The past (approximately) 36 hours of my life have been seriously ridiculous, and the events that have transpired will make a great blogpost. Someday.
Until that day, I will continue to entertain you with stories like the following, which is about a time when my family and I almost died, but not really.
When I was ten, back before Mexico was the place you vacationed if you enjoyed getting kidnapped and left to die in the desert, my family took a trip to Cancun. It was a glorious place, where every pool had a swim-up bar and every meal was accompanied by a smiling mariachi band. I don't even think I got (very) sunburned, which is a miracle in and of itself, considering this glowing alabaster complexion of mine (or "pasty," as some people of eloquence like to refer to it.) Yes, the week had been straight from a Mary Kate and Ashley vacation movie--minus the Australian guy from House putting the moves on me--and, having packed up all of our delightful memories in our suitcases, we began the journey homeward.
Mexican cabbies (not to generalize, but, I'm generalizing here) are terrible, awful drivers. They exceed the speed limit usually by at least double, and they weave in and out of lanes like they're trying to write calligraphy with their tire tracks. We boarded one of these death machines and it delivered us, slightly bruised and battered from being flung around inside the car, to a fairly sketchy bus station. Though probably all bus stations in Mexico--scratch that, North America--are sketchy, so I guess I really had no room to complain.
The bus station was confusing because, unlike the tourist-y areas that we had ventured around all week, hardly anything was in English, and we didn't have one of those pretentious "All the Spanish You Need to Know to Go on Vacation in Mexico" translation books--because, let's get real, those just make you sound like you learned Spanish from some drunk guy you shared a Dos Equis with on Cinco de Mayo. Somehow, after attempting to decode the broken English of several passers-by, we located the correct bus that would take us to the airport.
It was hot outside, but not just any "hot," the kind of hot that makes you sweat from places you didn't even know had pores. With the kind of humidity that turns every breath, every greenhouse gas emission, every stench in the air, into a sticky liquid residue that settles onto your skin. So essentially, it was disgusting, and having a hundred people crammed into a confined, un-air-conditioned space was like fighting a wildfire with a windstorm. I don't even want to think about the bodily fluids that I acquired from all the random strangers who brushed up against me.
The bus began to pull away from the station, but, ten seconds into the cesspool-mobile's journey, it broke down. That should have been enough of an omen to make us wary for the remainder of our odyssey, and yet, naive as we were, it barely even phased us. We were directed onto another bus, and successfully recommenced our travel.
The airport was a pretty dinky establishment, but compared to our airplane, it was Caesar's Palace. Our airplane looked like the life-sized version of something you'd see on the Island of Misfit Toys. The panels on the wings were falling off, it had rust spots that gave it a very "chicken pox" look, and the "Vacation Express" logo on its side had faded like a fake tattoo. "This . . . this is what we're flying on?" My mother was not happy. She already had a fear of flying, and an even bigger fear of flying over water, so the sorry state of the mode of transportation that would be carrying us over that water did not make her feel any better. "Relax, hon. It's fine." My dad, always the source of minimal comfort.
Our flight had gotten slightly delayed, so, added on top of the death-defying cab ride and that portable sauna of a bus, my brother and I were understandably bored, tired, cranky, and, above all, seriously thirsty. We boarded the plane with only one thing in mind: free coke (and by "coke," I mean the southern assumption that all soft drinks are "coke," and not necessarily actual Coca-Cola, and by no means cocaine). Our flight attendants--two ditzy twenty-something girls and a rather entertaining flamboyantly homosexual guy--walked up and down the aisles, assuring that our seatbelts were fastened and our luggage was properly stowed. They went through the safety manual and acted out all of the instructions like fifth graders putting on Cats in the style of a Dr. Seuss poem. My brother and I were looking at the terrible illustrations in the manual when a particular picture caught our eye: the slide. Inflated for emergency evacuations, this big yellow "safety feature" was like a built-in moonbounce; no doubt the pilots had bounce house parties when they were off-duty, probably had their kids' birthday parties on that thing. It was too cool. "Mom, we totally want to go down the slide!" we excitedly informed our mother. She was horrified. "No! No you don't! Don't even say that!" she scolded, her face turning pale at the thought.
After a few minutes of riding around randomly on the tarmac like he was trying to find a Wendy's, our pilot got us airborne. My brother and I were beside ourselves. Beverages! Soon! Must take in liquid so that we really have to pee right before we land when we're not allowed out of our seats therefore making ourselves miserable! But right around the time when we reached the proper elevation, when they should have been breaking out the drink carts and preparing bags of peanuts, nothing was happening. None of the flight attendants were astir. My family happened to be seated near the very back of the plane, where the stewards had their little home base, so, lacking answers and any other means of entertainment besides SkyMall, we began to eavesdrop and spy.
The phone in the back kept ringing. And ringing. And ringing. The delightful gay guy, who I will call Fosse, was the only one answering the calls from the pilot. And each time Fosse answered, his face got a little more serious, his eyes a little darker, his forehead a little more crinkled. What are they doing, asking each other riddles or something? I thought to myself. There's no time for riddles! There is only time for beverage service! I was deeply perplexed at their inattention to the passengers, namely me.
Finally, the pilot came over the intercom and made an announcement to explain the delay in liquid distribution: "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we've hit a bit of bad weather, so we're going to re-route to Sarasota and make our landing at the Sarasota airport. Nothin' to worry about, we'll have you safely on the ground shortly."
Okay, bad weather. I guess that makes sense.
But I looked over at my mother, and her eyes were practically bulging right out of their sockets. And then it hit me. I looked out the window: nothing but clear skies and sunshine for miles and miles. There was barely even a tuft of cloud disturbing the vast expanse of powder blue. A passenger across the aisle was also clearly puzzled. "Anyone on the other side see any signs of bad weather? We've got nothin' over here." A few passengers slowly shook their heads. No one quite knew what to make of it. Had he meant we were being re-routed around the bad weather? Or were the storm clouds below us? Or were we being duped? I was starting to think the pilot was just razzin' us and the flight attendants were going to break out the drink carts at any moment, and then we'd all laugh and land and go home with a cute little memory to cap off our lovely vacation.
No such luck.
The flight attendants were clearly panicking; Fosse's voice was at a soprano level. Something was wrong, very wrong, and it was only a matter of time before they were going to have to tell us. Whispers ran up and down the aisles, speculating at explanations for the bizarre behavior we were witnessing. My mother remained a stone figure, rigid in her seat, with that look on her face like she was bracing herself (ironically) for impact. She was scared, but she was also acutely aware of every hushed word and every flick of a finger. If the stewards are supposed to be the mood thermostats of a flight, then we were all headed for "everybody flip a shit" territory. We were turning into crazed lions who could smell the blood of an injured antelope but couldn't find the body. Somebody needed to show us that carcass, and somebody needed to do it right the hell now.
Sensing the atmosphere aboard the flight, the pilot finally came over the intercom. His voice was different than it had been before, more strained, more hesitant. "Hey, folks . . . It has come to our attention that, uh, there has been, um, smoke detected in the cargo area . . . Fire extinguishers have, uh, been deployed . . . We will be making an, um, emergency landing in Sarasota . . . The emergency slides will be inflated and we'll exit through the rear of the plane . . . Please, everyone, remain calm . . . Uh, thank you."
Instant panic. Uncontrollable frenzy. The flight attendants are crying. "Do you see land yet!?" "Can anyone see land!?" "Oh, God!"
People were saying their Hail Marys, children were screaming, couples were embracing as if for the last time. A newlywed couple across the aisle from us were writing their goodbyes on puke bags. My mother was absolutely hysterical, 100% sure that our plane was going down. I could see it in her eyes: at least we would be going down together.
I probably would have shared in some of these activities and sentiments, had the pilot not caught my attention with another matter. The inflatable slide. We were gonna get to go down the inflatable freaking slide. I looked over at my brother and he clearly had the same thought. I became giddy and excited, anxiously awaiting our landing for all the wrong reasons. Had I not been so ignorant, it might have seemed pretty badass that I was unconcerned with the imminent danger on our hands. No matter how much the passengers around me cried and screamed and awaited death, there were only three words that could get through to me: Bouncy. Yellow. Slide. It was like a dream come true, like winning enough tickets to get that Barbie Convertible from Chuck E. Cheese, like going to Disney World and getting one of those passes where you get to cut everybody in line for the rides. Nothing could kill my excitement--well, except for the plane crashing, but who was really banking on that, right?
After what felt like hours, but was really probably only (truly, deeply, madly, other annoying words ending in -ly) about twenty minutes, Sarasota came into view and, surprisingly, people became more panicked. I guess crashing and burning when land is only minutes away would probably be pretty depressing. But, much to the brief relief of everyone onboard, our flight landed safely on the Sarasota tarmac, met by a dozen fire engines and police cars, and possibly a few bomb squad members, though maybe that was just my wishful thinking to make the situation more reminiscent of a really intense action movie, preferably starring Tom Cruise circa before the aliens.
The flight attendants had cautioned us to remain seated with our seatbelts fastened until the pilot gave the okay, but my mother had her seatbelt off faster than a cowboy at a quick draw, and she was up on her feet ready to evacuate. I of course followed suit, but out of excitement rather than fear. Here comes the slide!
The slide was inflated, the pilot gave the okay, and we all formed a single file line to exit out the rear of the plane. My heart was racing and I was bouncing around the aisle like someone had switched out cocaine for my Fun Dip (I guess, contrary to what I said earlier, I may have been referring to cocaine rather than a carbonated beverage, unbeknownst to me). When I got to the head of the line, people were screaming and shaking around me, but I might as well have been at a Six Flags for all I knew. I took a deep breath and jumped onto the slide. I contemplated going head first, but I was trying to avoid a nasty belly burn, so I stuck with the seated position.
And boy. Was. That. Fun. I swooshed down that big, bouncy pillow like a skier maneuvering down Everest. It was exhilarating. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're too old to enjoy sliding down a slide, because it's simply untrue. It's a universally fun activity. When I reached the bottom, I was gasping for breath, my hair was in disarray, and I had a massive grin decorating my fearless face. Well, my bucket list's complete. This plane can blow up into a million fiery pieces, and I wouldn't be the least bit concerned because I can now die happy. This was my thought process. (I know, I was kind of pathetic.)
All the women and children rushed away from the plane to avoid any possible explosions, with the men staying behind to ensure the rest of the passengers' safety. The scene was chaos, slightly reminiscent of the airport scene in Liar, Liar, but without the comic relief of Jim Carrey. We were escorted to a dark and empty building by what seemed to be a mall cop tooling around the Sarasota airport in a golf cart. Where he came from, no one knew, but we all entered the building with sighs of relief, happy to be out of danger. The men followed soon after, bringing news that no one had been harmed and the area had been safely evacuated.
Someone turned on some dim lights, and we discovered that we were in what appeared to be an abandoned terminal. It was pretty creepy; it looked like the setting of a cheesy horror movie starring fairly good actors who are trying to kill their careers. The only thing left to do was sit and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Finally, a representative from the airport came in to give us the low-down. "Good evening, everyone. We have inspected your plane and it appears that the alarm that your pilot received from the cargo area was actually triggered by the malfunctioning of an idiot light."
Seriously? An idiot idiot light? How anti-climactic. I wanted there to have been a bomb onboard, or some freak accident with fireworks, or something. They don't make action movies about malfunctioning idiot lights. Somebody hire this woman a better screenwriter.
"We're preparing another plane for you to fly you to your original destination, Orlando. But before we can allow you onboard that plane, we're going to have to check you in through customs. You're actually in the customs concourse of our airport." How convenient! At least we'll be on our way soon enough. "The only problem is, we had this concourse built several years ago, but we haven't received enough funding to actually expand to the status of an international airport." Are you kidding? Where's the camera? Ashton, get your ugly-trucker-hat-wearing patootie out here. I know I'm being Punk'd. "We're going to fly in customs workers from Orlando [how ironic] so that you can properly be checked in. They should be here in a couple of hours. Until then, we've got some snacks and drinks that you guys are welcome to. We thank you for your patience and understanding."
Okay, I would have jumped on her back like an angry spider monkey had she not used the magic word: snacks. I immediately began scanning the area, searching with my SSR (Super Snack Radar) for the goods. At last, the boxes were spotted, and I made a bee-line for the prize. And then I halted and cursed the gods.
The box was labeled "Y2K."
These snacks were from the year 2000. And they were the kind of food you'd stock in a nuclear bomb shelter--since Y2K was supposed to be the end of the world and all, obviously--to last for decades. In short, it was like tiny packages of salted cardboard. I was disgusted. Some hospitality we were getting. They couldn't spare a few bags of airplane peanuts? I'd have been satisfied with just one peanut. Half a peanut. Work with me here, Sarasota.
I angrily trudged back to the conveyor belt on which my family was stationed, to impatiently and begrudgingly wait out the next couple of hours. I even refused the Y2K water, though I was severely parched and, of all things, the Y2K water probably would have been ingestable. I'll have none of it; save it for 2012, Sarasota.
Fast forward a couple of boring hours during which I people-watched several quirky passengers: the customs workers finally arrived and we were officially checked back into the good ole U S of A. We boarded the flight to Orlando, and, before we even had enough time to fasten our seatbelts, we landed safely at the Orlando International Airport. What awaited us in that airport, however, none of us had foreseen.
We exited the aircraft and entered into a terminal full of angry flyers. Apparently, our flight had delayed several other flights for several hours, and people were none too happy about this. They yelled, they cursed, they pointed fingers. Yeah, like it's our fault that our plane was so delayed. Like we collectively put in a vote and said, "Yeah, screw all those other people, let's just hang out on the plane for a hell of a long time and make everyone else wait on us." We're just that aristocratic.
Luckily, we yielded a powerful weapon in our sob story about the idiot light, so we calmed the infuriated masses by playing the sympathy card--really the best card; works every time. We soon boarded a flight to Louisville to complete the final chapter of our epic journey to reach home--really, I think Odysseus would've fist bumped us for sure.
Arriving in Louisville at two o'clock in the morning, we hailed the first cab we could find and quickly piled in. The odor in the cab was horrendous--like someone had killed a possum and left it in there to rot in one hundred degree weather--and our cabbie was a pretty shifty Middle Eastern guy named Habib. He drove like he was Miley Cyrus high on salvia and he just wanted to party in the USA, twisting and swerving with much less expertise than our previous Mexican cabbie; heck, he was beginning to look like Dale Earnhardt compared to Habib over here. He attempted to drop us off at the wrong house twice, but the third time was a charm, and he helped us unload our bags onto the driveway. My father paid him and he drove off into the night, his taillights painting a Picasso piece into the dewy air.
After he was out of sight, we all stood there for a moment in silence, looking at each other, holding our breath. And then we broke out in cheers, hugging each other and literally kissing the pavement, glad to be on firm ground with just ourselves around. The day had been a trying one, but we had made it out alive, together.
And now when I fly on airplanes, I can point to the big yellow slide in the safety manual and say to my fellow passenger, "Oh yeah, buddy. It's just as fun as it looks."
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