Thank God!
Worst. Landing. Ever.
Damien just looks at me and laughs. My white-knuckled hand is clawing into his. If I hadn't bitten most of my nails off recently, he would be bleeding.
The plane taxis to the terminal. I breathe again.
"That wasn't normal!" I say.
"Actually it is," he says. "The only way to land here is to come in down low off the mountain top, then dip down into the valley while taking a hard left and descending onto the runway at the same time. It's rated one of the most difficult runways in the world."
"Well, isn't that just super-fucking-fun!"
He laughs.
The airport, such as it is, is nothing but a cluster of little brown cinderblock buildings.
A blast of heat hits us as we walk down a steep set of stairs to the blotchy tarmac below. No jetways here. Not surprised.
It's overcast and sputtering rain but hotter than hell. Even the raindrops are hot. We pick up our suitcases from a couple of guys unloading them onto carts right underneath the plane.
Fancy.
Then we walk right through customs without a word. We're on the street... well, slightly paved road... where Damien hails a taxi.
I don't recognize the car model. It's part-orange, part brown, and makes a noise as loud as the aircraft we just stepped away from.
I look longingly back at the plane, then get in the taxi with Damien. It smells like wet warthogs stewing in a pot of bat droppings. Not that I know what wet warthogs stewing in a pot of bat droppings smells like, but I'd bet it's something like this.
"Casa Pedro," says Damien to the driver, who turns up a large hill into the city.
Again, city is not the right word. Unless it was 1790. Then it would be a city. In today's terms it's more like a... mosaic of old buildings smashed tightly in together with little narrow streets in-between.
"No fans at the airport," I say loudly over the noise.
The car hits a pothole. We bounce hard.
"Holy shit!" I say.
"And this is one of the good roads," says Damien. "Yeah, I don't get fans down here. Kind of why I like the place. Nobody knows who I am. I can walk the streets in peace."
"Why is that?" I say.
"Most people here are too poor to own an iPod. Or even a computer. Life here is simple. It's work all day long, eat, sleep, then get up the next day and do it again."
"Sounds miserable."
"That's the part you may be surprised about."
The heat is unbearable. I thought Florida was hot, but this place is like being in a hot tub on the sun.
The taxi rises through a series of steep streets. The old part of the city is on a high hill overlooking a valley. Oddly, the air isn't any fresher up here.
"Can you speak Spanish?" Damien says to me in Spanish.
"A little," I say in Spanish. "Enough to get by. You sound good."
"Yeah, I'm pretty fluent. Just ask if you need anything translated."
The car stops on an old cobblestone street in front of a yellow building with brown stains all over it. Through windows without glass, I see people sitting at tables eating and drinking. Lots of loud talking and laughing.
"This is our hotel," he says.
My stomach churns a little.
"This?" I say. "I thought you said you have a place here."
"I do," he says with a smile. "This is it."
Before I can respond, a man rushes out to greet him. Short with balding black hair. About thirty-five. Pink shirt. Black pants and shoes. But the biggest happiest grin I've ever seen.
"My dear friend Damien!" he shouts in Spanish as he practically jumps up and down while hugging him.
"Pedro!" says Damien as he hugs him back. "My good friend! So good to see you! Pedro, this is Annika."
I put my hand out. Pedro takes it and kisses the back of it like they do in old movies.
"Welcome, Annika! You are now my best friend also! This man is a prince!"
Damien raises his eyebrows at me.
"Come in! Come in!" says Pedro.
I look up and around. The hotel is actually cute in a dirty sort of way, if that makes any sense. Little balconies look down at the street. There is a young couple standing on one. They wave at us. I wave back.
We walk into the lobby, which fronts the restaurant. Pedro gets our room key from a hook next to a row of mail slots. Just like in old movies. Didn't think such a place still existed anymore.
The strong cooking smell combined with the permeating heat should have made me sick, but instead I'm getting hungry. Smells really good.
Pedro takes us up to our room. Plain. One dresser. Tiny bathroom with the oldest toilet I've ever seen. An even older bathtub. Running water, thank God. Don't know how I would have survived without that.
I freshen up a bit, or at least attempt to. It may not be possible to truly freshen up in this place. I never thought I would long for Florida in the summer, but it's better than this.