Cancun Bust

After literally years of planning this trip (okay, more "we really should do this..." comments than actual planning) Katy and I finally had our girls-only vacation in Cancun. Unfortunately we had only one really good day of sunny weather and I got sick with a bad cold. I spent the majority of Cancun in bed while poor Katy roamed the hotel grounds alone (cue song "ALL BY MYSELF..."). Granted, there are way worse places on this planet to be either sick OR alone, and that one good day generated some pictures that will probably cause most of you to insist I quit my bitching. Truly it was a gorgeous paradise. The beaches were smooth white sand and the water an indescribable turquoise. Katy and I layed out on the beach under a wee grass hut sipping fruity alcoholic beverages brought to us regularly by super-sweet hotel staff. When the mood struck us for a change of scene we had the option of the giant jacuzzi with built-in tables and a swim up bar, one of three different pools - one of those also with a swim up bar and a D.J. who was fairly entertaining, especially after a good buzz, or roaming the hotel shops. Since I was Typhoid Karen pretty much right away we unfortunately skipped the grandiose plans we had for the trip like flirting with hot unknown men at dance clubs, parasailing, snorkeling, and visiting Mayan ruins. We consoled ourselves that this is an excellent excuse to go back some day. Our room was nice - lots of fancy pillows on the beds and marble floors and since it was an all-inclusive deal (check out Costco travel, man - we got an awesome deal for this trip!) we indulged in lots and lots and lots of decadent roomservice.

So while the local was gorgeous and beyond reproach, I was pretty sickly, snarfling and snorting and coughing and hacking, which, as you can imagine, was quite a turn-off to my loyal best friend and roommate, and we were both looking forward to coming home. The night before we left, the hotel across the way decided to engage in a project that involved seeing how loud their music would need to be in order for alien life forms to hear it on distant planets and want to come join the party. They finally gave up on this lofty goal around 2am, allowing Katy and me to get a few desperate hours of sleep before the airport shuttle picked us up.

Tip: if you go to Cancun, don't buy souvenier shit in the hotels. The airport has it all. And the tequila is CHEAP!!!

Katy boarded her flight and left without incident. In fact, she was lucky enough to get on an earlier flight after the shuttle service insisted on picking us up about a fortnight prior to our flight departures. I watched her plane go merrily on its way and then boarded my own plane. Which is when the real fun began!

We taxied to the runway as usual although we all started to notice it was uncomfortably warm in the plane. But whatever. It's like 90 degrees in Cancun so it's pretty uncomfortably warm in general unless you're in the ocean. But then the captain came on and said the aircon was broken, we couldn't fly to

Atlanta with it busted, and we were going to park it somewhere nearby the terminal and have the mechanics take a look. Which we did. For two hours. With no air conditioning. And

Mexico, in true one-step-behind-the-rest-of-the-world fashion, still wasn't allowing ANY liquids onboard, even those purchased in the airport. So to review: two hours, 90 degrees, 200 people, no water. Finally they showed mercy and let us off the plane where we waited in air conditioned but cigarette-smoke enfused comfort for another 2 hours until they figured out the problem and fixed the plane. And, no, there were no other flights they could put us on. So, about 5 hours after our scheduled departure, we finally left

Cancun in a plane whose fixed air conditioning, as if to make up for its slack, now kept the temperature hovering at a pleasant -20 degrees. Keep in mind I am slightly feverish at this point, short on sleep thanks to the UFO-party-seekers, fast running out of kleenex, dehydrated, and completely disgusting all the passengers around me with my typhoid cough. One woman actually got up and moved to another seat. (She was pretty obnoxious anyway and kept hitting me in the face with the shoulder strap of her bag, so I was pretty amused to scare her away.)Arrived in

Atlanta 9pm. Went through customs, claimed bags, re-checked bags, checked in at

Atlanta counter because of course my connecting flight had left ages ago. Last flight leaves 9:30pm. It is currently 9:20pm, and the flight, naturally, departs from another terminal. "What do I do?" I ask the scowling woman behind the counter while I'm trying to tug on my shoes after going through security. "Run," she dead-pans helpfully.So, coughing, snarfling, wheezing, and barefoot, I run. No - I sprint, putting those hours of treadmill experience to work. I get to the gate with 5 minutes to spare, but they've already sealed the gate. Federal Regulations state that they cannot let me on this plane. When the door's shut, it's shut. Opening it again would apparently cause a chain-reaction of events that would lead to nuclear war. Sorry. Bummer. Off you go. And please stop sweating all over our counter.I am sent to Delta customer service. At this point my voice is gone and I am pouring sweat. I stink like hell - I know it, I can smell it myself - after sweating on that Cancun runway for 2 hours and then sprinting through the airport. I haven't eaten since breakfast. And I am told that was the last flight to

Huntsville that night.In true I Am Woman Hear Me Roar fashion, I burst into hysterical tears that sounds like some sort of deranged donkey because of my hoarse, soar throat. I believe my tune went something like, "I want to go HOME I want to go HOME please please let me go HOME can't you see I'm SICK?!" But instead I was sent to a seedy Holiday Inn, left to wait for the shuttle in 32 degree weather with no coat and no luggage. Feeling more qualified than any person on earth (keep in mind all logical thought had been completely banished by my brain at this point) for a nice long bout of self-pity.But I made it to the Holiday Inn where I promptly called my husband and hee-haw-sobbed to him, who of course felt awful but could do nothing but spend his evening writing poisoned emails to Delta. I donned my Delta-bestowed t-shirt and climbed into bed, dozing now and then between coughing fits and waking at 7am to once again catch the shuttle back to the airport.

Upon arrival I discovered that my flight was - wait for it - delayed. This plane was broken too. An hour to an hour and a half.I was more broken than the plane, and reacted not at all to this news. I sat like a zombie at the gate, staring straight ahead, snorting, snarfling, coughing and driving away any chance to small talk with strangers (fine by me). And just as the terminal television announced the attempted hostile take-over of Delta by US Air, which brought the first smile to my face since the obnoxious woman changed her seat, they announced my flight was boarding.

And so... 25 1/2 hours after my ordeal began, I am home. In bed. Surrounded by soft kleenex and curled up with my doggie and awaiting the return of my husband who has gone out for reinforcements: more kleenex, orange juice and DVD's. And once again, all is right with the world. The End.