I’m not a natural traveler. I have traveled a significant amount in my lifetime, but I’ve never learned to do it particularly well. I over pack. When you’re going somewhere for three to four weeks, you never know what you’re going to need, and when you’re working the whole time, you really don’t want to show up to the office in the same outfit every day. So I bring ¾ of the contents of my closet and all the wrong shoes, so nothing ever matches properly. I also invariably wind up with a carry on bag that weighs the equivalent of several bars of gold, and it is without wheels ‘cause I hate those things. No matter how convenient they are, everyone looks like a traveling salesman with them. We won’t address the grown women who are pushing overstuffed luggage adorned with Hello Kitty, let’s just say they shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, let alone out of the country.

Yesterday’s trip from Los Angeles to Montego Bay, via Miami, was a long one. Thanks to terrorists and the TSA I spent the better part of an hour in a line waiting to take my shoes off and get wanded by a bored looking woman in latex gloves. I couldn’t help but think, fuck the Swine Flu, if I get athletes foot I’m suing the Department of Homeland Security. Watching the other passengers try to patiently wait for the person in front of them to take off all the layers of outer garments, remove their laptops from their carry-on, take off their shoes, remove all the change, keys and cell phones from their pockets and try to get them all into individual plastic trays and on to the conveyor belt is pretty damn amusing. There was one moment when I swore there was going to be a decent bout of fisticuffs or at least a hissy fit between a 70 year old man and a restless businessman in his 40s. My money was going to be on the old guy as he looked like he had decades of pent up anger to get out on someone and Mr. GQ was begging for some action.

All along I’ve been thinking about my trip to Jamaica as work, and in turn have been thinking of Jamaica as one big hotel from which I will most likely not leave for the better part of 3 weeks. I should have had an inkling of what I was in store for on the first leg of my trip when I listened to the couple boarding the plane in front of me talking about their wedding the night before. They were so busy complimenting each other’s families that I was pretty sure the marriage was arranged and they’d only just met this last Thursday.

On the second leg of my journey from Miami to Montego Bay I was seated next to another pair of newlyweds who were having quite a difficult time filling out the Jamaican customs questionnaire because he kept insisting that she had the same last name as him because they were married yesterday, and she kept trying to explain to him that she has to take care of that when they get back. Then there was much debate over whether or not she should declare her wedding rings as a “monetary instrument.” Frankly I thought the husband was a little too quick to say “No!” and I’m suspicious the poor girl is going to find out she’s sporting 2 karats of Cubic Zirconia one of these days.

 However my rude awakening was to come later, after we had disembarked and were standing in line waiting to go through passport control. I suddenly realized that I, as a single passenger, was in the minority. All around me were couples, and worse yet, they all seemed to be honeymooners. The men were all looking hung over and the women were busy chatting to each other and waving their hands around in such a manner as to make their sparkly new jewels painfully obvious to everyone around them. One woman spent the whole time in line readjusting her engagement ring so that it sat perfectly centered over her wedding band. Another was still wearing her wedding tiara with her track suit. I’m pretty sure she wanted me to bitch slap her and we both know she was wearing underwear that say “Bride” spelled out in Swarovski crystals.

When it was my turn to go through to passport control the agent looked at me, then looked behind me, then back at me and said “You are traveling alone?” When I replied “Yes,” he actually asked me why in a manner that suggested I had better have a good reason to be entering a couples only country on my own. I briefly entertained telling him I was here to start up an independent drug smuggling ring before I lied and said that my husband had taken an earlier flight and I was meeting him at the hotel. This made him happy and got my papers stamped. The only other passenger traveling alone was a guy with a ponytail who spent the better part of the night having his bags searched by some rather angry looking customs agents. He’s supposed to be staying at my hotel, so I’m gonna seek him out tomorrow and see if he needs help with his business plan.

As I type my little note to y’all I can hear squeals and giggles from the drunken honeymooners leaving the bar to frolic in the sand outside my room. This could get ugly rather quickly, I will keep you apprised. I may need you to post my bail through PayPal.