Bend Me, Break Me

I'm going to have to re-read this blog and look at the photos really quick. Right now, I'm losing the plot. There's nothing that can erase the joy of an excellent vacation quicker than a horrible trip back (like getting home from Prague) and that's precisely what we got.

We checked in at Gregorio Luperon airport for our flight to Newark, NJ, this morning, only to find that it had been delayed for at least two hours. It took well more than 2 hours of sitting in an unconditioned hallway before we could board. At least the flight wasn't packed, and apparently ALL of Continental's flights through Newark had been delayed, so maybe we'd make our connecting flights back to SFO. Elena's was around 8:25, mine and J's slated for 7:20.

Our flight made it in at 7:45.

On the plus side, we cleared customs relatively quickly and the connectors were, indeed, delayed. On the negative, the security gate at Newark was a clusterfuck of epic proportions. I won't go into details, but I wouldn't be surprised if a riot had broken out there tonight. No control over the line whatsoever. Everyone fighting to get through because for some reason, the boards listed all the delayed flights as leaving at 8:35. TSA had no clue what to do. And these guys are charged with our safety. WTF!?

We got through and made it to our gate, only to find out that there wasn't even a plane there yet. I sat, stewing in frustration and saltiness, while J checked the boards and found out we leave at 9:10. Or so we hope. That gave us time to round up what little American cash we had to buy a Coke. With all the Brugal Extra Viejo we had on us, it was time for a goddamn cocktail.

I remarked after buying the Coke how the new-to-the-country immigrant woman - who hardly spoke English and was probably lucky to get more than minimum wage - was so courteous and nice, despite the mayhem of delayed flights, short tempers, and frustrated travelers. And here we are paying extra for federalized security workers who get higher pay, a great pension, and can't do their job to save their lives. Fuck you, TSA.

Anyway, before the jackbooted thugs come to take me away, I should get back to the story. We finally boarded our flight and were on our way home...

After the fantastically delicious (note sarcasm) "cheese steak" that resembled a high school cafeteria burger, I really had to go to the bathroom. It was when I got up that I noticed that the bug bites on my left foot had swollen my ankle to look like a giant lump of red Play-Doh. My foot could barely bend, so I limped my way to the lavatory. Once inside the tiny cubicle of stinky ass death, I noticed my face was reddened and broken out. My back was much the same, only with a bunch of miniscule whiteheads to complete the package. Again, I say, WTF!?

Between the bites, the unbearable humidity earlier, and the altitude, something was throwing my body way off. For all I know, it could've been the "cheese steak."

I spent the rest of the flight watching my clubfoot swell and redden some more. Once in SFO, I thought I might need a wheelchair, but managed to limp to the arrivals area where Ian was waiting with a car, and Elena already was. At some point, J had to support me under one arm like a human crutch, it was that bad.

But that's not the worst of it. I had to swallow some more pride and have J carry my bag up the stairs at my place for me. That wasn't so bad. What was bad was that for the first time since moving my furniture in, I cursed living in a walk-up. Especially because it became a crawl-up. That's right, I can't walk up stairs in my state.

So here I am, finally home, typing this last chapter of the trip. My foot is elevated and the swelling seems to be going down a touch, but it still hurts like hell and my skin could be mistaken for that of a 15 year-old pubescent boy.

If you put him in a deep fryer.

Dominican Observations

• If I haven’t mentioned it enough, driving in the DR is crazy. The mortality rate on the roads should be much higher than it is. Thank goodness it isn’t.


• People are really, really, really friendly. If you’re ever feeling like a misanthrope, visit the Caribbean for a few days and see that there is a nice side to humanity.


• Dominicans are beautiful. Whether they’re black, white, mixed or indigenous Taino, rich, middle class or poor, there’s a certain glow and joie de vivre that really shines from behind the eyes and the smiles.


• Politics are serious business. There are campaign posters everywhere, and almost all the graffiti is of a political nature.


• The motorbike is king. Don’t be surprised to see someone riding down the highway, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, and carrying the crutches he got from his last accident. Or a family of five doing the same thing. On one bike.


• Local TV shows baseball, baseball highlights, and baseball news. And the occasional non-baseball content.


• Many Dominicans cut off the last consonant of words, so, for instance, Buenos dias becomes bueno dia, which sounds supiciously like the Catalan bon dia. I suspect this started because no one wants to take the time to differentiate between formal and informal. This place is anything BUT formal.

Red White and Booze

When you’re on an island with as slow a pace as this, you don’t end up doing half the things you anticipated. We were hoping to have a nice, final dinner out, maybe party it up, but instead we were caught off guard by an invitation to the resort’s VIP Fourth of July party. It was last minute in terms of us not knowing about it until late today, and also last minute because the staff just decided to do it. Our poor host Eduardo even had to scramble to put it together.

And what a fine job he did. Like the other night, libations were in full effect. An American-style barbecue was prepared for the masses. And they’d even hired a pretty decent live band. Over coco locos and Santo libres and ice cold Presidentes, we enjoyed our last night on the resort’s tab in style. There was even another full-blown fireworks display as the band played “Born in the USA.” The humidity was a killer, and things looked grim when a tropical rain started to fall during dinner, but everything went off without a hitch.

Naturally, the vacationing jingoist factor was in full effect. People in stars-and-stripes do rags; American flag and eagle shirts; even a champion Midwestern woman with a bit of a mullet, a red striped sleeveless button-up, and navy blue mom-jean shorts. Ahh, Americana! The staff were more than happy to humor everyone – after all, they know where their bread is buttered – and even I had to get choked up at the playing of the national anthem, the big flags, and the ginormous American flag cake. Ok, maybe I meant cracked up. Especially because the flag cake was drawn backwards!

Yes, even a non-flag-waving, unpatriotic curmudgeon like myself had a wonderful time, and appreciated all the hard work that went into this last minute affair. It would have been hard not to.

While I’m a backpacker at heart and don’t care much for package vacations, I have to go out of my way to acknowledge the incredible job the folks at Lifestyles do to make sure everyone has a comfortable and enjoyable time.

Scared by the prospect of bad commercial hip-hop at the onsite nightclub, J, Elena and I returned to the villa to unwind with a few more cocktails and hang out well into the night. We’d polished off all the Brugal, so it made sense to crack open the Absolut and the Beefeater and our bottles of tonic water. After all, the quinine in it will hopefully prevent any malaria that may result from the super-humid evening’s mosquito bites.

The last night is always the most bittersweet. We talked about how amazing a time we’ve had. I wasn’t allowed to mention how much I dreaded leaving tomorrow, nor regret things we didn’t do. We focused on all the great things we’d done and all the great people we’d met in such a short time. I realized that in all the traveling and adventure-seeking I’ve been doing for the past several years, this was probably the most relaxing and refreshing holiday I’ve taken in ages.

In a world full of crazy overland adventures, extreme sports, marathon journeys, solo expeditions, and punishing itineraries, sometimes a short, immersive break with your friends is all you need. Gracias, mis amigos.