Travel -- most people say how wonderful it is. And it is...once you get off the plane. Few people speak about the insanity that occurs BEFORE you arrive at the final destination. The trip started off with a jaunt to Toronto and an over-night, allowing me the pleasure of waking up at 2:30am for a flight, to be leaving 2 hours later. Happily, the two hours were needed to figure out what to do and where to go at the airport. While obtaining my bearings, I passed a couple enduring what seemed to experiencing a hint of Travelese. A man, his presumed wife, and a child were sitting on the floor, far away from seats -- for there were none to be found. The wife was admonishing the poor man with decibels only closely matched by the din of airplane engines. I say, "the poor man" because no one likes to be inconvenienced at an airport, even if it is their fault.

Proceeding to the security checkpoint, I waited, with due patience, in a lengthy queue, often seeming like more of a place to stand around and hang out than an actual progressing line. Upon arrival at the security gate, my friendly security guard asked for my boarding pass. "I have this," I said, displaying my airline ticket.
"That's a ticket. I need the boarding pass."
"I don't have one of those. Do I have to go back and get one?"
"Yes."
Just when I thought I was making progress.

Air Canada has these cool computer terminals that allow one to obtain a boarding pass without waiting in insane lineups to speak to a person. Just put some kind of credit card or flyer card into the machine (just to identify who you are) confirm your seating and it prints out the boarding pass! Could you ask for anything more gratifying? (at an airport, I mean). Well, this wasn't Air Canada taking me to the Punta Cana. It was Air Transat. A special feature of Air Transat is that they allow you to stand in yet another long line waiting to obtain a boarding pass. This was great, because just after I got out of this line and felt the splendour of freedom of lines, I was directed to the security gates for Air Transat (a different gate than I originally had entered; perhaps this boarding pass thing has its advantages). Well, long story short, I had passed the Line o' Insanity and entered into the terminal area. Due to my wanderings, I had arrived just in time for boarding to begin. Sweet! While it took a paragraph for the reader to experience these wanderings, it took two hours of walking and waiting.

The flight to Punta Cana lasts approximately four hours. It flew by(pardon the pun). Arriving in Punta Cana with a winter parka is a strange sensation, rest assured. I was greeted with another line that was quite a joy. The arrivals are met with a band at the security kiosk. They played a style of music that was upbeat, but not saccharine; very tight, but quite free-form. The sound was of the same quality of a studio recording, but echoed with the spirit of live playing. It was wonderful to listen and watch. Of course, I tipped them.

From Punta Cana, I was delivered, by bus, to the final destination: Gran Dominicus. On the way, I was treated to the real Dominican Republic. Currently, much of Dominican Republic is mired in what we would call poverty. Many houses are made of corrugated metal, though there are a number of houses that look like they took a lot of work and are very comely. Dominican Republic's history can be summed up in a few words: shameful. Five hundred years ago, it was home to over a million peaceful dwellers; people who were so peaceful, they saw no need to create weapons. Mind you, this covered the entire island. Currently, Dominican Republic occupies two thirds of an island called Hispaniola; Haiti covers the other third. They had no arrows, no spears, no thoughts of violence in mind. Then the Spanish came and wiped them down to 500, making certain to keep enough of them around as slaves for labour. Imagine seeing everyone and everything you know vanish just...because. Then the French came and sparred with the Spaniards, took some of the Dominican Republicans. Haiti was created amidst the brouhaha. Eventually, centuries later, a native of the island became as corrupt as the people who came to conquer the people and managed his way up the political and financial ladder. Basically, he kept the country in ruins while amassing a fortune of his own. When he was assassinated in 1961 (on his way back from his mistress's, no less), he had amassed a fortune of $500 million. Keep in mind, this isn't paper money. This is real money that could immediately be accounted for. So cherished was this day, that the day of his assassination is considered a national holiday in the Dominican Republic. It has only been in the past 10 years that a real sense of leadership has been presented to the country. For these reasons, it is no wonder people in the Dominican Republic live in the existing conditions. It is their spirit, however, that allows them to exist with such contentment and acceptance. Poverty is a relative term; when you have food, water, and shelter, why would anything else matter when you are content?

Well, far away from the contentment of corrugated metal, I had been dropped off at Gran Dominicus. The first order of business was: shoes. It turns out that in my carefully planned packing, I had remembered not to include shoes. Strange, that. On the resort, there weren't too many options for footwear, so I bought a pair of sandals. They were just ducky. Light. Low-maintenance. Cheap. I think I'll keep them forever.

The first thing that should be noted is how there was life everywhere. Butterflies (en espanol: mariposa) are everywhere. Everywhere! They fly around you as if to say, "Hey, let's be friends!" In fact, even the people who work there are like this. I was reading a book, not paying attention to anyone or thing, when a fellow I had previously met, comes up to me. "Juaaaaan!" he says. "Como esta?" That's the way they are. They seem to always be enjoying themselves -- at the very least, when they're at work. Nothing forces them to say hi to someone who doesn't see them, to someone who isn't buying anything from them.

The second thing that should be noted is that very few people there speak English at all. Most of my conversations revolved around rudimentary English and even more rudimentary Spanish (my Spanish-speaking abilities have much to be desired, trust me). This, however, afforded me a vacation of peace; of little interruption.

By 7pm (5 pm CST), I was feeling quite drained. I retired to my room and enjoyed the provisions of satellite television and a king-sized bed. Ah, sweet television; it can be your friend in such times of fatigue. The early waking hours and slight difference of time back home (two hours) created a bit of sleep-disorientation, thus I had awoken by about 3 or 4 am. In my strolls throughout the community, I chanced upon a type of bird I hadn't seen again for the duration of the trip. I suppose it was a nocturnal creature of sorts. At any rate, he and I exchanged words of greetings for a short period, then I went on my business. At this latitude, when the moon misses its various quarters, they start missing from the top going down, as opposed to the side. It looks like a cookie. As well, the constellation, Orion, is pretty much horizontal throughout its rise and fall. Eventually, I strolled back to my room. All was quiet in paradise. One could scarcely ever observe a more sense of peace.

The second day provided material for what was to become my routine: Get up, prepare for the day (including spending a good 15-20 minutes applying SPF30), go get breakfast, lie down by the pool and read for a while, go swimming, lie down by the beach, go swimming in the ocean, go back to the pool, read, go for lunch, go back to the pool, go back to the room, read or watch television while writing/reading, eventually head for supper, sit down with the crowd by the pool, head back to the room, read and/or watch movies, sleep, awake. What a strange feeling, at first, sitting in a social scene where you are the only person who speaks a certain language and no other. Initially, one feels an enormous sense of segregation; it is one thing to be alone during the day when everyone is doing their thing, quite another to be among others and still not talk to anyone. After the second day, acclimation sets in. Still...

By the end of the second day, I was prepared to return home. It's not that I wished to; it was that I felt entirely rejuvenated. It felt more like a convalescence than a vacation, which is not to undermine the pleasures derived from the time spent; quite the opposite. By the end of the week, it felt like I was there for a month. This place is paradise. I wasn't able to awake before 9am. Food was waiting for me when I finally made it out of my room; waiting for me, that is, amid a sun-basked island. Few people interrupted my reading (for they could not converse in my language. You see the benefits of being the strange one on the resort). While eating lunch, birds flew freely around, occasionally landing on a chair across from you, looking your way, as if to say, "Hello!" That, or "Gimme foooood!" Either way, it was nothing less than enchanting.

In the evenings, by the poolside, there was a fellow who played music with his synthesizer. He had the sound of an entire band with him, but played only one instrument live. He also sang. These were lounge tunes, mind you, and they fit so well with the environment. "Grazie", he would say, if the audience applauded (sometimes with a boastful two-hands' worth). Strolling down the path at night, one encounters a rather large toad quite often. It doesn't move out of the way. It just sits there, unconcerned with your presence and, frankly, waits for you to remove yourself from the vicinity, thankyouverymuch.

If you've never read Bill Bryson, you absolutely must. This man deserves a medal for something to do with a) humour b) high level of thought c) wit or d) all of the above. Few, if any, can encapsulate thoughts or situations as he can. When I was first told of Bill, I thought, "Okay, so he's some guy who writes about his travels and he's funny? Hrm... " Sceptically, I read one of his books, Neither Here Nor There and I've never looked back in disappointment. I've had difficulty restraining my laughter in public places; gallons of tears of laughter have parted these eyes. Such was the case as was sitting by the hottub below a clear-blue sky, nearing sunset. So uncontrolled, was I, that an Italian couple approached me and asked what I was reading. One cannot adequately describe something that is exceedingly funny, beyond saying, "This is exceedingly funny!" I'm telling you, the man is nothing less than brilliant on so many levels. Virtually any of his books are great reads. If you want a sampler, pick up Neither Here Nor There. Trust me. Just do it. Now.

It was just as I was finishing reading a chapter of Bryson's, The Lost Continent, that I turned to notice the sun setting on the Atlantic Ocean. Being a prairie boy, sunsets in the ocean have always proven to be somewhat elusive. Thus, this first ocean sunset of mine, I beheld this fascinating event. The sunset, on first view, isn't a simple matter of wonderous colours brushed upon the sky; it is seeing the sun absolutely diminish to nothingness. It is like seeing something come to its natural end; something of a death of someone close to you. But you know it isn't dying. You know it will come back in the morning, with the cacophany of the hee-hawing and cock-a-doodle-dooing. Yet one does feel an absence upon seeing this dwindling of our light source; of our heat source. With ambivalence, I bid adieu and headed to the pool bar to stuff my gaping maw with goodies. Nature hates a vacuum. If I couldn't have the sun, I'd certainly have my with food.

One of the Dominicans I spoke with -- Antonio -- was familiar with Winnipeg, remembering it from the Pan Am games in 1999. He had a friend partake of the games. I'm not sure how well he did, but there was much excitement over the whole matter. I should say. This fellow wanted to learn to speak English, so he beckoned me to converse, which I didn't mind in the least. While the pay there wasn't much to write home about -- he lived about 1/2 hour away, mind you -- the people he worked with were great. I tried to tell him that I've been on both sides of such matters and, while I enjoy the best of both worlds now, when confronted with the option of working in a nice place versus getting paid well, always take the nice place. Sanity shouldn't have a price. The pay was so low, he said, that university was difficult to afford, if not impossible. I told him of the story of someone I know who had vast capacity to excel, but could not finish university due to funding. You can call the nation poor, but it seems to me the situations are very similar. One hundred fifty feet away, there was another cheerful lad -- Frederico -- who tried to teach me the ways of Dominican women ("Tell them you love them," was his advice. I told him I would give the matter due consideration). His situation was that he was, indeed, in university taking courses accelerated courses in math, biology and such. He will go far, I have no doubts. While he was, at most, 21 years old, he had the air of someone who knew what he wanted and the idea of not achieving it did not exist. Cheers to that.

You'd think in a place that offered multiple tennis courts, tennis instruction and the use of tennis rackets would allow one to play, wouldn't you? Here's the rub: you need shoes. Anything else isn't allowed. Boots perhaps, but let's get real. The sad fact of the matter was that the only shoes I had were dress shoes and the newly-acquired sandals. I felt quite comfortable in said sandals and insisted it would not be a problem to kick the instructor's chicken-behind in my sandals. Sadly, there was protocol to follow and the ramifications involved his employment. I wasn't about to push the matter. Life is rough, eh?

Throughout my entire life, I have never been able to float in water. I took swimming lessons, in which a period of time was devoted to Floating Lessons. The fruition from these lessons was simple affirmation of my inability to mimic a floating device. Here, in the Dominican, I discovered that the floating part of me came from the back of my head. While looking upwards, my legs would sink to the bottom first, then my head would follow, slowly. If I, laying at the bottom of the pool, turned around, facing down, my head would float back up; my feet, however, remained dormant. Now, we go to the ocean. As I was admiring the wonderous sea of sky above me, and its feathery cirrus clouds, I realised I was atop the water and was not projecting myself along to remain afloat. In fact, I was quite still, remaining buoyant, even as the waves passed. For the first time in my life, I was floating! People can talk about the ill-effects of the abundance of salt all they want. It will always be in my good books. Salt in the ocean allowed me to float and there shall be no more discussion on the matter. Good day.

Floating -- figuratively speaking -- with giddiness, I later took to using the facilities (these are needed even in paradise). Upon entering the men's (well.... where else?) room, I was surprised to see someone waiting. These are cubicle-only rooms, but this is the first time I had seen anyone in the room, let alone the makings of a lineup. I had a song of one of the wonderful meringue tunes I had heard recently going through my head, and whistled a quick little passage. Soon, he whistled a quick passage of his own. I whistled back and before you knew it... we stopped. No dualling-whistling here. Ah! At last, the melody of a flushing commode. The door had opened and out came... Minnie Driver? A woman was here, in our -- the men's -- biffy just as casual as can be. Well... no arguments here. She looked JUST LIKE Minnie Driver. She wasn't, mind you, but she could have easily been. Wordlessly, looklessly, she strolled to the sink, where I was stationed, washed those dainty hands and searched for a means of dispensing the towel in the container above the sink. She searched with her hands and mind, one could tell, and was filled with uncertainty. How does one acquire towel from this seeming towel dispenser? My question is: Exactly what sort of instrumentation exists in the women's bathroom? I reached over, very casually, and pressed down the lever once, twice, many times again. As she saw the towel eject, she let out, with a smile, "Graaaaaaazie!" Any time, Minnie. It was at this time where her apparent boyfriend, the fellow-whistler, came out from the cubicle. He tried to help out with the towel dispenser, but she caught on by now. Ha. Chump. He may get to spend day and night with this woman, but I saved her day. Let this be a lesson.

My last full day there, I decided I would not waste it on filling it with activities, trying to make up for the time I would not be spending there. Instead, I continued to do what I had been doing all week, with even more perseverence: relax. Spending the entire morning and part of the afternoon by the beach and pool, I wandered over to a spot I had not yet experienced: the hottub. Ah, sweet hottub. The first time I discovered one was in Calgary, three years ago. I found an indoor swimming pool, approached to pay the fee and was informed that there would be no swimming available for another three hours; lessons were being given to children. "However," they said, interrupting my descent into utter disappointment, "you may use the steam room and hottub." Uncertain, I accepted this compromise and discovered the pure heaven of a hottub. For those who haven't experienced such a thing -- I know there are not many who haven't -- it is something one would never imagine existed on this plane of existence. How could this exist all this time without my awareness?! There was a sign near the tub warning the users not to sit in the tub for more than 15-20 minutes, else suffer the ill effects of prolonged heat and water. Well, nuts to that, I say. I spent a good 45 minutes to an hour in there and wouldn't take back a minute. So, here I was, in the Dominican Republic, on a hot afternoon, and about to encounter a hottub. Watching the bubbles effervesce, there was little I could do to contain my excitement. Carefully, lowering my feet into the heated bliss and felt the ostensibly hot water, which, in reality, turned out to be, at best, somewhere between cold and luke-warm. Well, okay... it wasn't the bliss I was expecting. But the water bubbled! Oh, did it bubble. I found myself swimming around the expansive bubble-tub, once in a while popping my head up, lest I ram my head into unsuspecting feet entering the forum. And then she came. Minnie. Minnie Driver in her bathing suit was preparing a seat that was right beside mine, all while I was swimming festively in the bubbletub. Eventually, I got up and walked to my seat. It was at this point Minnie had decided that sitting next to a stranger, albeit a stranger who saved her day with the towel dispenser the other day, would not improve her lot with her boyfriend, sitting a few seats away. Thus, my brush with Minnie was fleeting, though exceedingly profound. It was at that point that I could have seen a nuclear bomb land ten feet away from me and thought, "Everything is just fine." Paradise, bubbletub and Minnie Driver. Everything else is just icing.

The last evening I was there was the only evening I actually indulged in a seated dinner; a real dinner. A dinner that would take care of all four food groups and leave me unquestionably sated for hours to come. It took reservations to achieve this, you see, and I was not about to get into a conversation, using my expertise in limited Spanish. This day, however, I was approached and asked if I wished to partake. Of course, I'm not one to refuse food, so I accept with much gusto and, yes, with poco Espanol (translation: little Spanish). At 8:00 pm, I approached the restaurant, dressed to the comparative nines. The hostess lead me to my table and there I sat, content, waiting to be serviced. Soon, the hostess appeared again and, with a smile, said, "Sir, this is a buffet." Ah ha! I was to help myself. I was to help myself. This is not a foreign concept for this writer; it was, however, an entirely different environment I was in, apart from the usual restaurant, wherein I indulged in the buffet. With much reservation, I meandered to the fore, where the dishes lay. Again, the shortcoming of my inability to speak any other language but English created even more uncertainty. Should I get what everyone else is getting? What if I don't like it? What if I picked something up and was approached by the hostess, in her thick, Spanish accent, "Sir, you may not have any of those to eat. Those are purely for decoration." What if I got some Coke and was approached by, say, the chef. "Fool! Vat do you sink yew ahr doink?!" It was all too much. Then I saw someone cooking some stuff by the buffet. "Can I get what that guy is cooking? No one else is asking him for any. Why is the head chef yelling at the guy who is cooking? Should I not even be looking at the pan? Does the chef want no one to have a thing to do with it? Should I go back to my table? "Grazie", I said, as the chef finished his frenetic speech and looked around. He mumbled something and looked at me quizzically. Basically, I filled up with what others were eating, going back to the line slowly, discerning what was edible and what was allowed (it turns out, everything was quite fine to indulge in). I did not DARE think to eat the desserts they had lain out. These things were uber-decadent. I had never seen such desserts that were meant to be eaten and not just stared at with endless desire. It was only when I saw a few people walk by with these most savoury pieces of art that I was convinced they were, indeed, awaiting our devouring. Walking home, I was pleased I had been given the opportunity to eat at one of the restaurants in the evening. It was dark and I could see my favourite constellation, Orion. I passed the people by the pool bar (my usual place du diner), the cool lounge music, the immovable toads, the oft-greeted, "Ciao!" by the passing, very friendly Italians. Ciao, apparently, means hello as well as goodbye. It is a warm salute. I went to bed, packed everything and awaited my 4:30CST awakening time.

Just when you think you're ready to go home and everything is underway, getting a call informing you the plane that will be taking you off the island is three hours late puts a different perspective on matters. I managed to strike up some nice conversations while I waited for the bus to pick me up, though time did tend to drag. By 11:00 am, the bus arrived and I was on my way. Joy! Yes... joy. Little did I realise a lineup that would last 1.5 hours was awaiting me. 1.5 hours of waiting in a hot, hot voluminous edifice. After dealing with the cheerful clerk, I received by boarding pass and went off to the security lineup. Ah, sweet lineups. If not for them, how could we possibly gauge sanity? The beautiful thing about the security lineup is that I got to be an ear to a conversation involving three Germans: two males and a female. I had no idea what they looked like or how old they were, but the phonics of German were so tender to the ear. Some call German very rough, but I do not see how this can be. It is a lovely language. I wish I could speak it. Or at least just listen to it. Perhaps I could speak it so I could listen to it. I think I'm on to something here. After passing through the metal detectors, I collected my stuff and the Germans were being held up by a temperamental metal detector. I turned around and saw the female German. She was a woman of Amazonian proportions, and I could not mean this in a more positive way. Tall, lengthy wavy hair, soft complexion yet strong build, she was a figure to reckon with. "I'd rather be getting on the plane with you than these dummkopfs." she said to me, smiling. Actually, I had no idea what she said to me. It was in German. Still... I think we had a moment. "Ja," I said to her (that's German for "yes", incidentally), smiled and made my way to more utter confusion. The plane I eventually boarded was nice. The children sitting beside, in front and behind me, however, were not so accommodating. They cried and/or screamed the whole way. It was perfect, if your name happened to be Satan and you were viewing one of the latest torturous methods as presented by your demons. "Look, master! Do you see the look in this mortal's face?" "Excellent work, my demon!" Did you know that there is a law in place that enforces the sedation of all children under 5 when boarding planes? Well... there should be. Getting off the plane, collecting baggage and boarding the Air Canada plane in Toronto to head back to Winnipeg was as faultless as humanly possible. Perfection. I sat down on the aisle seat, got out my book on anecdotes from Oliver Sacks and awaited departure. Three hours later, the plane left. THREE HOURS. I won't go into detail, but suffice to say, we were all rather stunned when the plane actually landed in Winnipeg. "Is this a dream? Are we still sleeping?" we all asked ourselves simultaneously and collectively. It wasn't, and we were in Winnipeg and it was 2:30am, 22 hours after I had awoken.

To summarise: Traveling by planes with connecting flights suck, the arrivals rule, and everyone should go to the Dominican Republic. It is beyond description. Unt naechstes Mal wenn ich das deutsche Amazon sehe, nehme ich definitiv jene anderen dummkopfs heraus.

Thanks for reading. :) Also see: The People and The Place. Or go back to The Beginning