Another journey begins in the midst of airport hell

Oh my god! I have been so so busy since starting this new job in Grand Cayman, that I have not even had time to spend at leisure on my dear blog! What's happening to me?! Am I finally appreciating the exhaustive quality of a hard day's grind?! Anyway ... here's something I wrote in the airport during my trip here, and the rest - well, you'll just have to bear with me I'm afraid, I'm not used to a full days work in the sun; it's killing me! (not complaining though *wink*)

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Another month, another airport...

I hate airports, don’t you? They reinforce the Great British tradition of queuing. People become ants, in serpentine and sluggish lines, stretching out into the distance. Somewhere out there is the check-in desk; the front of the line; the holy grail of Gatwick.

Finally I see the end; I’m almost there – it’s reaching distance.
“You’re in the wrong queue, your bags haven’t been pre-weighed,” says a smug agent with a mouth like a prune, “go to that queue first,” she points, “and then you may join this one again.” My heart sinks, and I turn to stare at the daunting prospect snaking out behind me.
I check my watch. “Will I have time to queue there, then return here, then queue for passport control? My flight is in 2 hours.”
Prune-mouth sighs, “Go to the other queue, I can’t help you here until your bags are approved.” Which roughly translates as ‘I’m not interested and I don’t care. Now piss off and let me get on with my crap job - which by-the-way I hate’
By now she has already dismissed me, and turns to give her welcoming scowl to the next group of passengers.

Thirty minutes later I smile desperately at the official who calls me over. He stands next to an ominous looking weighing scale and a hand-baggage sizing test. Oh shit, I think. I have 2 pieces of hand luggage, 1 extra bag of dive gear and 2 suitcases, which are slightly overweight. My heart is pounding in my ears. The man surveys my trolley. Before he has a chance to make a negative judgement, I stammer, quickly, “Err, hi! I’m traveling to the Cayman Islands today – to live, not for a holiday, a job – you see – I’m alone, and,” I gesticulate wildly towards my dive gear, “I’m an instructor – a diving instructor, but my job, actually, err…” I pat my camera bag, “ it’s photography, underwater…” I give him my best cheshire cat grin and pray.

He smiles. “Alright for some, isn’t it!” Oh sweet relief. “Let’s get these cases weighed. If you’d just like to pop open your dive bag for me so I can check it’s all sports equipment we’ll be able to let you take that for free.”
I find out that his name is Daniel and thank him profusely when he lets me off a charge for my slightly overweight cases too. “You’re my airport guardian angel,” I say, wondering if it would be too weird to hug him. He blushes and looks pleased.

Later, when I finally get near prune-mouth again, I see Daniel approaching. He winks at me, and I see him whispering while pointing towards me. I catch a couple of words here and there, “ …moving….dive instructor…no charge…” The woman sees me and gives a curt nod to Daniel. As he walks off, he looks back, so I wave and blow a kiss.

I feel slightly smug - all this chaos around and yet my journey seems to be going so smoothly...

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I did not feel quite so smooth 9 hours and 45 minutes later, after a 6 hour delay and a stressful boarding experience onto a full plane bound (finally) for Kinston, Jamaica. I was sitting way in the back, surrounded by noisy Jamaicans on every side; the air conditioning seemed to be broken, the shrieking and the gabbling of voices had reached fever point, and the last time I ate or slept seemed so, so long ago. Well - next thing I know, my head feels prickly and everything seems very hot and bright suddenly. There's a pressure in my chest like something verging on panic or perhaps it's simply pure-body-shutdown and I can no longer feel my hands. I think - Oh no. Oh no. This is wrong - and I fear that, suddenly I will flap or scream or vomit or faint, or all of the above. I stand up to go to the bathroom, just 3 or 4 rows behind (yes I really am at the back of the plane), and then everything goes dark. The last thing I see is the bathroom door like a tiny pin prick of light at the end of a long tunnel.

I come around to noise, before my sight returns. I hear loud voices and they seem close - all arguing and jabbering. "...she fainted..." "...yeh she stands up and she fell..." "...she say some ting but I canna hear man.."
I drift. I feel sick, and the back of my neck feels like its on fire. I think "please don't throw up Lisa, please don't embarrass yourself....hold on to it, come on..." Someone touches me and tries to make me talk. I wave them away, weakly, like a bug. Don't they understand? I just need to be left, alone, please, so I can breathe, so I can try not to throw up...I try to talk, but I can't.

Soon I hear an English voice, a woman, and I feel a cool hand on my face. She is telling the people to sit down, to give me space. I want to agree with her but I still feel too sick to speak. I open my eyes finally, and there she is - a young blonde flight attendant, smiling gently as I try to focus.

"Don't worry," she says, "we're getting you some oxygen, that will make you feel better." I try to smile, but I think its more of a grimace.

The oxygen comes and I breath the dry cold air. My head begins to clear like a frosty morning, and I get pins and needles fizzing in my hands and feet.

"Her colour is coming back," says a man's voice.
"Yes, let's get her towards the front of the plane though - it's cooler there." says another woman.

I feel relief - the idea of a cool dark place to stretch out right now is like heaven.
Stumbling slightly, I shuffle through ecomony and enter premium economy. I expect to stop here, but they keep on going, and suddenly I find myself in a cool dimly-lit space that I recognise as business or first class.

I stifle a giggle, which is sucked away into the oxygen mask. I look on the bright side as I make myself comfortable on my fully reclinable seat. Another trans-atlantic flight - another free upgrade.

Back of the net.

If Luck be a lady...

They say that you can think yourself lucky.
I’m beginning to think that they are right.
I have been glowing like a ray of sunshine for days now; positively beaming at everyone and everything around me, and blessings are falling into my lap, fluttering into my life like moths to a flame.

As I compose this I am sitting at leisure in the first class gold card members’ lounge of British Airways at Seattle International airport. However this was by no means the first stroke of good fortune to hit me in the last 24 hours. My hotel last night moved me unexpectedly into a deluxe room with whirlpool spa, and Dominoes Pizza delivered a delicious Hawaiian thin crust straight to my room even though I was a few minutes late to order over the telephone. You can imagine I was feeling pretty smug as I lay back in the tub eating pizza, neck deep in swirling bubbles, watching Sex & The City on my widescreen TV.

The following morning I made an enquiry about late check out, and to my surprise they allowed me to keep the room another 3 hours, no extra charge. Cue more spa time!

Reception were kind enough to give me a free ride to the airport, and after a short queue a very pleasant British Airways check-in representative engaged me in friendly conversation, in which I wittily summarised my USA adventure and made a joke about inflatable neck pillows.
“OK Miss Evans. Here is your boarding pass.” He paused and looked around surreptitiously before continuing in a low whisper, “You’re in Club Class.” I leaned closer.
“I am?”
He winked. “You are now.”
I grinned in delight, and felt like jumping up and down on the spot, but somehow contained myself. “I see. Well, thank you very much!”
He smiled, “Enjoy your flight Miss Evans.”

I decided to push it further and go for the grand finish. I ascended the thickly-carpeted staircase to BA First and Club World lounge, specifically reserved for cardholders. At the reception I put on my best posh accent and feigned ignorance about the cardholder requirement, while showing my boarding pass. I gestured towards my laptop case and explained how much important work I had to do and how WIFI access was an absolute necessity. She stared at me a moment, and I could sense her mind ticking over.

“We wouldn’t normally allow admission to the lounge to non card-holders,” She looked around and lowered her voice, “but I think we can accommodate you on this occasion.”
I smiled and thanked her profusely before slipping into the cool air-conditioned interior.

If luck be a lady tonight her name is Lisa Evans.

Independence Day

On the fourth of July I celebrated my own independence, my own freedom, overlooking the shimmering banks of the Chena River, caught in an endless summer sunset. I was back where I begun two months ago. I watched the rays of light dance across the surface of the water, a golden path broken only by the wake of occasional passing boats.

I went to Hawaii driven by gut instinct – the same certainty that drove me to Thailand on that other trip of self-discovery that ended so happily, too. I reasoned that, without this Alaskan trip, for all its ups and downs, I would never have been inspired on that spontaneous day to apply for the Cayman Islands job – which waits just beyond the next horizon for my arrival in Autumn.

I went to Alaska in search of something specific: one adventure, one relationship, but instead I experienced many adventures and had the privilege of sharing these moments with a host of new friends.


I looked over at the glowing water, framed against a backdrop of silhouetted spruce trees, and took a moment to consider the journey now behind me – what it all meant, what it had all been for – then I smiled as I thought of what lies ahead. There will be more of these moments, when I will bask, eyes closed, in the warmth of other sunsets, across time and space. I wonder where I will be, who I will be with, and how I will feel.

One thing I am certain of: this life is a gift.

More shark encounters...

Hawaiian Escape

Hawaii, oh Hawaii, where do I begin to describe you. Lush valleys, towering volcanic craters which descend into baking hot canyons that extend their rocky roots towards ivory sand beaches, and finally, the cerulean blue ocean which laps and pounds and crashes against the land.



Oahu: island of beach and jungle; mountain and city; surfer’s paradise and cosmopolitan dream. At night, burning tikki torches light the path along Waikiki Beach Avenue, illuminating designer boutiques and street sellers touting spray paint canvases and beaded jewellery. The delicate fragrance of fresh cut flowers fills the air as an old Hawaiian lady walks past, arms festooned with freshly made leis of yellow ilimas, hibiscus and lehua blossoms.


Hawaii was my Bali Ha’i. It called to me during those dismal days in Alaska, when I felt entrapped by the four walls of a tiny cabin without plumbing or television. I felt imprisoned not just by the town of Fairbanks, (which offered so little in terms of modern society’s culture and entertainment) but also trapped and frustrated by the absolute failure of the relationship that had been my initial reason for going. He and I were so utterly different in almost everyway that sharing a small living space 24/7 was like a slow torture, and it was not long before the free spirit in me began to claw at the walls, overwhelmed by cabin fever; Fairbanks fever; Alaska fever!

It came to me one night, from across the wind of the sea, “Here am I, your special island! Come to me, come to me!”

And so I went, leaving Alaska without even a backward glance.

The hazy days in Hawaii were a blend of adventure, friendship, thrills and laughter. I swam with sharks, hiked a volcanic crater, went horseback riding through filming locations used in Jurassic Park, basked on golden sands, and partied with new friends into the early hours of the morning. Honolulu was a vibrant buzzing destination set against breath-taking scenery, but it was the people who really put a song back into my heart and a smile back onto my face. Rarely have I have the pleasure to meet so many gorgeous thrilling fascinating people in the space of 10 days.

Mahalo!

New York New York

A night out in the ultra-trendy Meatpacking district

Ground Zero - the place where the twin towers used to stand; now a huge construction area

I take a ferry to see the lady of liberty up close

I make a slithery new friend

View of Manhattan skyline from the ferry

I climb on to the roof in search of fresh air and relief from the heatwave

Lisa and the City

The pavements of New York shimmered in the heat threatening to melt beneath my feet into rivers of molten tar. Stepping outside the dim entrance hall of the apartment building had been like walking into a solid wall of hot air that left me breathless and gasping. My timing, as ever, was perfect. I had chosen to spend a week in New York City, and this first record-breaking heat-wave of the year began on the eve of my arrival and ended on the afternoon of my departure.

I was simply not prepared. I looked with some disappointment at the immense suitcase I had dragged here, full of jeans, jackets, jumpers and shoes – oh the shoes: four pairs of boots, four pairs of heels, flats and a couple of pairs of trainers. This would never do, I decided, and braved the heat of the afternoon to go shopping for a more appropriate wardrobe.

I may have been in an unfamiliar city, but I possess an innate feminine ability to sniff out fashion stores from miles away like a shark tracking blood in the ocean. Madison Avenue finally appeared, like an oasis in the desert, stretching out into the distance with the promise of seduction at every gleaming window. I smiled like the cat who got the cream, and felt my credit cards cringing in anticipation of what was to come.

Two hours, three dresses, two skirts, one bracelet, one jacket, four tops and three pairs of sandals later I hailed a cab (with the confidence of a NYC big spender) and headed to a air-conditioned bar for a well-deserved G&T on ice. Would have been rude not to.

My weekend as an Alaskan band roadie

As you may have already gathered, Alaska is mostly made of whopping great mountain ranges surrounded by undiscovered tundra and unpopulated wilderness. It's huge. Plus, extreme climate and challenging living conditions make this one of the last great frontiers of the civilised world and therefore the most sparsely populated state in America. Statistically there's 1 person for every square mile.

I decided to find out what these folks do for fun, and one phonecall and 24 hours later we were headed south to Denali National Park, (home to Mt Mckinley) with a whole load of band gear in the back of the truck. Yeah, I was going to be a band roadie for the first time in my life! I have previously tried the dubious career path of DJ groupie, so this was obviously my next step, and what better band to follow than the Alaskan favourite, The Gangly Moose.

When we arrived at our first destination on Friday night, The Salmon Bake, a topsy turvy restaurant bar located at the entrance to Denali park, I helped carry some equipment inside and swaggered around a little, sporting my new fur hat. I drank a few yagermeister bombs in the bar, and later made my way to the room where the band was playing. At some point it occured to me that I was so drunk that the bar was beginning to tilt crazily. Yes, in fact, the more I peered into the shadows and flashing lights, noting the angle of the floor and the walls, the more convinced I became that I needed to go and lie down, right now.

I hissed to my friend, "I'm drunk, this whole place is tilting! Please! I'm dizzy!"
"Oh," he laughed. "That's not you, that's the bar, it's got sloping floors in here because its on the side of the mountain."

On Saturday night the Gangly Moose played in a smaller pub in the town of Telkeekna, an hour or two further south just beyond the park. It's difficult for me to categorise their style of music: perhaps somewhere in between funk, rock and country with a hell of a lot of freestylin thrown in for good measure - the local crowd were lapping it up like funk-starved pussycats. Never have I seen so many enthusiastic elbow shapes thrown about in such a small space; smirking cowboys were bending knees like Jane Fonda, and sweating young men in wooly hats were twisting around in front like disco rabbits. I bumped into a real cowboy called Eddie who unexpected decided to pull down his jeans and smack his bare arse while shouting, "Yeehaa, here's to all ya'll Brits, yeeehaa!" It wasn't exactly what I was expecting at that moment, but I took it in my stride and smiled graciously.

Revelling in the afterglow of being a real life band roadie the next morning we said goodbye to the Moose and headed back into the park to spend a couple of days in an isolated retreat called Earthsong Lodge: a collection of tiny cabins on windswept tundra that offered spectacular views of Mt. McKinley.


The owners, Jon and Karin, kept a large kennel of working sled dogs on the property. We were invited to take a guided tour to meet the animals, who were of course on summer holidays from their winter duties. These dogs were the result of cross-breeding with traditonal huskies, bred for their strength, size and stamina. When one named Nocturne jumped up on me in an enthusiastic greeting he was almost as tall as me, with iceberg-blue eyes.
I resolved to return here again in winter, when these great windy expanses would be covered in deep snow: a blanket of infinite white reaching up into the glaciers above. Dog sledding excursions - some involving winter camping and lasting days - are run from Earthsong Lodge, and I decided that this is another experience I should put on my life long list of "things to do before I die!"


www.earthsonglodge.com

Getting my goat (or was he getting me?)

I approach with caution. The goat stares at me with baleful intent.
Closer, just a little closer...
"EEEek!" He takes the biscuit, he really does. (Cue dramatic waving and flapping of arms)

Horses, of courses

A crisp breeze from the mountain peaks whistled down into the Chena Valley, which was bathed in the amber glow of another endless Alaskan sunset. I galloped on horseback down a dusty track that was fringed with the skeletonal white trunks of birch trees not yet in full leaf. Soon the river came into view; floating slabs of ice clung to shadowy edges where the spring sun had not yet melted away the grip of a seven-month long winter. They say that Alaska truly only has two seasons: winter and summer – spring and autumn arrive fleetingly and are gone again in a matter of weeks.

Ok, maybe I wasn’t exactly galloping. (But it sounded good, didn’t it?)
No, it was more of a leisurely walk, suited to the fact that I was riding a horse for the first time in my life. My horse was a gelding called Sundance (for those of you who don’t know, a gelding is a male horse who has had ‘the snip’) and he and I were getting along just fine. Occasionally he got a little enthusiastic and broke into a bone-jolting trot. It took a while for me to figure out how to use the brakes; meanwhile my bum was experiencing a sensation akin to being beaten with a cricket bat. Eventually, through the haze of posterior pain I coordinated the reins, and gave the command to slow down in what I hoped was an authoritative tone. To my surprise he took notice and ceased to throw me around like a rag doll. Yeah - I thought – Who’s the boss of you! Who’s the boss? I’m the boss, I’m – “Ugh, woah!” I fell forward over his head, dragged down by his sudden movement as he plunged his head into a patch of new grass and began to nibble without any consideration for my comfort. I felt the saddle horn digging into my stomach but held with white knuckles, obeying the number one rule of riding – never lose the reins; lose the feeling in your bum, lose the feeling in your legs, but never let go of the reins. Riding without reins is like driving a car without brakes or steering wheel.
Sundance eventually had his fill of grass and we continued with steady progress across the river, and onto the final part of the trail. The rhythm began to seep into my bones and by the end of the ride I was moving more fluidly in the saddle, swaying with the horse’s movement in a way that John Wayne would have been proud of. I decided that this was much more pleasant than elephant riding.

After a smooth dismount, unaided, I was really impressed with myself, and considering I had never ridden a horse before I think I performed admirably. Sundance and I had a spiritual bond, I was sure of it. I ran my hands down his taut muscled neck and saw my own reflection in the liquid shine of his dark eyes. He stamped magnificently and at that moment a mound of pungent horse crap poured out of his rear, piling on the straw-scattered ground. I moved away and gave him a reproachful look. Yeah, we had some bond, that horse and I.

I walked back to the lodge singing under my breath, “Yeah, I’m a cowgirl, and on this steel horse I ride. I’m wanted: dead or alive.” I peered around expectantly, looking for a sexy cowboy, or maybe Jon Bon Jovi to come galloping out of the sunset.

No such luck.

Out of the frying pool and into the ice kingdom

I lifted my face into the sunlight, allowing water droplets from the central fountain to rain down and cool my flushed skin. A rainbow arched above the pool and I swirled steaming water around my body. I closed my eyes, a smile stretching across my face.

Bliss.



The Chena Hot Springs were rich in other-worldly enchantment and felt timeless yet ancient. I imagined that a pre-historic creature might lurk beneath the surface, parting the steam every now and again with a splash and the rippling gleam of a tail.

Dark rocks enclosed the pool, and beyond were lush mountains bursting with the first green of a late spring. In winter these pools would be flanked by heavy snow and ice, a blanket of white with a steaming oasis at its heart. At 40 degrees below, wet hair can be sculpted into gravity defying spikes, which freeze instantaneously when they leave the water and hit the frigid air. Chena is a place of duel personalities, it is both winter wonderland and summer playground.

Flushed and slightly light-headed, I felt the heat of the springs radiating from every pore. It was time to cool off in unique Chena style. The Ice Museum: a kingdom of ice where fantasy art and sculpture met sub-zero temperatures.

We paused in the anteroom to close the outer door and don additional winter clothing in preparation for the frosty climate within. Stepping into the inner sanctum was like walking into an industrial-sized freezer. The chill in the air took my breath away. But, oh, what magic dwelt within. A staircase spiralled up into a fairytale tower of ice; jousting knights on horseback were frozen mid-strike next to a giant chess board complete with elaborately carved pieces, and all glowed in rainbow hues in the darkness. A cavernous roof arched high above, lined with ice chandeliers, and further down a doorway opened into the boudoir of an ice princess, featuring an exquisitely carved four-poster bed scattered with the furs of caribou.






I sat on a bar stool with an animal skin the only thing between me and a frozen bum and watched as our bartender served Appletinis into icy glasses, which gave another meaning to martini on the rocks. I felt the top edges melt away with every sip.

Magic Kingdom for sale? Sold!
(To the young woman with the frozen backside and the Appletini afterglow)

The Heat Is On in Chena

After almost two weeks in this Alaskan cabin, without the convenience of running water, I decided it was about time to have a bath. I felt like I could take a long hot soak for days, and that is exactly what I did.

Chena Hot Springs, renowned for its amazing restorative waters, was discovered by gold miners in 1905, who bathed in the springs to relieve their aches and pains. Everyone loves a good long soak, and people have been taking communal dips in the springs for over a century. A resort dating back to 1914 has slowly grown around the hot springs offering every kind of Alaskan activity you can imagine, including horseback riding, winter dog sledding, and hiking any number of nature trails in the area.

After dreaming of a hot bath for days, Chena Hot Springs seemed to be exactly what I needed. I decided that I would go wallow in the rock pools like a hippopotamus and treat myself to a massage. As my spirit of adventure began to grow, I had great visions of riding bareback into the sunset astride a great stallion, or bravely following bearded rangers into remote mountain passes, pursued by swarms of bat-sized mosquitoes and grizzly bears. The theme tune from Deliverance suddenly popped into my head, and after a moment's consideration, a pre-dinner Martini in the lodge seemed like a much better plan. My escapades as an action heroine could wait until tomorrow.


www.chenahotsprings.com

The Rabbit and the Outhouse

Morning sunlight was rippling through sparse branches, which were dappled with the merest hint of new buds. Spring was about to bloom.
"Hmmm..." I took a deep breath of fresh air and smiled.
A fluffy rabbit the size of a small dog suddenly burst out of a nearby thicket and hopped forward, finally stopping a few paces away from my woodland throne. He eyeballed me, ears erect, whiskers twitching.
"Pssst!"
"Shoo!"
The rabbit stared, unperturbed.
I'm not usually prone to bouts of performance anxiety but it seemed suddenly weird to take a wee with an uninvited audience, even if it was of the non-human variety.
I giggled. It was my first morning in Alaska, and of all the things I was expecting, this was not it. The rabbit leapt off, apparently startled by my laughter.

Well. This was certainly different. Already I could feel my bond with Mother Nature becoming deeper, more profound. I decided that next time, I would bring a carrot.

USA: Customary Interrogation

After a smooth and uneventful flight to Seattle, I did not anticipate the harsh grilling I was to receive at US customs and immigration. Never in all my global travels have I been delayed for so long at the passport processing area. I was greeted to the US by a nod and a curt hello. Then I had to give fingerprints and a photograph. Thirty minutes later they were still questioning me in depth about seemingly every detail of my life. Already they had asked for specific information on my job history, educational background, hobbies and interests and romantic history. They even asked me to identify my father's company logo and give his office postal code. They asked me to explain every single stamp in my passport, and then they started asking about my American host, Caleb. What he does, what he did, his romantic history - I was almost expecting them to ask next what colour underwear I'm wearing, and how I like to eat my Cadbury's Cream Eggs.

It occured to me that maybe the U.S. doesn't actually want any tourists, as they were doing a pretty good job of making me feel like some kind of dodgy criminal. One of the questions on the immigration landing form was "Are you now or have you ever been involved in mass genocide?" I thought it was a joke at first! It's a shame that people have to go through intimidation like this just for the opportunity to enter the country and support its tourism economy. I'm so pleased I don't have to go through that again anytime soon!

Needless to say, I went straight to the bar when I arrived in Seattle for my one night stop over. I was thrilled to be asked for I.D. "Wow," I said, "I haven't been asked for I.D. since I was sixteen." Two beers, and four martinis later I felt much better (and who wouldn't) and crashed out, tired, shaken and just a little bit stirred.

The Call of the Wild

I slept in late today after a restless night that was full of uneasy dreams of the epic variety: vast canyons that required the jumping skills of a tomb raider, an ocean voyage plagued by storms, and an airport with an infinitely long check in queue, where luggage is lost and then burnt in some cavernous foreign furnace - ah, wait, the last one isn't a dream, it's what's happening at London Heathrow's new Terminal 5: a system so 'advanced' that will change the future of air travel as we know it.

God help us all.

When I realised what day it was today, my heart began to pound and I was overcome by the urge to make many lists. That can mean only one thing of course: I am setting off on another great adventure. (and something very different to anything I have experienced before)

This time next week I will be in the Alaskan interior; in the heartland of 586,000 square miles of breath-taking natural beauty that I expect will surpass anything I have seen before. In the forests spring is only just awakening its inhabitants from the long deep winter, and beyond the forest, vast expanses of tundra stretch up to a horizon zig-zagged by snow-capped mountain peaks.

Ship Princess

Here's a few photos from our Caribbean cruise. My parents and I took an amazing tour around loads of caribbean islands, including Aruba, Jamaica, and Tortola which is world famous for diving!