Sweet Deal

Sweet Deal

“Auntie Victoria, I want you to come to Cuba with me and my mom and dad. You can room with the baby and me.”

“Thank you, sweetie, but I really can’t afford a trip right now.”

“Make it your Christmas and birthday gift combined. Otherwise, the price of the flight ticket and a double room is wasted. I’d love the company,” says Jessie.

I know that Jessie’s planned travel companion cancelled at the last minute. Foolish to turn down such an offer, right?

“Why not?” I respond.

The destination wedding trip resort has been selected by the parents of the bride-to-be. Jessie is the Maid of Honor. I can help babysit her two-year-old, Gracie.

I have known Jessie since she was a baby. Now I am Gracie’s Great-Auntie Victoria. Gracie’s second name is Victoria. I am part of the family.

To take advantage of this free escape from Canadian winter, I resolve to endure the stress of packing, waiting in airports, lining up at Customs, and cramming into a window seat when I frequently need to pee. I suppress my fear of losing documents, getting lost, or losing my luggage.

The kiosks at check-in are a new challenge. In my seventies, computerized systems baffle me. Younger people respond to my confusion with pity, impatience, or judgement.

As we descend into Cuba, ear pain and partial deafness plague me. I struggle down a set of stairs to disembark, and my arthritis howls in protest.

After Customs, we board a bus for a ninety-minute ride to the resort. There is no toilet paper on board, but I have a roll in my bag. In contrast to my airport ignorance, I celebrate my new role of savvy traveler as I share squares with other grateful passengers.

We arrive and form a queue at reception. After a long wait, Jessie is provided with one key card. What about mine? I hate to fuss, so I remain silent.

A trolley transports us to Building 12. The hallways are open concept and teeming with mosquitoes. I see a cockroach scutter towards me and yelp. My room is up a long and treacherous flight of stairs. Thank God Jessie’s dad offers to carry my suitcase up for me.

Exhausted, Jessie settles Gracie down for the night. She informs me that she needs a cool room and sets the air conditioner at 19 degrees Celsius. I crawl into a lumpy bed made up with off-white, stained sheets. There are no blankets.

At 4:00 a.m. I lay wide awake, frozen, and shuddering. Desperately needing to pee, I abide by Jessie’s request to refrain from turning on lights so as not to wake the baby. I grope around the unfamiliar, pitch-black room, terrified of falling. A dripping tap leads me into the bathroom and my flaying arms knock the phone next to the sink off the wall. It crashes to the floor and wakes the baby. Lights go on, and an impatient and groggy Jessie looks at me as if to say, “Really?”

“Don’t you know the flashlight feature on your iPhone?” she questions as I urinate.

“No.”

She attempts to show me several times, and watches in disbelief as I fumble with my device.

I apologize and head back to my torture rack. My neck and back are in serious spasm due to the frigid temperature. I lay in the dark and notice that the blast of arctic air whooshing out of the vent is continuous and directed right at me.

An hour later, I’ve had enough. I grope my way like a vibrating zombie toward the room exit and yank the key card out of the air conditioning device. It mercifully stops. Blessed silence.

Just as I begin to drift off, there is a shattering thud. The TV flashes on and off, the room phone jingles, the walls shudder, and then the fuse blows out. I hear a commotion in the hall.

“What the hell!!” screams Jessie. Miraculously, Gracie is still asleep.

“Auntie Victoria, what did you do?”

I cower under my flimsy sheet, tempted to deny any wrongdoing. But I’m supposed to be a grownup, so I admit my crime. Jessie tells me I should have pressed the off button BEFORE pulling the card out of the slot. OOOPS!

We both snicker like naughty children as we listen to an echoing cacophony of angry squawks from disgruntled travelers. There is a protest march in the hall. Doors slam. Shouts eventually subside to murmurs. We drift off.

Morning arrives all too soon. Exhausted, I follow my companions to the buffet for breakfast. It is the first day of a week-long diet of scrambled eggs. Everything else looks inedible.

As we trudge down to the beach, I notice that I am developing blisters on my swollen feet. The ocean is a spectacular, heaving immensity of royal blue and turquoise, taking frothy bites at the white sand. I am in pain. I need to sit. There are no vacant loungers. The waves frighten Gracie. We begin a trek back to the room.

The key card doesn’t work. Back to reception to complain. My blisters start to bleed.

Finally, we get two key cards that work and find a shallow pool. Gracie loves it, and I am in Heaven, floating in a state of reduced gravity. But I have forgotten to apply sunscreen. At the end of the first day, I have morphed into a radish.

Lunches and dinners are repetitive. I avoid hotdogs, leathery beef, and so-called stews with questionable ingredients. I live off buns, cucumbers, and eggs.

As the days go by, I apply sunscreen to raw skin. My eyelids are swollen, and I gaze into the mirror at a gargoyle. I order blankets from reception, and accept bandages from Nadine, Jessie’s mother. My back and feet are raw and oozing.

Room key cards repeatedly malfunction, requiring trudges back and forth to reception on blistered feet.

The big day arrives. The bride and Jessie look gorgeous as they walk toward the flowered arc on the beach. There are teary murmurs in the crowd. My watery eyes have less to do with sentiment and more to do with the infernal tag at the neckline of my sequined gown, the itchy mosquito bites, and the beating sun, sawing at my shoulders and making me woozy. Another guest kindly helps me up the slope of the beach after the ceremony.

Getting old really sucks.

Gracie develops a rash on her hands and feet, which is diagnosed by the resort doctor as hand, foot, and mouth disease. The doctor’s advice? “Keep her indoors, out of the water and the sun.”

At dinner, boredom motivates me to try a slice of ham. As I swallow the last of it, Nadine says, “You should have had that grilled.”

I develop severe diarrhea. All night long, I use the flashlight feature on my iPhone to race to the toilet. “I didn’t sign up for this!” I mutter in misery.

The next day, Nadine gives me some Imodium. Thank you, Nadine, the travelling medic!

My sunburn progresses as the sting morphs into itching and peeling. On the second last day, Jessie develops a severe and paralyzing neck spasm which is somewhat alleviated when the doctor injects her derriere with some kind of pain reliever.

I can hardly wait to leave. I pack an extra roll of toilet paper for the resort bus that arrives late to transfer us back to the airport.

Of course, I need to pee on the journey. I stagger to the back of the wobbling vehicle, armed with my trusty “bathroom tissue.”

I clutch a ledge to avoid toppling, close the cubicle door, and lift the toilet lid. I gag at the stained rim and dark brown water. Avoiding contact with the seat, I attempt a hovering crouch on shaky legs to void my bladder. Nothing. Suddenly, an automatic flush splashes brown filth all over my privates. Just as I scream at this grossest of indignities, the bathroom door flies open to reveal my exposed ass to two men sitting at the back. They look as horrified as I feel.

At the airport, I stagger toward the washroom. An attendant with an outstretched hand blocks my charge into the stall until I slap an American bill into her palm.

A Customs Officer orders me to stand in front of a camera. It flashes and he hands me a photo. It looks like a mugshot of a broiled inmate.

Finally, back at the airport in Toronto, I seize my winter jacket out of my luggage. It is three degrees Celsius and raining. Nadine and Gavin are still wearing shorts, t-shirts, and flip-flops. We wait outside for Nadine’s friend to pick us up. There is a delay, and strident phone conversations. Tempers are flaring.

“No! You’ve gone to the wrong terminal!’ shouts Nadine through chattering teeth.

Her friend finally arrives, and we pile into her vehicle.

Home at last! For the next two weeks, as I shed my skin in sheets, I develop an addiction to my wooden back scratcher, a large fork-like tool with curved prongs like talons on an eagle.

For what it’s worth, thank you dear Jessie. I know you had the best of intentions.