Honeymoon: On Our Way  − 23 June, 1997

We boarded the plane bright-eyed and ready for our tropical escape.  Then the stories about Jamaica my cousin Chris told me at the reception starting clawing their way back into my thoughts.

As we made ourselves as comfortable as possible in the Cattle Class section of the plane, I started to seriously second-guess myself.  The door wasn'd closed yet...  still time to avoid getting mugged in a foreign country.  Oh, crap.  This was one of those situations you never figure you'll be in.

I saw that my new wife was watching me with an odd expression.  She denies it to this day, but I'm positive she thought I was freaking out about being married and was considering busting out the plane window and making good my escape back to bachelorhood.

No, sweetheart, I'm just worried I put our lives in mortal danger less than two days after we got married.

Before I lost control of my bowels, I decided I had to tell her.  I laid it all out -- recounting word-for-word my cousin's terrifying stay in Jamaica.  When I was done, I fully expected we'd be grabbing our stuff from the overhead and making a mad dash for plane door before it closed.  So, what did my wife do?

She shrugged and waved her hand dismissively.

What the fuck?  Maybe she didn't hear me over the sound of the engines.

No, she assured me that she had heard me just fine: it's just that there's nothing to be concerned about.

Here's the thing; my wife at this point was already a seasoned world traveller, having lived several years in Malaysia when she was in junior high.  She has been to places and seen things that would make Jamaica seem like Mayberry.  Nothing extreme or anything, but she reminded me that every country has its problems and crime.  She assured me it wouldn't be much different than traveling around the US.

Essentially, she thought my cousin was a pussy.

Damn, I'm in love with that woman.

We landed late in the evening at Montego Bay.  The warm humidity wrapped around us as we stepped off the plane.  I was immediately left with the impression that we were in a third-world country -- my limited travel experience at this point effectively invalidated any impressions, though.

A couple of very nice, rotund women were singing some sort of "Welcome to Jamaica" song as we approached the baggage claim.  They looked tired and exceedingly bored of the song, similar to the expressions you'll see on Bennigan's waiters as they sing their "Happy, Happy Birthday" song for the nth time that day.  I sure thought it was a nice touch, though.

The baggage claim was a massive cluster fuck.  I sure as hell wasn't going to approach that mob.  Fortunately, the resort had a few staff there and waded right in and snagged everyone's bags, not a single piece went missing.  Damn impressive.

There were several couples headed to the same resort, and we were separated into smaller groups for the ride to the resort.  The resort turned out to be only a few minute's drive from the airport, so it wasn't long before we were dragging our bags down the path to get checked in.

At this point, it is after midnight, so we and another couple had to register in small office rather than the lobby desk.  The manager gave us all bags full of chintzy resort schwag -- loud t-shirts, lotions, etc.  Then she checked the other couple in to their room and got them on their way.

Finally got to us and our 2nd best room (tee-hee!).  Well, it must have been a slow week, because they upgraded us to the BEST suite at the resort -- the Prime Minister's Suite.  Nice.

A bell hop (is that what they're called?) took us to our suite.  Very nice.  It was its own separate little "house".  We were on the second floor (the Presidential Suite was on the first).  Great view from the balcony overlooking the beach and the ocean; and we were right on the beach.  You know, this suite was actually bigger than my apartment in Ohio.

It had been a long day, so we turned in.  Tomorrow we would start enjoying our honeymoon.