Author's Note: As I have mentioned before, I do not have to rely on false story fodder to pad my blogs. My real life proves an ample source of antics about which to write. This particular entry is no different. No names, locations, or details have been changed to protect the still-scarred victims of this tragedy. What you are about to read is, unfortunately for me and humorously for you, completely true. I couldn't make this one up, folks.
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July 12, 2008 was honestly the best day I've ever had. I woke up on the morning of my wedding to a cloudless cerulean sky, my stomach filled to the brim with nervous energy-- the only thing I'd allowed to fill it for several days. My mom and I readied ourselves in hoodies and sweatpants, and together with my future mother-in-law we made our way to the salon. Coiffed and beautified, I stopped at Starbucks on the way to the church for a liquid breakfast, and was greeted by my bridesmaids in our church choir room, where we spend the next few hours dancing to music and applying false eyelashes. The day was a whirlwind--pictures, tuxedos, flower girls, lipstick touch-ups, processional, vows, ring exchanges, cake, flowers, and even a thunderstorm in the middle of the ceremony, which everyone told us meant good luck. A reception followed, with amazing food, a beautifully decorated dance floor, chocolate fountain, and even an Indianapolis Colts groom's cake in honor of R's favorite team. We made our way out of the church and into my new red Pontiac, and off we were, bride and groom!
The plan was to spend that night and next day in Atlanta, from where we would fly to the Domician Republic's Oasis Hamaca resort. As we neared the interstate, R realized he'd forgotten his passport, and we made a quick stop at our apartment, stepping over the 3 groomsmen sharing our luxurious 600 square feet for the night before traveling back to their respective homes. And finally, we were ready to leave.
We were exhausted when we arrived at our hotel--well, at least one of us was. We made our way upstairs to our suite, feeling like there were scarlet A's pinned to our chest at the sight of us sharing a room even with our shiny new wedding bands in place. We readied ourselves for bed (me wrangling myself into some Victoria's Secret spandex obstacle course, while R relaxed naxed on the bed watching ESPN). And for a good ten minutes, I sat in our hotel bathroom trying not to have a panic attack. Though I have been on birth control since I was 15 (yes, people, for a MEDICAL condition), I was for some reason petrified of becoming pregnant on our honeymoon. I was also petrified of the, ahem, act required to get me pregnant. I'd had several good girlfriends of mine share their wedding night experiences, all of which were horror stories, and I was pretty sure this wasn't going to be like it is in the movies. I will spare you details, but let me say that I now understand why many women need to be drunk for this to happen for the first time, and that there was not enough Ibuprofen in the country to get me through that night. I apologize to my kidneys for the amount of antiinflammatories I took that week.
The next day started off well--I noticed I was feeling a bit rundown and that my throat was scratchy, but chalked it up to the stress of the wedding. That night at dinner, I noticed that swallowing was becoming more and more painful. As my body still thinks I'm 6 years old, I get tonsillitis 2 or 3 times a year, and I could tell another attack was coming. I told R we needed to find an urgent care facility first thing in the morning--and pray that we make our noon flight on time.
The doctor I saw that morning pronounced me inflamed, and wrote me a prescription for an exceptionally strong antibiotic. I asked him if this would interfere with my birth control pills, and he assured me they would not. We made our way to the hotel to gather our things, and waited to get my medicine filled at the local Wal-Mart. 50 dollars and nearly 2 hours later, we were sprinting full-speed through Hartsfield-Jackson airport, and made it to our gate about 30 seconds before they closed the door to the plane.
Our flight to Miami was uneventful. We spent our 2 hour layover searching for something I could eat without tearing apart my throat. As we approached our gate, we heard the announcement that our flight had been delayed another 3 hours due to bad weather. I paced up and down the airport looking for something to do, while R worked feverishly on his laptop to try and establish an internet connection. Finally, we were allowed to board.
We landed in the Dominican Republic around 10 pm. We left this plane and boarded a quaint local plane to take us into the city for our final destination at the resort. After being seated for about half an hour, the flight attendants told us in broken English we were waiting for clearance to take off. Another 30 minutes rolls by, and we still haven't moved. The captain came on the loudspeaker asking if there were any volunteers who would like to stay the night and fly out the next morning. A couple with two small children left the plane to stay behind. Unfortunately for us, this meant that their baggage must be removed from the cargo area of the airplane. And being that it was just after 11:30 pm, the baggage handlers were in the middle of shift change, and we had to wait another 45 minutes for a new crew to arrive, unload the bags for the couple and their kids, and reload the other passengers bags. We finally took off around midnight, and landed in a city about 10 miles from our resort an hour later.
We pass through customs, weary and looking forward to a shower and some sleep, and arrive at baggage claim. R's bag flies out onto the conveyor belt quickly, and he goes to get us a shuttle to the resort. I wait, pacing up and down the tiled floor, growing more and more dismayed as the crowd around us thins and I am the only one left standing. I break into my first round of tears that night, tired and sick and jet-lagged, as I realize all I have with me is a single backpack with T-shirts, lacy bras and thong panties, and my makeup. All of my actual clothing, including any semblance of pants, is in my lost bag. All of the dresses I planned to wear to our romantic dinners, all of my shoes, and most importantly all of our toiletries, are gone. In our haste at the airport in Atlanta, R had to transfer his toiletries to my suitcase as his bag was over the weight limit ( he's not exactly a travel-with-the-clothes-on-your-back kind of guy). And so we are on our honeymoon with no toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, or anything to disguise our natural body odors after a night of unairconditioned planes. R gently leads me from the lost baggage counter to our shuttle, afraid I will completely lose it at any moment. I remember we shared the shuttle with a group of college kids on a summer vacation. They were bombed out of their minds and were having an exceptionally good time in the backseat together. R tried to put his arm around me and I snapped "Don't touch me" through my tears and oh-so-sore tonsils.
We arrive in our room and collapse on the bed, and I cry myself to sleep. R keeps looking at me, dumbfounded, probably thinking to himself that he just married a well-disguised manic depressive and that we're gonna need some Lithium up in this girl. He finally coaxes me out of bed the next morning, and I shower to the best of my ability while trying not to let the water get in my ears/eyes/or mouth, which is pretty easy since I have no shampoo to wash my hair, no soap to wash my skin, and no razor to shave my legs. Oh, and our resort wasn't exactly a Ramada Inn where you can call up to the front desk and ask for toiletries. The entire week we were there they brought us a grand total of three towels, and recommended a local shop for our toiletry purchases. Apparently, "all-inclusive" doesn't get you toothpaste.
We went to breakfast in an open-air pavilion where we found exotic fruits, animal parts I didn't recognize, and milk that had probably never heard of pasteurization. I tried not to sip down flies with my coffee. We then walked over to the local store to restock our toiletry bag. R gathered Dial soap, a tube of toothpaste, a can of shaving cream and a razor, two deodorants, and two small bottles of shampoo and conditioner. The elderly woman up front wrote up our purchase as R reached for his wallet. "One hundred twelve dollah", she said, gesturing with her bony brown fingers at our items on the counter. "We take American dollah". R stared blankly at her unsmiling face. "For this?", he said incredulously. "Si, for dis," she replied. We must have had "miserable, desperate, and utterly ignorant Americans" written on our faces, but we certainly weren't THAT ignorant. We decided to get the soap, toothpaste, and deodorant and make do until my bag was supposed to arrive that day.
I called the front desk to check on the bag, and was told it had not come. I called the airlines, who told me the bag had been sent to Miami by mistake and should be sent to me by tomorrow. R and I decided to go to the beach for the afternoon. We passed through the gates to the resort, flanked by armed guards on either side. And I do mean armed. Like, Sylvestor Stallone in Rambo 3 armed. I have never been to a place that required AK-47's and scud missiles for security, but R assured me it was just a precaution. We walked down to the beach and noticed a strange line off to the side, and saw as we got closer that it was a barbed-wire fence. When we asked the beach umbrella rental guy what was up with the fence, he told us it was the line crossing from the DR into Haiti, and not to ever cross it as it was very dangerous on the other side. Of course, it was not the picture of serenity and security on OUR side, but I kept this to myself. Sure enough, as we walked the beach there were Haitians beckoning to the tourists, offering to braid our hair, sell us cheap rum, or be our personal marijuana supplier while on the island. Don't think I wasn't tempted by mind altering substances at this point.
Since we had no sunscreen, we decided to head back from the beach early. On the way back to the hotel, a cheerful young Dominican man waved at R in greeting. The two of them shook hands. The guy actually spoke English and told R it was good to see him again, and that he could meet with us now if it was a good time. I turned to R with a question in my eyes. "Who is this guy?" I asked. "What's he talking about?" "Oh, that's Eddie," he replied ( ah yes, a popular Dominican name). " I met him last night when checking in. He said since we're visiting the resort he can get us some free T-shirts. I figured you could use the clothes right now."
"R, I'm sure he's trying to sell us something. And seeing as how shampoo is considered a market commodity down here, I'm sure its something expensive we do not need."
10 minutes later we were in Eddie's office, free hats and ugly t-shirts in hand, listening to Eddie detail the various types of timeshares he had available. R has a soft heart for salespeople, while i was not born with this particular trait. He kept pleading with me with his eyes, asking me to go gentle on the guy. Finally, as Eddie's manager came to the table to close our deal, he asked us which share would best suit our needs. "As I've made clear from the beginning, NONE OF THEM. We are NOT BUYING. Can we go now?" I said. Our conversation and Eddie's friendliness were pretty much over after that.
After another lovely open air buffet of octopus and fried plantains, we headed back to the hotel. As I climbed into bed, I searched the TV channels for something to make me a little less homesick. 4 channels of soccer, more soccer, local Dominican news, and what must have been the Latin version of American Idol were our choices. R decided to amuse himself with checking work emails. "Hey, what's the name of the antibiotic you're taking?", he asked me. "Avelox," I said. "Why?" He casually said, "Oh, there's an article on here about how some woman sued the doctor who gave it to her since she got pregnant with twins while she was taking it. She was on the Pill, too, just like you. Isn't that crazy?" And for the second night in a row, I cried myself to sleep.
The next day gave us great weather and even some fruit I recognized at breakfast. We rented a beach kayak and stayed in the water most of the afternoon. I called the front desk who did not sound sorry at all as they told me that my bag had not arrived. We went back to the hotel to get changed for a run. R and I have both been longtime runners, and I especially like to run in new places. We got our iPods and headed out into the late afternoon sun. We were gathering quite a bit of attention as we ran past the Uzi-toting security guards. Apparently, people don't exercise recreationally in the DR, and we caused quite a stir making everyone wonder why the two white kids were running circles around the resort. R headed up to the room a few minutes before I did to grab a shower. I finished my miles and returned to the room to clean up. After dressing in my fanciest pair of running shorts and R's timeshare T-shirt, we headed to dinner at one of the resort's restaurants.
The restaurant was Dominican-Mexican, complete with a basket of tortilla chips on the table. I ordered fairly normal chicken fajitas, and with the help of the "pineapple smoothies" (read--margaritas) they gave us, I felt my throat begin to soothe and my body finally relax. We had fun people-watching, and R, who fancies himself the conquistador of the Spanish language, valiantly attempted to talk with the waiters. After our meal, we decided to head back to the hotel.
I first noticed something was wrong when our key card didn't work. I knew it wasn't a case of being laid next to a credit card or cell phone, as both were in our room. We headed to the front desk, and they reactivated our keys, unable to explain to us why they had been deactivated in the first place. We entered the room, and I saw immediately it was more of a mess than when we'd left it. My eyes scanned the room, searching for our valuables--R's laptop was still there, and my purse and wallet had not been touched. However, both of our iPods and some of our wedding cash that we'd received as gifts, were gone. R began to tear through the room searching for them, but I knew we'd never see them again. I was so upset I couldn't speak. We were in a foreign country, with the locals less than fond of our presence, and there was no way we would see our things again. We weren't in the US, where you can sue the hotel for stocking your minibar unproperly.
The hotel sent their Dominican Barney Fife up from the "security" department and he conducted a search of our room as well. He looked particularly uncomfortable sorting through my belongings, which amounted to mass quantities of lingerie and oversized T-shirts. After he left, I spent an inordinate amount of money to call home on my cell phone, and begged my father to fly a plane down here and remove me from the pit of hell into which we'd been cast. I truly believe he would have done this, except my mother talked some sense into us both and convinced me to go to sleep.
I couldn't fathom falling asleep in this room that had been burglarized. It was probably a staff member, and they had the ability to break in at any moment. This didn't seem to bother R, who drifted right off into a deep sleep. I, on the other hand, sat up with a flashlight in my hand (our room's electricity liked to blink on and off about 10 times a night), alternating between sobbing and blowing my nose. I don't know how I managed to go to sleep that night, but awoke the next morning with puffy eyes and a sick feeling in my stomach.
Finally, mercifully, it was our last day. My luggage, having just arrived the day before, was a welcome sight, and i must have brushed my teeth for a good twenty minutes, relishing the feeling of clean. We went to the front desk to check out, and they requested R go back to our room and bring them the lock from our room safe, which we obviously never used. They told him a fee would be applied if we did not bring it down before check out. With our flight departing in less than 2 hours, I argued in my best Spanish that they were lucky I wasn't setting the room on fire at this point, and that they could walk their own Dominican feet up there to collect the lock. The staff didn't budge, and R headed back to the room.
He returned looking pale and wide-eyed, as if he'd just seen something supernatural. Seeing as we were residing in Satan's lair, I feared the worst. "What happened?" I asked. He told me as he was walking back to the front desk, he crossed paths with a machete-wielding local who was cutting mangoes from the trees lining the path. R said the man looked at him, made the universal slash-across-the-throat gesture with his machete, and began to chase him, muttering in Spanish all the while. Thankfully, R is a fast runner, and soon lost the portly pirate in the tree-lined paths down to the front office. I prayed silent thanks as I embraced my husband. It was then that the shuttle to the airport pulled up to the curb, and I trampled a grandmother and multiple small children to get on the bus. It was time to get the heck out of here.
When we landed back in Atlanta, the first strains of English wafted to my ears, and again I cried, this time with happiness that I was back in the States. R and I drove home, back to our miniscule apartment, and unpacked my still-packed suitcase. As we laid in bed that night, he told me how sorry he was for the awful experience we'd had. He assured me he'd make it up to me.
We've had many wonderful vacations since that fateful trip to purgatory and back. We've been to Chicago, the beach, the mountains, and Gatlinburg, all amazing trips that gave us the memories we should have had our first year. But we have survived, and on July 12th, we will again celebrate the best day before the worst days of our lives. And yes, we can both laugh about it now, knowing that we are a Dr. Phil show waiting to happen. But please, do us a favor--be warned, and never, EVER, visit the website http://www.cheapcaribbean.com/. If you do, I assure you that you will return from your trip divorced, maimed, robbed, and ill, or some combination of the above. In this case, saving money just might cost you your life, or at the very least, your sanity.
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