14. Hurry Up and Wait

At 5:00 AM my alarm clock went off just like, well… clockwork. The only other things that I had taken out of my suitcase last night were my toothbrush, paste and razor so I didn’t have to waste time getting reorganized. I smiled as I stepped gingerly into the shower. It was a private joke. When I was married, and Jennifer would tell me that she was going to go hop in the shower I would playfully admonish her by pointing out how dangerous it was to “hop” in a shower: you might slip and crack your head open. It became part of the routine. She would announce her intention to hop in the shower and I would ask, “You’re going to do what?” to which she would respond, “I’m going to step gingerly into the shower.” I can’t imagine why that marriage didn’t last.

It felt so good to take a long, hot shower, as if the soap and lather were washing away the trials and tribulations of the past 12 hours along with the grit and the grime. The water kneaded my tired muscles. The steam opened up my lungs. Remind me to move indoor plumbing into the number one spot of things I can’t live without. Gold Rush brownies can take a back seat for a while.

I got dressed, pulled on my jacket, threw the backpack over my shoulder, grabbed up my suitcase, opened the door, walked out into the hall and took my first blind steps toward leaving La Gomera. Blind, because it was pitch black. In order to conserve energy all the hall lights were on timers. Switches outside the doors turned them on if you were coming or going after hours. I reached for the switch, snapped on the lights and made my way towards the stairs.

I had taken my key with me just in case I forgot something but when I got to the lobby it was still closed so I left the key inside the gate by the foot of the door. Dawn comes late to this side of the island, as the sun has to rise above the mountains to make its appearance. It was still essentially night then as I walked down the wide, open sidewalk under a canopy of stars. I reveled the opportunity to see such a magnificently star-filled sky one last time. Orion, Cassiopeia, Canis major and minor as well as Ursa major and minor kept me company. Somewhere to my right I could hear waves lapping against the black lava rocks that littered the island, forming what little coastal beach there is.

Life at the harbor was beginning to stir. I went into the ferry office and bought a one-way to San Sebastian. I already had my return ticket on the faster Fred Olsen Express that would take me last 40 minutes to Los Cristianos, on Tenerife. There weren’t many people buying tickets. I’m guessing that most people are coming to the island; not leaving it. I walked over to a café that overlooked the harbor. There were probably a half dozen men sitting at the bar inside. Judging by their dress and demeanor I’m guessing that they were fisherman. Most sipped on strong, black coffee. One drank a beer. I took my coffee and sat outside at a little bistro table, under a dim, yellow light that was mounted under the eaves. Out in the harbor I could see several fishing crews prepping their boats for the day’s catch. Their activity was silhouetted against the lights on their decks and was echoed by the reflections in the calm dark water. The result was a liquefied dance of fireflies.

It wasn’t until I was pouring sugar in my cup that I realized that I was at the same café where Cerstin had waited for me to arrive, 5 days ago. It’s amazing just how much life you can cram into a few days.

The huge diesel engines of the Garajonay Exprés came to life. I collected myself and my bags and strolled over to the gangway that awkwardly straddled the space between the dock and the boat. I stowed my bags (as I believe that is the correct nautical term) in the storage area just inside the cabin door and made my way towards the front, where I took a port side seat by the window. Not that it made for better viewing. The lights of the cabin reflected back the interior of the ship and, aside from the afore mentioned fishing boats, there were no other lights to be seen.

The ferry began to pull away from the dock. I could feel my body relax into the seat as either I formed to the contours of it, or it, me. I was finally on my way. The atmosphere in the cabin was subdued as most of the passengers had fallen back to sleep. My only company was a bad video dub of an old Jacque Cousteau special that emanated from small monitors mounted near the ceiling around the cabin. I expected it to be about the aquatic life and beauty of the Canary Islands. Instead, it featured their attempts to photograph hippopotamuses by building a fiberglass hippo body, sticking a camera in the mouth, and have two guys inside it walk into the herd in order to film hippos doing whatever it is that hippos do.

There was one quick stop at the second port before we swung round the southeast side of the island and made our way to the main harbor in San Sebastian. Dawn was peeking curiously through a curtain of low clouds: a gauze fabric of the deepest cerulean, like a theatre scrim used to hide the scenery until a light is shined upon it. The coast of La Gomera began to take shape, though my view of the island was streaked and smeared by a build up of sea salt and grime on the windows; creating a vista that seemed appropriately out of focus.

As we arrived in San Sebastian I could see the yellow and blue Fred Olsen ferry moored to the dock space in front of us. Its titanic, hulking form looming ominously over us. Normally “titanic” is not a word you want to use in describing a ship, but let’s face it; you read about these things sinking off the coast of African at least once a week. We had just coasted into our slip when the water behind the Fred Olsen ferry began to churn violently and this leviathan began to pull away from the dock. Well that was certainly ill timed I thought. There was no way I could have made that connection. So, it seemed as if the decision had been made for me: I’d just stay aboard and take this smaller passenger ferry over to Los Cristianos. We were moored for only about five minutes before we cast off from the dock to follow in the wake of the Fred Olsen Express.

An announcement came over the PA system, all garbled and blown out from the tinny speakers embedded in the ceiling. It was in Spanish. So unless they said the words “margaritas” or “papas” I was blissfully ignorant. Next came the German version. I never noticed what an unattractive language that was. Again, I listened but couldn’t recognize any key words or phrases. Finally, almost as an after thought, came the English version. If this had been an abandon ship alert we now know who’s going to die.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard the Garajonay Exprés to Los Cristianos…”
I was falling asleep.
“…. Please have your tickets available to show the stewards.”
I was awake.

I’m beginning to think that, just maybe, trusting Cerstin’s advice isn’t necessarily the best way for me to live me life. I watched as the attendants made their way through the cabin, going from person to person to check their tickets. I stood up and handed my ticket to one of them. When he saw that I had only booked as far as San Sebastian a worried look came over him. I held out my money; which I hoped was the international sign for, “Tell me how much more the fare is and I’ll pay it.” He looked at me, muttered a noncommittal, “Momento” and left.

After awhile he returned with another attendant; the same woman that had sold me the ticket in the first place.

“You did not tell me you were going to Los Cristianos when you bought your ticket.” Her tone surpassed suspicion. It bordered on accusatory.

“I hadn’t planned on staying aboard.” I proffered. “Look. I have a ticket for the Fred Olsen Express but it left before we got there.” I waved the ticket in front of her. She was unmoved. About this time a uniformed officer of some sort joined our round table discussion. They conversed in Spanish. It didn’t sound as if they were going to offer me a drink or any potatoes. The woman’s demeanor suggested she was leaning toward having me arrested. The officer just waved his hand, turned on his heel and left.

The woman wrote something in her notebook. “€18,25” She snapped.

I peeled off a €20 note and handed it to her. “I’m very sorry for the trouble.”

She pulled out a coin purse, ripped a receipt out of her book and handed them both to me: all without comment. I sat back down and tried to enjoy the remainder of the approximately 45 minute journey. The TV monitors flickered to life. Oh look… Philippe is gaining the trust of the baby hippo….

There were no further traumas. We docked in Los Cristianos and made our way off the boat. I was almost the last to disembark. Most of the cabs had already left with their fares. I approached the queue and stood behind a mother, father and teenage daughter. Obviously from Germany. A taxi pulled up. The father turned to me and asked if I’d like to share the cab with them? I gratefully accepted. We threw our things in the trunk and then they hopped in the back and I climbed in beside the driver. I turned slightly in my seat.

“Woher kommen Sie?” I asked
“Hamburg. And you?”
“Los Angeles. ”
“Los Angeles? An why did you come all the way to La Gomera?”

I thought about all the possible answers. About the obvious German connections and how, had it not been for a chance encounter with Cerstin in a smoky cellar jazz club in Berlin, I would never have thought about coming to the Canary Islands. I considered explaining that I worked as a tour guide at Kodak Theatre and how I had a month off while the Academy Awards ceremony was being prepared. I could have told them that I was going to London to meet an RAF pilot that had shot down Germans in the Battle of Britain and that this was a stop over. In the end I settled for the easiest explanation.

“I came for the mountain climbing,”

We rode in silence the rest of the way. At the airport we said our goodbyes and split the fare. It was 8:30 AM. when I walked into the terminal. The Sur Reina Sofia airport is probably twice as big as the Burbank’s Bob Hope airport. The only terminal is one large cavernous space. It’s sort of divided into two sides with a few restaurants and shops occupying the center. The generic ticket counters run along length of the back wall. A large departure board on either side of the terminal announces which counter will service which flight. So upon entering, I wasn’t able to walk up to the British Airways counter and inquire about an early flight out, as there was no British Airways counter.

The tote board only listed flights two hours in advance. If you were going to Seville you would wait until the board told you which counter to proceed to and then you would queue accordingly. In the meantime you had little choice but to sit in the main terminal and twiddle your thumbs.

I had a couple of time restraints that were weighing on me. One was trying to get out. The other was to not run into Cerstin. I think her flight was at 1:30. Knowing that she was leaving Valle Gran Rey at 10:30, that should put her here a little after noon. In the meantime, I was hungry. My choices were Burger King, a Spanish restaurant/bar and a cafeteria-type food court. I felt like I was straddling two worlds; one foot in Tenerife, the other foot in London. I decided that my foray back into the real world should begin with breakfast. I had done the island diet for five days. It was time to live a little.

“I’ll have a double cheese burger, large fries and a Coke.”

Never has bad food tasted so good. After that, I wandered around the terminal. I’d look up at the big board when I got to either side to see if a London flight had appeared. There was a duty free shop and an all-purpose store catering to the last minute shopping whims of the tourist class. I was dying for an English newspaper but the only thing they had were British tabloids with screaming headlines about some footballer’s wife that had posed nude or a scandal involving a Member of Parliament. Perhaps it was the same story.

I chose instead to sit out in the main terminal and read. Hours crept by. I’d walk around some more just to keep the circulation in my legs going. Ten o’clock came and went. Eleven… and still nothing to London. Not surprisingly, all the flights listed were going to either Germany or somewhere in Spain. The left side of the terminal began to show flights heading away from the Fatherland. I saw a Paris flight and one to Dublin. Somehow this end of the terminal seemed a better place to hang out. It was after noon and I knew that Cerstin must be here by now. I thought about what I would do if I saw her. I suppose it would depend on whether she saw me seeing her. I imagined looking up from my book and there she’d be; standing there. Luggage by her side. Looking up at the big board. I’d stand and stare at her. She’d look down and see me. I’d slowly approach. She’d look anxious. I’d walk up to her and give her a long, hard hug. And then I’d turn, without saying a word and walk away. In some respects that’s all I wanted to do from the very beginning of this trip. I hate to use the word “closure”. I hadn’t wanted our relationship, however awkward it had become to remain that way. I wanted it to end on my terms, which, I guess was to say, that there’s still a place for civility and kindness. That just because two people had wildly different views of how life should be lived it didn’t mean that they couldn’t enjoy some common ground.

As I sat there fantasizing about our encounter I knew that it would never happen. She was too single-minded of purpose. For reason’s known only to her she needed to sever the ties. Maybe she knew that an emotional slap in the face was the only way to wake me up to the reality that we would never be together. That by hurting me now, and in this way, I would get on with my life. I know she never believed that I had.
Whatever the reasons and whatever the causes, it was over. I sat on one of the marginally uncomfortable, black leatherette airport chairs and continued to read. If Cerstin had wanted to find me she could have, She didn’t: on either count.

Time crawled by more slowly than it does for a five-year old on Christmas Eve. City announcements came and went. By two o’clock I knew that Cerstin was gone. Now, at least, I had some sense of finality. An hour later the British Airways window opened. I asked them about an earlier flight. She looked at my ticket a moment and returned it to me. “That is the early flight.” I felt like the Cowardly Lion outside the Emerald City when the gatekeeper slammed the door shut after telling them that no one saw the great OZ. It looked as if I would be spending 12 hours in the Tenerife airport. I felt emptiness in my stomach. I was hungry again.

Another delicious meal at Burger King. The grease and high fat content was comforting; like wearing a warm, fuzzy sweater on the inside.

I called Alan and Tina to check in with them; to see is Alan had found some way to make it to London and meet Bob Doe with me. He was going to be stuck at home with the kids. When I told him what had happened to me he suggested that I come back to Manchester and hang out with him. I thanked him and said that I really needed to do what I had set out to do. He suggested that I grab a taxi and go down to the beach and relax as opposed to sitting in the airport all day. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Perhaps because there was no way to check in my bags, or anywhere to stow them, I decided not to go to the beach. I did however walk outside and across the street where I laid down on a low stonewall next to where the tour busses waited for their passengers and enjoyed the sun and tropical air.

Around six o’clock I wandered back into the airport. Still no information on my flight. At six-thirty I checked back to find that the London-Gatwick flight was now listed. I took my place in line behind a couple of families from the UK and a family from somewhere in the South: my guess was Atlanta or South Carolina. Normally I would have stuck up a conversation about “Where y’all from?” and “Do you know So-and-So?” but today it just seemed like too much trouble.

As I stood there, deciding not to interact with anyone, an elfin man with ruddy complexion and wild Andy Rooney-esque eyebrows approached me. As this was the only line for a flight to London-Gatwick he asked me what time my flight was. I told him 8:20. He showed me his ticket, which said that the flight was at 8:00. Same flight number. I told him that I hoped his was the correct time, as I wouldn’t mind leaving a bit earlier. I pointed out the British Airways ticket office and he wandered over there to inquire. A few minutes later he returned, saying his itinerary was misprinted. 8:20 was correct.

I stepped up to the counter and requested seat 21F. At least I knew that I’d have legroom. It would be night as we flew back so the lack of a window, at my window seat, wasn’t a concern. With a ticket in hand I was finally able to proceed through to the Gate area. Here I was greeted by more stores and places to eat. It wasn’t much better but the change of scenery was much appreciated. I found a British Pub, or rather the chain restaurant/airport version of a British Pub. I sat down in an over-stuffed leather reading chair and enjoyed a pint of bitters and a small tin of curry Pringles. It was then that I realized just how exhausted I was. I drained the glass and ordered another. I waited for the announcement to board the plane and leave this paradise behind.