Airport Madness

The next part was a blur. Thirteen point five hours of plane hopping: L.A. to Miami, Miami to Haiti, Haiti to Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe to Martinique. How could any reasonable human being expect their checked baggage to follow THAT trajectory? The other passengers gathered their belongings and filed out into that scorching beauty I could only just perceive through all those shiny glass doors and through my own mental fog. There I was, standing alone in the one-big-room Fort-de-France airport, watching the empty grey belt circle around and slowly come to a stop. No sign of my luggage. Now what? And that was the first time I saw José. Epic José. An animated, dark-haired, blue-eyed, clearly Spanish boy on the other side of those swooshing glass panels, peering in at me and giving me the first of many stiff-elbow, flexed-finger waves. Sylvie, the Martiniquan woman who would be in charge of me here, was right behind him, waiting with fisted hands on hips for confirmation that I was somewhere in there. When José turned and spoke to her, she too lit up with that genuine, motherly smile that I now know so well. Those two emanated confidence. I breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude, knowing I would be in good hands. …And now for speaking French…

José, the Spanish Language Assistant who works at my high school

Sylvie and me at a Christmas party at our house