Caribbean Travel Vignette
San Juan Cigarette
After enduring about 13 hours without a Camel, Deanna was getting a little edgy, but since every airport in America, including San Juan International, treats smokers like lepers, she would have to go outside to burn one. Going outside meant coming back through a security system that would make most nuclear facilities proud. Another problem was that she had only 35 minutes until the puddle jumper to Philipsburg began boarding. Deanna’s boon traveling partner, Rich, wanted her to enjoy the relaxation that only nicotine could provide before the inevitably loud, bumpy flight, so he encouraged her to step out for a smoke (or two). He would wait with the luggage. After two separate replies of “no, it’s not necessary” and the wall clock clearly pointing out that it would be nearly an hour before the plane lifted off, Deanna relinquished her luggage and sought the easiest exit that promised the most expedient return.
Rich tries to live a rational life, but sometimes he gets a little antsy about schedules and deadlines. During the first twenty minutes of Deanna’s smoking absence, he read. Soon a fairly large line formed in front of Gate 1A. He stopped reading and started watching the shoes and legs of passengers coming down on the escalator to the nearby gates. Black slides, similar to those Deanna was wearing, traveled down the escalator intermittently and disbursed between a myriad of other footwear attached to legs that didn’t look like hers. This observation only helped promote Rich’s impending anxiety: no red toenails, no toe rings, no Deanna. An overnight in San Juan? A different flight? Missed flight? Oh, the horror! Rich felt the tightening in his throat, across his face, perhaps the strain on his heart.
Soon, Rich couldn’t read another word. He organized the luggage into a pile and started pacing back and forth. The line in front of Gate 1A was now more of a crowd. He could overhear conversations about St. Maarten by a mixture of people donning diverse clothes and accents. He kept telling himself that even if Deanna were late and they missed the flight, there were four more flights that night to St. Maarten, and he should simply relax and sit down. Sweat beaded on his forehead and a ringing rose in his ears, a sure sign that his blood pressure was skyrocketing. He was tempted to dig through his backpack and find a couple of ten milligram Prinivils before a ventricle blew, but he knew that with twenty milligrams of Prinivil his blood pressure would probably bottom out, and Deanna would find his prostrate body next to their looted luggage. Finally, he just stood in despair as only a couple of passengers remained waiting to have passports and tickets checked before walking through the doors into the oppressive Puerto Rican air.
Then, Deanna’s red toes, black slides, and black linen dress descended, like an angel from heaven.
She’d seen him first, she thought. His head facing down, rumpled hair hanging over the luggage, he feverishly attempted to organize the unwieldy bags for boarding. Deanna couldn’t get down the escalator any faster; passengers before her stood motionless on the moving stairs. She knew Rich would be having a strong reaction, to say the least, to her extended absence. But she, too, had endured trauma. Waiting in line for nearly 30 minutes to reenter through the security gate had had a similar sinking effect on her. How had a cigarette and a half, taking no more than 7.5 minutes (a remarkable feat in itself) been worth the extended reentry line that had appeared while she was gone? As Deanna had taken her place at the back of the line, an ankle-shackled prisoner led by two plain-clothed policemen sluggishly jangled through security without the penalty of waiting in line. Exhausted babies lay in cushion-lined carriages, beads of water pooling in the lines of their foreheads. Sorrow-ridden families had motioned her in front of them; they needed more time. She’d had a conversation with a Latin woman which had helped to alleviate her worry and panic about the line—at least temporarily. But the tension lay in wait in her shaking knees. With no watch and the passing time fleeing, there was little she could do—short of having a panic attack.
Happy to have arrived again at Gate 1A, she said, “Hi, Honey, you ready?”
After enduring about 13 hours without a Camel, Deanna was getting a little edgy, but since every airport in America, including San Juan International, treats smokers like lepers, she would have to go outside to burn one. Going outside meant coming back through a security system that would make most nuclear facilities proud. Another problem was that she had only 35 minutes until the puddle jumper to Philipsburg began boarding. Deanna’s boon traveling partner, Rich, wanted her to enjoy the relaxation that only nicotine could provide before the inevitably loud, bumpy flight, so he encouraged her to step out for a smoke (or two). He would wait with the luggage. After two separate replies of “no, it’s not necessary” and the wall clock clearly pointing out that it would be nearly an hour before the plane lifted off, Deanna relinquished her luggage and sought the easiest exit that promised the most expedient return.
Rich tries to live a rational life, but sometimes he gets a little antsy about schedules and deadlines. During the first twenty minutes of Deanna’s smoking absence, he read. Soon a fairly large line formed in front of Gate 1A. He stopped reading and started watching the shoes and legs of passengers coming down on the escalator to the nearby gates. Black slides, similar to those Deanna was wearing, traveled down the escalator intermittently and disbursed between a myriad of other footwear attached to legs that didn’t look like hers. This observation only helped promote Rich’s impending anxiety: no red toenails, no toe rings, no Deanna. An overnight in San Juan? A different flight? Missed flight? Oh, the horror! Rich felt the tightening in his throat, across his face, perhaps the strain on his heart.
Soon, Rich couldn’t read another word. He organized the luggage into a pile and started pacing back and forth. The line in front of Gate 1A was now more of a crowd. He could overhear conversations about St. Maarten by a mixture of people donning diverse clothes and accents. He kept telling himself that even if Deanna were late and they missed the flight, there were four more flights that night to St. Maarten, and he should simply relax and sit down. Sweat beaded on his forehead and a ringing rose in his ears, a sure sign that his blood pressure was skyrocketing. He was tempted to dig through his backpack and find a couple of ten milligram Prinivils before a ventricle blew, but he knew that with twenty milligrams of Prinivil his blood pressure would probably bottom out, and Deanna would find his prostrate body next to their looted luggage. Finally, he just stood in despair as only a couple of passengers remained waiting to have passports and tickets checked before walking through the doors into the oppressive Puerto Rican air.
Then, Deanna’s red toes, black slides, and black linen dress descended, like an angel from heaven.
She’d seen him first, she thought. His head facing down, rumpled hair hanging over the luggage, he feverishly attempted to organize the unwieldy bags for boarding. Deanna couldn’t get down the escalator any faster; passengers before her stood motionless on the moving stairs. She knew Rich would be having a strong reaction, to say the least, to her extended absence. But she, too, had endured trauma. Waiting in line for nearly 30 minutes to reenter through the security gate had had a similar sinking effect on her. How had a cigarette and a half, taking no more than 7.5 minutes (a remarkable feat in itself) been worth the extended reentry line that had appeared while she was gone? As Deanna had taken her place at the back of the line, an ankle-shackled prisoner led by two plain-clothed policemen sluggishly jangled through security without the penalty of waiting in line. Exhausted babies lay in cushion-lined carriages, beads of water pooling in the lines of their foreheads. Sorrow-ridden families had motioned her in front of them; they needed more time. She’d had a conversation with a Latin woman which had helped to alleviate her worry and panic about the line—at least temporarily. But the tension lay in wait in her shaking knees. With no watch and the passing time fleeing, there was little she could do—short of having a panic attack.
Happy to have arrived again at Gate 1A, she said, “Hi, Honey, you ready?”
posted by Rich & Deanna @ 10:40 AM
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