Sylvia's Journal

Before the ban on liquids, most people left Haiti with cardboard suitcases filled with five bottles of Haitian rum. It was a thriving little business at the departure lounge. Now, with the liquid laws enforced in the US only the people who don’t transfer to domestic flights in Miami can bring these; unless, of course, they are prepared to put the five bottles in their suitcase after clearing customs. I did that with the dozen mini bottles I bought with the thought that if they would break at least I wouldn’t have my stuff drenched in 5 liters of rum.

We arrived so early at the airport that nothing was open yet. There was a short line in front of the closed entrance to the airport. The porter I hired demonstratively put my suitcases in front of the line, right in front of the closed doors, bypassing about 30 people who had arrived before us. I felt uncomfortable about following him but did not want to be separated from my luggage for too long. From the twinkle in his eyes I could tell there was an expectation of a good tip. Malcolm, who carried his own luggage, followed me with some hesitance; both of us blatantly and shamelessly invoking white privilege, while acting hopelessly un-empowered (“the porter made us do it!”). In the end only a few people complained, maybe because it wasn’t even 6 AM yet. We tucked away our feelings of shame as the lines began to move.

After that we were at the front of each new line that formed before a closed door, an unoccupied counter or an empty office. When you travel with someone else, especially someone you haven’t seen for awhile, waiting in line is not that bad. Eventually all doors opened and uniformed people took their places behind counters and desks, opened doors and let us pass. My exit from Haiti couldn’t have been easier. Malcolm’s was even easier because he got an upgrade to business class; but by then I had already moved, on his Gold elite coattails, to a bulkhead seat right behind business class, intended to sit next to him until he moved further forward.

The rest of the day consisted of more waits, expensive bad meals from fast food chains I’d never patronize if I did not have to and another crowded plane to Boston. Our departure was delayed by about 2 hours, again, this time because of an electrical storm that kept ground crew inside the terminal until it was safe again to work next to large metal objects in the pouring rain. Malcolm and I finished our expense reports and then I played solitaire until my battery was empty. In the plane I got to sit next to a big Haitian mama whose oversized arms spilled over the armrests but by then I was too tired to care. Axel picked me up and whisked me off to a Japanese restaurant on the way home where we splurged and had the superdelux sushi and sashimi platters and two large beers. Back home I don’t even remember putting my head on the pillow.

There is nothing more spectacular than waking up at the edge of Lobster Cove with the sound of birds and gentle waves while the love of your life is sound asleep by your side. I may have been on a Caribbean island but my waking up experience consisted of the sound of the noisy old airco with the muffled voices of staff congregating outside my opaque louvered windows. There’s no place like home.