I find myself sitting on my hostel bed, without pants on, wondering if there is a way to make an IV out of a Gatorade bottle, a muffin wrapper, and several thousands of dollars worth of scuba gear. Somehow, impossibly, the answer is no, so I drink the Gatorade instead, and unwrap yet another muffin.
The journey started 24 hours ago
(at time of writing) in Medford. The flight from San Fran was delayed so we
didn’t get out until almost an hour and a half later than we were supposed to.
I didn’t think this would be a problem because a) the rather green check-in
lady didn’t charge me for my overweight bag and so how could anything go wrong
with a trip starting off $100 cheaper? and b) the flight from Medford to San
Fran should only take like forty minutes so I’d be there in plenty of time.
WRONG MISTER! Wouldn’t you know, an hour and twenty minutes later, my flight to
Atlanta was taking off just as my foot was stepping onto the tarmac in San
Fran. Balls. Thanks to an incredibly nice customer service agent I randomly
approached, I was rebooked on a slightly later flight to Atlanta and so all was
good. No thanks to an incredibly nice customer service agent I randomly
approached, I arrived at my gate huffing and puffing after running the length
of the terminal three times (three times!) trying to find my damn gate
(everyone failed to mention I would have to leave security). No problem though,
because I was on the flight. Except, oh wait, there was a problem. Turns out,
the only seat left, the one with my name on it (not really because I was
supposed to be in a different one), was a middle seat, next to a very, very
large man. So my one, middle seat to Atlanta became half of a middle seat to
Atlanta, four hours away. Needless to say, it wasn’t comfortable or fun but I persevered
because, well, I’m a Saint and make sacrifices for the good of the world. I
will admit, at one point I considered sleeping in the aisle, followed closely
by a thought of sleeping in the bathroom. But alas, I arrived in Atlanta.
Whether or not my bags filled with the aforementioned thousands of dollars of
scuba gear did, well that was up in the air. Losing a bag becomes a lot bigger
deal when you just poured lots of hard earned graduation money into its
contents (thanks everyone!).
My mood quickly improved though,
thanks to a Qdoba burrito and a window seat all to myself on the flight to San
Pedro Sula, Honduras. It was further buoyed as we flew over the coast of
Honduras. Good God that was some pretty blue water. I was amazed at how the
land went from carribbean-esque seas to lush, rain forested mountains almost
immediately. My arrival went off without a hitch, bags and all. The airport was
tiny and dilapidated but I breezed through customs, booked myself a bus ticket
to La Ceiba, and settled down in the air conditioning to read my book.
The bus ride was amazingly
reminiscent of Argentina, same style bus, same style seats, and definitely the
same crappy Adam Sandler movies with Spanish subtitles. No joke, the only movie
I remember seeing on Argentinean buses was some Adam Sandler flick where he is
with college (?) buddies in the lake house they used to visit. And this time?
This time it was the one where he picks up chicks by pretending he is married
and in order to get Brooklyn Decker he has to pretend Jennifer Aniston is his
wife (as I wrote that I realized just how stupid of a movie that is. Wow). I
gotta be honest though, I love watching Adam Sandler films with Spanish
subtitles. The humor is just dumb enough that I can get it through reading, and
the dialogue is simple enough that I can decipher it. Thank you Adam Sandler,
it turns out you are good for something. Kind of. (Check out the trailers for "Just Go With It" and "Grown Ups")
In
between sleeping and watching the film, I took in the countryside. It reminded
me a lot of Argentina as you drive north towards Iguazu, small towns amongst
rainforest type trees and dirt roads. Very basic, very poor, but very
beautiful. It was while on the bus that it hit me what was going on. I was
traveling again! Argentina feels like yesterday in my head, but it also feels like
a lifetime ago. I had almost forgotten the simple joys of being in a different
country. Boy does it feel good to be back.
I
arrived in La Ceiba, a port town where I will catch the ferry to Utila
tomorrow, at around six thirty, but it felt a lot later because it was fully
dark by the time we arrived. I grabbed my bags and hopped into a taxi,
immediately regretting my gringo decision as I knew I was being conned. Sure
enough, the man, “Edwin” to me and “Duke” to the hostel owner, charged me $10
bucks for the ride, a fortune down here. I wanted to bang my head against the
wall, what a rookie mistake! And the sad part? I knew better. As he was
offering me a ride my mind was yelling “EXPENSIVE, EXPENSIVE” while my mouth
said “okay”. Oh well, that’s my gringo move of the day. Supposedly he is coming
back tomorrow morning to pick me up but the hostel owner said I can get a
cheaper ride. So that’ll be fun to deal with.
After
checking into my room I walked down to a 24 hour mart to grab some grub and
some much needed water. I hadn’t consumed either since the good ol’ US of A. It
felt so natural to walk down the darkly lit street, confident that I wasn’t
about to get shanked or, if I was, it’d be a decent way to go, all things
considered. Upon arrival at the mart I did a double take as the man standing
outside was cradling a shotgun. My reactions were: Oh! and, Huh?! and, Cool! in that order. I calmly
grabbed my muffins, water, and Gatorade and tried to not make any sudden
movements.
As
I walked back to the hostel I reflected on just how alive I felt. I couldn’t
have felt more alone in the world but at the same time, I knew that that was
okay. All of my travels, all of my issues, all of my delays and obstacles were
okay because I knew I could handle them and I did. Granted, nothing major
happened (luckily), but it was cool to regain that feeling that when it
counted, the only person I needed to count on was myself, and I was more than
up for the task. Oh the wonders of traveling solo.
So
that puts us back here, in my room, on my bed, without pants on, trying to get
Gatorade into my system as fast as possible. I guess I didn’t mention that it
is MUGGIER THAN HELL here. Good lord. I knew it was going to be hot but this is
something else. I’ve taken the equivelent of like five showers in my own sweat
since arriving. It feels remarkably like Virginia beach in the summer, the only
difference being I don’t have my family around to crank the AC down to -10
degrees. It might be a long night of lying spread eagle on my bed, begging the
air to move just a tad. But hey, I’m pretty sure there is a significant amount
of water in my future, so I’ll deal with the heat. So if you’ll excuse me, I am
going back to eating my 100% pure sugar muffin and fanning myself with a dirty
rag. It ain’t heaven down here, but darn it if it’s not close.
Until next time,
The Stupid, Stupid Gringo signing off.
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