A four hour layover at Miami International Airport is kind of like a four hour layover in hell, only the people in hell can rationalize that "at least it's a dry heat". But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Let's start at the beginning, a very good place to start (at least in travelogues and Rogers and Hammerstein musicals).
Recently, the lovely Mrs. Boucher and I were blessed to win a free four day weekend in Jamaica through my work. As Judy and I are finding out over the course of several free trips, free trips are seldom free. Even though they didn't cost anything, we definitely earned those bad boys. This most recent trip started on a Friday morning with a 6 a.m. scheduled flight from Denver International to Dallas-Fort Worth. Upon arriving at D.I.A. we discovered that our flight had been changed to the same time on the following day. This was due to a whopping two inches of snow in Dallas. Snow is a proven detriment to southern travel and, in Dallas, also one of several possible harbingers of the apocalypse.
We told the nice gentleman at American Airlines that this would not work, as we would miss an entire day in Jamaica. After clicking around a little on his computer, he got us on an 8 a.m. flight to Miami with a connecting flight to Montego Bay at 6 p.m. Although somewhat chagrined at having got up at 3 a.m., we were happy with the knowledge that we would be in Jamaica by 8 p.m. We spent the next three hours at D.I.A. reading, consuming stimulants, and playing "real or fake" (an easy game requiring only vain, tight-shirted, resort bound women and time to kill).
After an uneventful four hour flight we arrived at Miami International at 2 p.m. local time. By the way, there is a one-of-a-kind humid that can apparently only be found at Miami International. Ten minutes after arriving, I had already lost three pounds, and that was just on my undercarriage. M.I.A. rates a "Satan's butt crack" on my uncomfortable humidity scale.
We decided to have a leisurely lunch and call the shuttle service at the Montego Bay airport to make sure they would still be running when we arrived in Jamaica. We left the cell phones at home anticipating federal-deficit-type charges for international cell phone calls, so we needed to find a pay phone. Funny; Miami doesn't look like a one horse town at first glance, but just try to find a pay phone at Miami International. Walking off of the jet way, one practically trips over the Mojito bar, but an odyssey of Ulyssian proportion is necessary to find a pay phone.
After having finally determined that the service would be running no matter how late we came in, we suddenly became aware of a disturbing trend. We went back to the seating area near our gate. Glancing up at the departure screen, I noticed our 6:05 departure time had suddenly become 6:35. I settled into my book, wondering whether Augusten Burroughs would indeed stay sober, while Judy tucked into a Robert Ludlum novel starting with the word "The". After hearing the same stories about Hillary and Barack for the tenth time on a continuous loop on CNN, we decided to stretch our legs and strolled to an airport concession shop for some yogurt and water.
When we arrived back at our gate, our departure time had changed again to 7:05. It was at this point that we decided that even at the risk of soiling ourselves, we would not be getting up again. A sudden burst of inspiration exploded within me, born of the desire to escape the airport. It came in the form of a song, sung to the tune of the African spiritual, "Go Down Moses" and is related to you now as follows:
When the Boucher's were at M.I.A., let my Boucher's go.
They want to go to Montego Bay, let my Boucher's go.
Go down Boucher's, way down in F-L-A,
Tell ol' American A to let my Boucher's go.
Seven o'clock was rapidly approaching and our plane had not started boarding. Our plane, in fact, had not yet arrived. Apparently, in addition to the weather Dallas was experiencing, there were also tornadoes in northern Florida. All in all, an interesting travel day in the southeast. A voice came over the intercom in the fearful and uncertain cadence of a person delivering bad news saying, "Um... the plane that will be taking American Airline passengers to Montego Bay will be arriving at 8:05 and after a short turn around to clean and prep the plane we hope to be taking off at about 8:30."
At this point, Judy was overcome and was certain, in fact, that Jamaica no longer existed.
"We might as well turn around and go home. We'll never get there."
I decided drastic measures were in order. I walked quietly over and sat next to Judy. I nudged her shoulder with mine, looked deep into her eyes, and burst into song.
Just what makes that little ol' ant; think he can move a rubber tree plant? Anyone knows an ant, can't, move a rubber tree plant. But he's got hiiiigh hopes. He's got hiiigh hopes. He's got high in the sky, apple pie hopes. So any time your feeling down, keep that smile don't frown, just remember that ant. Whoops there goes another rubber tree, whoops there goes another rubber tree, whoops there goes another rubber tree plant.
Just like that, the world was right again. Judy smiled, strangers looked at me as though they would be open to harming me given the chance, and the heavily accented American Airlines gate person reported that the plane had arrived.
"Just allow us a few minutes to deboard and clean the plane, and then we will start boarding."
Almost in unison, several people in the crowd shouted back, "We'll take it dirty". Funny, usually uttering these three words has a much different result at any other time in Miami International. Finally, at nine o'clock, we were airborne and bound for Jamaica. After landing and going through immigration, we boarded the shuttle for Ocho Rios at midnight.
"Feel free to run some red lights", I said as we embarked. With that, we were flying down dark Jamaican roads at speeds heretofore unseen in Toyota commercial shuttles and passing other cars with margins of safe clearance that would make a NASCAR driver load his shorts. Soon, we were barreling towards a red light and blew right through it. "Yea, mon!" I screamed with school girl glee. As the firelight flickered and winked at our shuttle from the roadside shanties, we flew down the road with the alternating scents of burning wood and salty sea air. As the darkness of the early morning and the scenes of dreadlocked party goers slowly muddled together, we drifted into sleep.
We awoke shortly after one in the morning just before arriving at our resort. We checked in and quietly made our way to our room. Quietly, that is, discounting our conversation with the wildly inebriated Canadian we met at the desk. He was a nice enough guy, just lit to the point of being five times louder than he thought he was and about five times less charming. He asked for our room number and I immediately responded "216" muttering a silent prayer that if that room did indeed exist, it's patron would forgive me. We were finally in our room by 1:45 a.m. We were immediately concerned when we found our eyeballs were sweating.
"Hello, is this the desk? Yes? Our air conditioning is not working. Okay. Thanks."
Two fifteen. What's in the mini bar?
"Yes. We called about thirty minutes ago. Yes: still no air conditioning."
Two twenty-five. The maintenance man was finally there and fixing the contact on the sliding doors that was keeping the heavenly brisk air from cradling my moist stinking body. It seems the proprietors of the resort don't want the air on when the door is open. Jeez, if I wanted to be fathered in Jamaica I would have brought my dad. Two thirty, and we were finally asleep after a twenty-two hour travel day.
In the end, it was worth it. We awoke at about eight the next morning, and took a walk on the beach. After about thirty minutes we were offered the opportunity to buy a dead starfish and some weed; by the same guy no less. We hadn't been in Jamaica seven hours, and already someone was trying to sell us pot. I wonder if they have an airline.