It’s Not Easy to Find Paradise With Only GPS!

July 29, 2019. 8:15 am

I lied.

Yesterday I said I was writing my last post about my vacation in Sint Maarten. Well, then again, maybe I did not “technically” lie. Ha! I hate the equivocation of the use of “technically.” It is as bad as someone trying to excuse something terrible, direct, and offensive they said with the lame protestation that they were taken “out of context,” as if what they had said would somehow be acceptable in any context.

I actually want to write about the worst part of travel, which is — travel! So “technically” in this “context” I am not talking about my vacation! Unless one is wanting the “travel experience” of a trip on the Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul or taking the QE2 from New York to London because one can, most travel sucks, especially travel by plane. But I digress.

Before one can travel by plane, one must get to the airport. For me, in Sint Maarten, that meant returning my rent car to Paradise Rent Car Company. If you want to know the beginning of this story, check out my blog post of July 22, First World Problems in Paradise — If It’s Too Good to be True, It’s Too Good to be True! That blog tells the tale of woe that ended with my renting a car from Paradise Rent Car in the first place.

The Paradise Rent Car Agency was not as close to the airport as most rent car companies. Even in my exhausted state upon arrival in Sint Maarten and traveling in the van to the agency, I could tell we were passing many of the traditional car rental company lots, including the RentAWreck Company who had not had the promised car when I had arrived. But I did not think I would have trouble finding Paradise Rent Car Company again to return the car. After all, I have GPS on my phone and their address was on the rent car contract. This is 2019!

As I exited the Airbnb on the steep mountain road, I asked Siri to get me directions to Paradise Rent Car in Sint Maarten. Siri failed. I asked several times until, exasperated with his (my Siri had a male Aussie voice LOL) inability to locate a Paradise Rent Car Company, I asked my L

less than competent Siri for directions to the airport, assuming I would surely pass the company on the way. Siri was as helpful as a Phillips-head screwdriver when one has a slotted screw. Apparently in Siri land, there is no airport in Sint Maarten. I wondered if my Siri was secretly messing with me, a rogue 2019 version of AI Hal, from the sci fit classic 2001 A Space Odyssey.

Of course, I needed to fill up with gasoline before returning the car, so I decided to wait and try to google the directions at the gas station. I remembered passing some stations at various times during my trips around the island and I had a general idea how to get to the airport, or at least close. Feeling competent, I made a couple of turns at roundabouts and voila! I saw a new gas station/convenience store just ahead. I pulled in and up to a pump. From a distance it looked like any other gas pump I have used countless times. Looks can be deceiving though, especially from a distance. Upon closer inspection I saw that it had the face of a gasoline pump, but all the openings where one would select grades by pushing buttons and pay by inserting credit cards, etc., were just plastic placeholders. It resembled a pump one would buy for a toy gas station gift for a child to play adult with and fantasize paying and pumping gas into a sports car, a male child’s version of an imaginary tea party with cups and saucers and a pot. I stared at the pump wondering what does one do?

At this point a man who had been pumping gas close by, pointed to the pump and said “Dee Zeel!” I did not understand him. He used the technique I suspect most of us are guilty of when trying to be understood, he kept increasing the volume. “DEE ZEEL, DEE ZEEL, DEE ZEEL!” Suddenly it dawned on me that he was saying diesel. I was at the wrong pump. This did not solve the mystery of how to pay for fuel, but I was making progress. I moved to a different pump following his hand motions. I had concluded he was an employee.

When I asked about if I could use a credit card he said to go inside. But first he asked how much gasoline I needed. I realized I was back in the 1960’s (or in New Jersey) where one does not have the competence to pump one’s own gasoline. “Fill it up please. I am turning it in. It’s a rent car.” I replied. I did not know how he would manipulate the slot-less button-less pump. I did not care. I was making progress.

I paid inside. It was exactly $20 dollars. I hoped he had put in at least enough so that the tank was at least 7/8th full….the amount of gasoline the clerk had told me I had when I rented the car. Before I left, I pulled over to the side and used Google Maps to find directions to the rent car company. I typed the address from the contract and was happy to see the map and route. Off I went, smug that I could do what Siri could not.

I passed several car rental companies on the way to the Airport and the spot on the map where Paradise Rent Car was supposed to be. I listened to the automated victory voice “You have arrived! Your destination is on your right” I had not arrived though. I could not find Paradise. I turned around and once again heard the triumphant “You have arrived!” Of course this time the voice continued, “Your destination is on your left!” It wasn’t. Sigh.

Being from the generation before GPS, I knew it was now up to me to find this place. I did not have a map, but then, what man of my generation really uses a map? We are supposed to have a sixth sense. I thought back to the ride from the airport to pick up the car. I remembered the car company had been on a narrow city street. Of course! I had to get of Airport Road (even though that was the address on the rent car contract). I circled back to the last roundabout and took the first exit to the right which seemed to go to the urban area. My instincts were rewarded….in a couple of blocks there it was-Paradise….at least Paradise Rent Car Company.

Back at the airport, check in was chaotic. There were two “premium lines” with people in each one. Like Robert Frost, I chose the road less traveled, or at least the shorter line. As I snaked to the front of my line, suddenly a worker started telling us they were consolidating the premium lines (which had all the business class and people with airline status from being frequent flyers… ie, the most entitled persons on the planet who are accustomed to flying past the regular passengers to get to security and later to their seats). Unfortunately for me, consolidation meant my line had to go to the back of the other line. I am a rule follower and had plenty of time, so the inconvenience (and injustice) did not bother me. (Well, it did bother me, but I was not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that!) Not so for the lady in front of me who was the next in line to check in when the consolidation decision was made.

“Wait!” She almost shouted. “But I am next in line. Your consolidation is really making me go to the back of the line!” The airline porter who was just following orders simple said she was just following orders. I wondered if there was going to be a confrontation. The woman’s husband tried to calm her down. “It’s ok honey. It’s not that long of a line.” The miffed woman complained the entire time. The injustice of it all. Others felt sympathy for the airline worker just doing her job. Of course those who did not have to go to the back of the line seemed to feel more sympathy! Ha!

Just as we were approaching the check in a second time, another worker came trying to rearrange the snake that was the line created by the pylons and tape used to make queues more compact. He wanted the lady and her husband to move from their spot, second in line to the counter, by walking a few steps so he could reposition the pylon. She wasn’t having it. “No. I am not moving.” she announced. “You are not doing this to me again.” I have to admit I had a similar, unvoiced concern. I was afraid I was in some infinity loop, a matrix glitch or Ground Hog Day where, like the poor Bill Murray character, I could never escape. She stood her ground. I stood mine right behind her. The worker shrugged and moved the pylon so that those behind us had to make one more turn to get to the counter. Minor victories are still victories.

Past check in I had to pass security. No TSA pre-check here. Off with shoes and belts, putting everything in bins. It was quiet though. In NYC where I often travel, the TSA agents seem to be constantly barking orders at you. “Laptops out! No liquids! Make sure nothing is in your pockets! Etc.” Maybe they do it out of boredom. Maybe they like the control. Maybe they are just from NYC and that is the way they deal with the millions crushed together on a tiny sliver of land.

Everyone here seemed to know and follow the rules. Maybe the agents didn’t really care here. But all went smoothly. Then I had to get into a third queue for immigration. The line was a bit long. As I got within about 10 people of the counter were one would normally get an exit stamp, another worker came and started letting American passport people just skip the booth. No stamp for me….I was free. I wondered if this would cause a problem if I ever returned….having an entry stamp but no exit stamp. It seemed very Hotel California like…. “You can check in anytime you want. But you can never leave.” I didn’t wonder too much.

I was excited and hungry. I had been exercising each day and generally eating healthy. I wanted and found a hamburger. It was big and the meat was juicy. It had caramelized onions and the local version of secret sauce. The french fryer was out so I settled for chips. All washed down with a local beer.

Then, as I waited for my flight, I heard them announce a $950 voucher for people willing to take a later flight. I would still arrive in Dallas the same time as my connecting flight to Dallas involved a long layover. I was willing. My excitement that I was about to have my accommodations essentially reimbursed in travel voucher, began to wane as I was told to wait to be the last to board and, if they still needed my seat, I would get the voucher. I worried my luggage would end up having to be checked if I was last and there was no overhead bin space.

Patiently I waited as all the rows boarded. My fears were realized. The lady at the desk informed me they did not need my seat. Disappointed I boarded. The good news was there was space in first class for my bags. I was in economy but an aisle row. I arrived in Charlotte and raced through immigration to the counter for the next flight to Dallas. I was lucky that they didn’t put me on standby but rather gave me a seat. Instead of arriving in Dallas at Midnight I would now arrive at 9. A few hours is a lot when one is tired. And there was no charge for the change.

Upon arrival in Dallas, I had a decision to make. Should I spend 40 or 50 dollars and Uber home or take the DART train for free. The tired traveler wanted to spend the money. The Catholic in me wanted to suffer a little for my indulgences of spending money on a vacation while there were so many needing so much. Suffering here on earth, gets you years out of Purgatory (years one can put on by any of a multitude of sins — 12 years of Catholic education has to teach you something, right?) I decided to take the DART. This meant taking the Skytrain to Terminal A and walking to the DART station. An Orange line train was there so, in about 10 more minutes I was on my way. DART is making service upgrades downtown. The weekend construction meant I had to exit at Victory Station and take a shuttle bus to Peal Station, another 10 minute delay. From Pearl, after a 10 minute wait (see a pattern here?) I took the Red line two stops to Mockingbird Station where, bags in tow, I walked about 10 or 15 more minutes to my apartment. I traded time for money and felt good that a little walking couldn’t hurt, especially after the big burger.

Today I return to the work world. Goodbye Paradise! Life is Good.