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| One of my only photos of Houston |
Cancun has become grey, cloudy, and quiet. All the kids and their cocktail-county parents have disappeared. Our checkout is smooth, pleasant, and without incident. The taxi driver jokes with us about Outback Steakhouse as he takes us to the airport. All the warning signs were there to be seen. Things were going too well, too smoothly. The Duck was right - our time in the airport would be a hairy mess.
Even on paper it looked stressful. Cancun to Houston, Houston to L.A., L.A. to Sydney. How was it all going to fit together? The travel agent had only given us 1 hr between arrival and departure in Houston... which was completely unreasonable in hindsight.
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| Tower at Cancun airport, complete with massive Corona advertisement |
In Cancun airport we hit a snag straight away. The system doesn't like us; our names and information don't come up on their computers. First one, then two, then six check-in staff are scratching heads and talking in rapid Spanish. Our wait at the desk stretches out; it gets to 11 am, then 11:15 am, then 11:30 am. Our flight leaves at midday. I'm very conscious of the clock, as always, but increasingly more so as we begin to race it.
When something like this takes so long you begin to notice every little detail about the person serving you... the fact that their tie is patterned with the names of various international destinations, the blemishes on their skin, their name on the tag, the stoop of their shoulders. Our two main helpers are Rafael and Guadalupe, both anxiously doing their best, ears glued to the phone and nervously joking that we might have to stay another night in Cancun.
Eventually, Duck and I are shuffled along to another desk and told that this is a common problem with Australians checking out of Cancun. Their system isn't compatible with us. We'll have to wait for a later flight.
Duck is on the verge of exploding when suddenly, joyously, our passports are accepted and we're rushed along onto our plane.
But the next stop is worse.
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| Forrest Gump's actual suit? |
As we're coming into America from another country, even if it's just to transfer to another airport, we're subjected to customs and all its post-9/11 hoo-ha. The lines are astronomical, hundreds and hundreds of people nose-to-back, the line snaking back and forth without end.
The clock ticks by. We have less than 20 minutes until boarding. I think of all the stops we must go through - border control, bag pick up, carry-on check, finding the right departure gate. And all the while as time slips away so quickly our line moves so very slowly.
Boarding time comes and goes. I start to feel very anxious. Duck suggests that I talk to someone after I time the person's border interview at the head of our line, then multiply that by the people between us and them, and conclude that we won't make it. The airport lady monitoring the queue is amazed when I tell her our flight has already started boarding.
"Oh, you need to go!"
Yes. Very much so.
Miraculously, she pushes us through to the head of the queue. I ignore the stares burning into my back from the hundreds of commuters, and I fume as inwardly as possible as the Duck's little bag is redflagged, checked, and re-checked again. From here we follow the signs, handover our declaration form, and make it to the security point to re-check-in.
But where are our main bags? We haven't passed a luggage terminal and we're told we won't. Duck asks a staff member nearby and they rush off to find them. Long story short, they reappear with the luggage and we're off running, running, running to the departure gate.
Two other Australians are running alongside us, themselves in a similar time-poor predicament. We reach the gate just behind them. Ten minutes to departure.
The guy on the desk looks mildly offended at our arrival. A French woman is already there, making demands of him as he tries to do something on his computer. He looks up and tells her, in a short manner, that she is no longer getting on the plane because of her behaviour.
The other Australian couple are waved through after a moment, the guy on the door confirming with a colleague that they'll be the last to go through.
Two seconds before us.
The last to go through.
Duck isn't having it. She interrupts, explains in a quavering voice that we have battled our way here, we ran, we had other staff help us to get to this point. Her foot is broken.
He looks at us briefly, sighs gruffly, and begrudgingly says that he'll see what he can do.
And then we're on. Seated next to a manic orthopedic surgeon who talks a streak with the Duck as we fly to L.A. and, then, home. What a trip.
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| I loved America and Mexico, but it was good to home and welcomed by this lovely sign. |
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