Cuba Part Seven: Finale

Airport day. Final day. Home day. Heady day.

Having crammed my stuff into my bag for the final time (yes, souvenirs have filled the space created by previous cleansing of possessions), I shower and quite possibly take a naked photo of myself- for myself- to remind only me of just how tanned I am and how tanned I probably never again will be.

A mix-up in translation (or was it?..) means that the house is empty at the time that I need to leave and so I am not able to say goodbye to Roberto. Rather guilitily and very trustingly, I leave cash on the dining room table for the amount I estimate my bill to be, along with a hasty note and a mug with the queen's face on to sweeten the deal.

Sidenote: upon leaving the UK in January, I somehow thought it was a very good idea to take all sorts of typically English souveniers with me on my travels to give as gifts to anyone who might be kind to me along the way. Perhaps I carried too many, or perhaps I didn't meet enough kind people, but either way- 6 months later, after countless bumpy bus rides and treks (I really should count how many) there still remained one, sad looking yet pristine and UNBROKEN china mug. With Queen Lizzy on. And so for all his nervous titters it could only be destined for Roberto. Job done.

Keys... on the table. Door closed; good job there are no burglars in Cuba. And just like in the picture films, as I stepped out of the house a crash of lighting and thunder erupted, drenching me for the first time since Costa Rica.

TAXI AMIGA? SI! And how much to the airport? $20. $15. $15 and I bring a friend? Oh why the hell not. Andres the driver, fat Louis and I trundle off out of town through the storm. I notice a rusty hole in the floor through which I can see the road turning into a river, but not before I realise that 1950s cars were not really designed with rain in mind: the windscreen wipers barely make a dent. Andres sticks his head out the side to see the road ahead and fat Louis holds the wheel. I do not assume I won't live to make the airport because somehow missing planes is only a plausible fear through the panic of being late, as I often am. Fat Louis is dropped off somewhere slightly sketchy, we do a U-turn and Andres and I continue the journey in silence. I am glad to have met the only introverted taxi driver in Cuba.

And suddenly it's all over. As soon as I am inside the airport, I hit reality. The queue for Virgin Atlantic check-in is already lined with Brits smelling of expensive after-sun and all-inclusive deals. I am stared at. Possibly because I am soaked through, possibly because I am wearing hiking boots, once- white shorts and an enormous, sandy Panama hat. I have had a VERY different trip to these people.

I am stared at even more once I reach the front of the queue and am told that my bag is 8kg overweight. I consider paying the fee but then realise that I could just take out some of the many bottles of rum I stuffed in there- each only costing a couple of pounds each. As I contemplate this, my passport is taken from one person and given to another, who walks off with it... I am barked at to move to the side.

Just at that moment, I see a couple in the queue behind me who I recognise- an Italian lady and her English boyfriend, who Stefan and I met in the scary cave when on our pony-trek. It is possibly the first time I see them in daylight and so I take a moment to realise, but they wave at me and offer to carry some of my things through to London for me. I laugh in the face of customs regulations and hand them a bottle of rum.

Meanwhile, my body is layered with clothing and my bag is repacked under the watchful eyes of what feels like EVERYBODY in Cuba. I am irritable now, for several reasons and I snap at a snooty Brit couple just back from their all-inclusive 5-star that "I hope you enjoyed the show!" Now I am just another queuer outside of the queue with no passport. I am told by another member of airport staff who seems to be dressed in Basil from Faulty Towers' cast-offs that I need to move out of the way. I ask him where the bloke went with my passport but he is already walking away. I march up to the front of the 1st class queue and tell them that:
          "I want my bloody passport back bloody RAPIDO. Would somebody please tell me where my PASSPORT IS for F-" *ding!*
The little man in the first-class booth rings his little Faulty Towers bell.
          "I WANT TO SPEAK TO-" *ding!* "FIDEL CASTRO-" *ding!*
And suddenly my passport appears. I rejoin the queue, my bag is now 1kg over the limit, which is gratefully ignored and I am free to while away my final free hours in a state of semi-drunken misery.

The departure gates are essentially one room with a bar and smoking area popped in the middle: this is where I park myself in the company of the Italian-British couple and a few beers. Turns out the idiots put my rum-bottle gift in their hand luggage (duh) and consequentially made two security guards' day. Our flight is delayed. We make ourselves comfortable.

Suddenly, a tiny little man is grabbing me by the arm and telling us to "hurry up and get on the plane" because everyone is waiting for us! Oh.

I am THAT person- the very last one on the plane, most probably recognised by everyone for my earlier antics at the check-in desk. And as luck would have it, I am seated next to the couple which I "hoped enjoyed the show". Nevertheless, I have had a solid dinner of beer, and the rush of alcohol, nerves and excitement which runs through me allows far too much chatty conversation to seep out of my mouth. I think I tell them that the reason I am late is because of the beer and the beer is because of the nerves and the nerves are because of the whole going-home-after-6-months-thing. Snooty male sits in silence, fiddling with his earphones and refusing to make eye contact. Snooty female says:
      "Mmm, gap years. You must be ready to go home. Everyone gets home-sick after 6 months."
      I say: "No, actually, I don't tend to get homesick..."
       She says, in a rather nasty tone: "You only say that because you're going home to your mum"
I consider telling her that my mum is DEAD or that I have two dads, but that would be both incorrect and immoral. She proceeds to rant a bit about gap years and how she didn't get to travel on a plane until she was 19. Snooty male speaks up: "No offence or anything, but there are two free seats in front. So you could move. Or something."

I move.

And we're taking off. This is it- this one of the moments I had romantically envisaged to be oh-so poignant and emotionally charged. And it is emotional. I wish Snooty couple were not here so that I could have a good old blub, but the blub doesn't come until sometime in the night when I'm alone and uncomfortable and not sleeping. In reality, this moment is not a film-moment. I don't look out of the window and watch the ground fizzle away. I sit there a little numbly- partly from alcohol but mostly because I'm just not sure how to feel or what I should be thinking.

Dinner comes- I order wine and listen to an incredibly camp air-steward stereotype argue with snooty couple that "I'm telling you now, if you'll just sit and LISTennn, that I do NOT have you marked down on my list for a vegan meal. I'm sorrrrrayyy, but that's just how it is". I am on the Snooties' side, actually- the air stewards are incredibly rude on this flight and I fully intend to write a complaint letter to Richard Branson.

I spend a very long time skipping through film lists and eventually settle on 'Argo'- I need something serious and no nonsense. Nothing too sappy that will encourage emotion. No time or space for that now. I drift in and out of half-naps. I dream of Mexico.

And suddenly it's morning. Half morning- Atlantic morning. A confused morning spent chasing the sun after not enough night. There is turbulence. I drop a contact lense. I somehow find it. I listen to more air stewards argue with more passengers and I make my way to the queue for the toilet. I am actually brushing my teeth when turbulence rocks the plane harder and the seat-belt warning comes on. Plane crash or no plane crash- a full bladder would make things even more uncomfortable.

There is a frantic banging on the door.
    "Coming," I call, but head steward is UNimpressed and shouts through the door with tones similar to those I image used by particularly agitated midwives:
      "Is somebody in there??!!! Get out!! Get out NOW!"
I am pulling up my knickers and trying my best not to fall in or smack my head on the rolling ceiling, but it is just not quick enough. She is going to kick the door in, I fear, and fall out of the cubicle with all the mercy of a passenger scorned. She is still shouting about seat-belt regulations, she has referred to me as "young lady", and pardon my expression, but I am about to lose my shit:

"Do you have a PROBLEM, madam?! There is absolutely no reason for the attitude. You've been rude for the duration of the flight, I'm incredibly tired and forgive me but even if the plane was upside-down,  I STILL WOULDN'T COME OUT OF THE BATHROOM WITH MY KNICKERS AROUND MY ANKLES. ALRIGHT?!" - No exaggeration.

She is bleating like a sheep but I've already walked away and sat down. "WHAT?!" I heave at the Snooties.

The plane is landing and London is zooming in towards my window. I am becoming conscious as I imagine a comatose patient would. My thoughts are on getting home, getting some sleep. Will my parents make a scene at the airport? Will my dogs remember me?

I'm walking out of Arrivals. They're both there- the first thing I see: my mom in orange, my dad in lurid blue. Did they do this on purpose? Hellos, "wow, look at your hair!" Yes, I too am colourful. "Cup of tea for the road?"

And everything is exactly as it was. I step out of the airport and into reality. The funny thing is, whilst I write this... 3? months after it happened, I remember these details clearer than yesterday. Yet after the airport- it's all a blur. Normality, which doesn't seek the attention of a blog, but which was no doubt made that bit more colourful to wake up to.