Spring break starts this week. I am hopeful it goes smoother this year than last. The last one started out normal enough. We arrived two hours early at the airport, got in line with all the other spring breakers, and waited our turn. The sky cap (AKA Satan) drew us out of line with golden promises of a quicker check-in. An hour later, the man acknowledged that the computer was completely stumped by my husband and my son’s similar names. He tried to pass us back to the woman at the counter.
Apparently, dealing with thousands of hyper spring breakers makes one crabby. She tersely informed us that we had missed the 45 minute window for boarding. My husband turned purple. I pointed to airport security and he calmed himself. The woman assured us we would be able to get on the next flight.
She was wrong. Nor were we able to make the next three. After six hours of arguing with the airline and the airport mediators, we were ready to admit defeat. We left frustrated but more knowledgeable. We learned that airlines take no responsibility for their skycaps even if they are proudly displaying their logo on their uniforms and claim to represent them. We learned that there is relatively little for a seven year old boy to do in an airport for six hours. We learned travelers do not appreciate seven year old boys that run willy-nilly through the airport. And they really don’t appreciate it when your 47 year old husband follows suit. We learned a last minute ticket to Belize to catch your ship will run you roughly 1500 dollars per person and that airport security will threaten to send you to federal prison if you yell at the people behind the counter. And ultimately, we learned that while we were unable to make the flight, our luggage had and was now sailing to Key West. I hoped it was having a good time.
In the silence of the ride home, genius struck me and I called the cruise line. Miraculously, they were able to book us a free flight to Belize the next day through a competitive airline. We quickly packed an overnight bag and spent the night at the hotel airport. Nobody slept. We were in line at 5:00 AM for our 8:00 flight and avoided the skycaps.
Three hours later we were in Belize City. I have to admit, it was somewhat less glamorous than I had anticipated. Not to be daunted, we donned the swimsuits we’d packed and headed out to do some beach stuff. There was no beach, only fishing piers. My enthusiasm dropped and I was on the verge of a bad attitude. My husband decided to make the best of it and we rented poles at the hotel with the concierge pointing us in the direction of the local fish market to buy bait.
As we walked down the street, I considered my attire. I had packed my only remaining suit – a suit no self-respecting mom would ever wear -- a leopard print bikini with a push-up bra. I surveyed the impoverished landscape and the ogling eyes of the maintenance men as I pulled my see-through cover up tighter around me and trudged forward.
My husband didn’t notice. He was on a mission now. I stood there horrified as he asked a Grizzly Adams look-alike for directions and followed him into the shanty town. I was certain old Grizzly was a serial killer leading us to our deaths – or at the very least into some kind of human trafficking ring.
Shanty homes turned into shanty boxes. My husband was undeterred; instead, he joked amicably with serial killer guy. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a young girl jumped out and offered to sell herself to us as a future bride for our son. This was followed by awkward questions from the groom-to-be. I could see our pictures running alongside the trailer for Another 48 Hours Mystery … It would not be a pretty picture. Forty-something moms should not wear leopard string bikinis. I ran down my list of emergency contacts. I couldn’t think of one person who would admit to knowing me in this get-up. I was going to be buried in an unmarked grave in Belize wearing a questionable swimsuit. Not the way I thought I’d go out.
I was startled out of my reverie when we came to a stop at the fish market. About a hundred young men stopped swinging their machetes long enough to stare. I quit worrying about my wardrobe. No one was ever, ever going to find our bodies. I was somewhat comforted by this last thought. My husband bought a bag of fish heads and our guide led us back to the town center without incident. I decided that Grizzly was an angel in disguise. My husband was quick to observe that angels usually don’t accept tips.
We spent the remainder of the visit fishing for sharks off a crumbling pier and looking for bedbugs with a penlight. We were ready to be done with Belize and raced to the ferry in the morning like our hair was on fire. We stepped onto the gangway and gratefully gulped down the champagne.
Of course, all the celebration came to a screeching halt when they asked us for our passports … which we had left in the hotel safe. At this point, I was pretty certain my husband was going to have an aneurism. The staff aboard the ship refused to let us leave (clearly, we were mentally defective.) They sent a crew member in pursuit of our missing documents instead. Once the passports were successfully retrieved, we were finally able to board. I am pretty certain there is a file circulating on us in the Caribbean and legends are forming about the crazy bikini lady.
We opted to try the cruise thing again this year. I figure we should go back before they refuse to renew our passports on the grounds that we have no business traveling outside the continental United States. This time, I’m leaving the two-piece at home.
*A big thank you to Regency Cruise Lines who single-handedly saved our vacation. The offending airline will remain unnamed out of my fear of the inevitable slander/liable suit.
