Aruba, Jamaica…no, just Aruba!

Jan 21, 2010 by

As I mentioned in my last blog, we took a much needed break from reality and headed down to Aruba for New Year’s.  We’ve only been once before and it was our honeymoon, so although we ventured out to see the sights a few times, we were REALLY looking forward to exploring this time.  And by exploring, I mean exploring restaurants.  We like to eat, okay?

But even more exciting than the 12,000 calorie a day diet were the rumors of crazy awesome fireworks the night before NYE.  We’d heard reports that they were better than Disney World on the 4th of July.  Those are big shoes to fill! 

Suffice to say, we had big plans for our vacation.  We flew down, and had 2 of the best, easiest flights ever.  We got there and it was sunny, 85 degrees, breezy, how could anyone complain?  Everything is going according to plan.  Our room was ready ahead of schedule, the beach bar was hoppin’, life was GOOOOOOOOOOD. 

What they failed to adequately explain is that NYE is a MAJOR holiday for the people of Aruba.  We were forewarned that on NYE we needed to stay close to the hotel or find alternate transportation because the cab services shut down at 11 pm, in order to be home with their families.  No problem.  They warned us that things close down for the holiday, so be prepared to just chill on the beach.  Sounds great.  We even laughed, “they close things down for the day in America too, no big deal.”  Yeah, except in Aruba they close things for FOUR days.  NYE was Thursday, so most everything was closed Thursday-Sunday.  That kinda sucked.  We ended up just being beach bums for the majority of the vacation and, in the end, it was EXACTLY what we needed.  We didn’t have one headache, backache, no cell phones or DVRs, not a care in the world.  It’s hard to complain when this is what you’re looking at every day:

Unfortunately, the way home was not so great.  The Detroit Christmas Bomber (or, as I like to call him, the Tighty Whitey Bomber) really screwed things up for us.  We kept a close eye on the NY Times Daily Digest, so we could be certain there were no new restrictions on carry-on items and security measures.  Of course there were new security measures, otherwise how else can we prevent some Nigerian with an attitude problem from trying to blow his dick off?  But I digress…  Anyway, it was WIDELY reported that only those passengers with passports from or flights traveling through Muslim countries would be subjected to “special” searches and procedures.  Let me just tell you that that is not the case.  Aruba is far from a Muslim country.  That’s why the Beach Boys’ song went “Aruba, Jamaica, oooh I wanna take ya,” not “Aruba, Iran, we sure love the Koran.”  Either way, we only had one carry-on suitcase and one personal item each, so we thought we’d breeze on by.  Nice to be white and American, I guess.  Not!  We went through the typical security line, then Aruban customs, then another security line, then US customs, then we got to the gate and had huge tables set up for opening and prying through each individual bag, purse, backpack, suitcase, whatever. 
Never fear, because I am awesome, I had already considered that because I looked so tan and Godly, they might think I deserve a second look.  Being awesome is a tough job.  So I prepared in advance for bag search…I took all my dirty underwear and spread it out, crotch up, around the top and edges of my suitcase.  Have fun, fuckers!  Meanwhile, I just stared innocently at the poor schmuck who got stuck digging through my suitcase.  “Who me?  No those are skid marks, not traces of nitrates!”  Adam, meanwhile, was complimented on the excellent and “efficient” job he did packing his suitcase.  Frankly, they’re lucky it was me who arranged all her dirty underwear, becase if they’d gotten a hold of his…well…may God have mercy on their poor unfortunate soul. 
Either way, our security adventure was not over yet.  Apparently the NY Times Daily Digest was seriously misinformed.  Not only were my skid marks not validation enough of my desire to maintain my privates’ current and intact state, we also had to go through individual pat downs before we could enter the plane.  We FINALLY board the plane, and things go downhill from there.  The movie’s sound isn’t working right, my iPod touch’s battery is dying, and I am seriously uncomfortable. 
Towards the very tail end of the flight, however, I was able to fullfill a lifelong dream (seriously) of finding out just what exactly would happen if you had a “situation” or Code Brown, as I like to call it, when the seatbelt sign was illuminated.  Let’s just say that I’d rather not have had this particular opportunity.  I was afraid that if I didn’t ask permission (we could see the ground clearly at this point), I would get stuck w/ 20 questions from the flight attendants and not accomplish the obvious task at hand.  So I got Adam to ask for me, and I was denied.  Finally he explained that it was, in fact, an emergency, and she told me to hurry, but then proceeded to ask why I waited so long.  How do you explain to someone who has never had this problem that there was no waiting involved…or else I would just keep on waiting, and that there is no such thing as hurrying it.  Sometimes, these things just hit.  Now I’m in an absolute panic, because I never understood what could possibly go wrong by using the restrooms while landing.  I would have gladly signed away any right at that point, any liability clauses, ANYTHING to use that bathroom.  I rush into a stall, only to find that they’ve used it as storage space for giant garbage bags full of soda cans.  Now I am seriously freaking out, turned around and luckily had an available restroom.  I feel better, and go back to my seat.  Unfortunately, Code Brown strikes AGAIN, and back I go.  What I didn’t count on was sitting on the runway for 20 minutes.  I felt a little better, we deplaned and, upon entering the Atlanta airport, Adam decided we had some time and he would make a pit stop while I watched the suitcases.  Unfortunately, about a minute after he left, strike 3 hits and I am left with no other option but to haul 2 suitcases, a back pack and my giant ass purse into a stall with me.  Poor Adam eventually saw me straggle out, shaking all over.  It was definitely one of the single worst experiences of my life. 
Needless to say, the flight to Bloomington wasn’t much better.  We had the exit aisle nazi moonlighting as a flight attendant.  She was everything the stereotype of an old flight attendant would be: giant, teased, fake red hair, gobs of black eyeliner, and a major attitude problem.  We finally arrive in Bloomington and it’s down to 6 degrees, there is snow and ice on the ground, and I’m wearing flip flops.  GENIUS! 
It’s hard to complain when we were lucky enough to have the opportunity to take a vacation like this, so instead of further complaints, I’ll leave you with this:

Related Posts


Share This

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: