So we met at the church in Ocala on Saturday morning, and loaded ourselves and suitcases up on the little bus to go to the airport in Tampa. I had been reminding folks that I would like donations of used, but clean/wearable T-shirts to take along and leave in Mexico. Due to the generosity of several people I rolled and packed over 100 shirts into a large canvas zippered bag: so many I could not actually pick the bag up by myself to put in the back of my car for the drive to FL.
I had a backpack full of reading material, a small case on wheels and the huge canvas bag bulging with T-shirts. We unloaded in great haste and confusion at the doors to the terminal, I went to get a cart because I knew I would not be dragging the heavy canvas bag up to the counter. Someone else put another big wheeled suitcase on the cart that was also full of give-away items for the congregation and community: lots of interesting useful things like combs, reading/magnification eye-glasses, pony-tail holders, many pairs of flip-flops, along with at least another 100 or more shirts to be donated. I was trying to manage the big cart, so laden with large baggage I could barely see to drive, wearing my backpack, and trying to pull along the wheeled case full of a weeks' worth of shorts and shirts for hot-muggy-Mexico wear.A fellow traveler, one of the group from Ocala, offered to roll my personal suitcase in the terminal for me. So he took it off my hands, as I blundered my way through the foot traffic, following along, with the stacked up baggage on the cart.
I was the last of the ten to check in, with my two huge bags trundling up on the cart, and happy to be relieved of the obligation. Always a bit paranoid when the taped message about 'don't walk off and leave your bag or accept mystery parcels from strangers' plays over and over in the terminal. But we got every checked, and tagged and ticketed and made our way through Security. In plenty of time to eat some of that pre-fab, over-priced, airport concession food. It was so memorable, I cannot even begin to recall what I had.
In addition to the backpack - my only carry-on - I had a wooden walking stick. I had great plans for finding someone in our group who would be willing to get up and walk several miles with me each morning, as I continue to 'practice' for my hike through the NC hills in August. Not knowing where that walking might occur, and always a little leery of walking about in strange places, I felt that a stick might be handy. As in: the best offense is a good defense. Dogs do roam the streets, but the defense was not needed. That stick turned out to be a major nusiance, as I am not much accustomed to remembering to keep up with an extra appendage, and was constantly returning someplace to rescue it, off the bus, in the terminal, off the van, whatever... it's a wonder it made it back to the USA.
So we land in Cancun and all troop through the hot steamy terminal to the baggage claim area and I can't find my suitcase. All the huge bags full of the 'supplies' we had accumulated to donate to the church arrived, but my little black wheeled suitcase was nowhere to be found. I assumed they had checked the suitcase that was meant to be my carry-on, but it somehow never appeared on the carousel when we were picking our items off as they rotated past the group.
The mystery thickened, when we compared claim numbers, and did not have an extra number for the missing case. I readily admit to saying several bad words, repeatedly. But the people who: were not worried, were not missing clothing, were not wondering where their toothbrushes and clean underwear might be located, were completely unconcerned about their socks, confident they had all their toiletries, certain they would not be frantically trying to replace missing prescription drugs (let that be a lesson for you!) tried to console me with the fact that we could 'go shopping' for whatever I needed. Not something you want to hear when you have carefully planned, thought, arranged, chosen, purchased, packed for a week in a foreign country.. counting out pairs of socks and clean unmentionables to come out perfectly even for the length of the stay.
Plus a huge part of the actual 'go shopping' involves trying to understand a monetary system that would likely baffle even people who can multiply and divide, so you can imagine what it did to my little math-impaired brain. You can get 13 pesos for a dollar, or something like that. The exchange rate benefits the gringo with the Washingtons and Jeffersons and Hamiltons... until you get ready to change it back into American currency before you leave. I was personally so confused by the time I left, I just emptied my pockets and left all the odd pesos for the housekeeper in the motel.
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