in hindsight, completely appropriate. We found we weren't exactly welcomed guests in Jamaica. Whenever we would venture out, we were sized up by the locals and never smiled at. Jamaicans don't offer smiles as freely as Americans do, but one is sure to get a fair share of disguised eyerolling and alien looks. Again, I could read their thoughts, "IDIOTS."
The country was not clean, nor was our room. Hair was in the bed. Slime all over the slippery tile floor. Constant booming music came through the paneless/screenless windows that were only covered with wooden shutters. There was a locking door... but what was the point? Everyone there knew the room the Americans were staying in. Even the lifeguard did not need my confirmation to verify my room number as he verbally rattled it off by the pool. "You are in Room 17," he would say, pointing. I understood that much. I also understood, "Why are you here?" (A question that was more of an accusation than anything.) Whenever we left the room, we took everything valuable. Room ransacking was an expectation, at this point.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
"Hello? Yes, George. I'm okay."
The boat arrived two days later, and we sprinted to it as fast as we could. Jamaica, we weren't sad to leave you, I'll admit. At least I got my suitcase.
Note the billboard: "KEEP FATALITIES DOWN. DRIVE, RIDE, AND WALK GOOD."
A sight for sore eyes.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Cruise Vacation - Part 1
We are now back from our spring break cruise! Wow! We had great fun!
But let's back up to BEFORE the fun began....
With the arrival of the first day of spring, came an odd downpour of freezing rain in Springfield, MO. The night before our plane was to take off for Florida, the temperatures dropped and Mother Nature decided to be ironic. We didn't appreciate it as we woke up at 3:00 in the morning to make our 5:50 flight at the airport. Slush covered the ground. And rain was still coming down, heavy. Once at the airport, the airline boarded its passengers only to deplane a few minutes later. We stalled in the airport for awhile with the assurances from the flight attendants that "the sun just needed to come up and warm things up so that we could get underway." Sugary and false, those assurances.
A little while later we boarded the plane again as the moderate freezing rain conditions were downgraded. We sat on the plane. We sat on the plane. We sat on the plane. The occasional announcements made by the captain explained the delay. "We're just waiting on the de-icing trucks, folks." Apparently, Springfield, MO (a city that had experienced temperature in the 70's only days before) was not prepared for a line up of ice coated planes to cramp their schedule that morning.
We started to really worry at 7:30 a.m. Dallas had a connecting flight to Orlando that simply would not wait, and this, we knew. Around 8:30, we had finally gotten our turn with the de-icing trucks. The guys worked and worked on the wing opposite our seats, spraying us down with pink soapy foam. But then, when the work suspiciously paused, we were told that they had run out of fluid while working on our plane. Another delay of AT LEAST 30 minutes while they went for more. Yep, we were going to miss the Dallas flight. For sure now.
At this realization, I hopped on the phone to enlist the help of my friends and family with computers. The venting (via text) to Danavee, Angela, and ANYONE WHO WOULD LISTEN on Facebook was no longer sufficient. More than a little stressed, I called and begged Danavee to look up information on the various lead-footed shuttle services that could drive us to Port Canaveral from Orlando if we happened to miss the cruiseline's last shuttle bus. On the other end of Jim's phone, Kim looked up any other flights that could get us anywhere close in a quicker way. Other passengers started to eavesdrop and offer us advice. The college boys in front of us offered to drink our sorrows away with us at the nearest airport bar. The Equador bound man adjacent to us urged me to practice my fake tear production and pitiful speech making skills for use in the hours ahead, when I would deal with indifferent rebooking staff. Other cruise missers in the surrounding seats wanted to comiserate about the unfortunate chain of events. "What are you gonna do?" "I don't know, what are YOU gonna do?" At least we made some new temporary friends.
At some point, after a bumping into in the aisle, the captain got real with Jim. "You're not getting out of here before 11:30." What? Say that again? Our stomachs sank. We were going to miss our Dallas to Orlando flight, the next Dallas-to-Orlando flight, and the next. Even better, we were going to miss our boat.
We were made to get off and back on the plane one more time after that. Several hours had passed. And THEN, we got a little slaphappy when we heard the following, "Passengers, may I have your attention. Springfield weather conditions have improved, but Dallas airport has issued a groundstop due to high winds."
Of course, Dallas has issued a groundstop. Anything less than a full groundstop would have been just disappointing. How did they even make that announcement without incredulous laughing, I wondered.
In the end, we flew to Dallas at around 1 p.m. There, we re-routed ourselves to Miami for a night's stay. The next morning we flew to Montego Bay, Jamaica to wait two days for the boat to port in Ocho Rios (about an hour and a half east of Montego Bay). We were so bummed to have missed two and a half days on our boat. But we still had hope... Jamaica! Boy, that doesn't sound like a shabby place to wait. It couldn't be bad. Could it? That's not so subtle foreshadowing. Stay tuned.
At least Miami airport offered entertainment. Birds. Wild birds flying around your head at the gate. It was fun to watch people be startled, duck, and then look around to see if anyone had been watching.
The face sums up our overall experience in airports this trip. What a great start to our vacation...
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