Passing the time until our noon flight to Cancun boarded, we sat in the terminal at Midway Airport, just past the end of the mechanized walkway. A recorded message played loudly over and over, “CAUTION! THE MOVING WALKWAY IS ENDING! ... CAUTION! THE MOVING WALKWAY IS ENDING!” This blaring voice blended in with the sounds of children crying, doors opening and closing, feet shuffling over the floor, someone across the way snoring, and the voice in my head telling me to breathe deeply and relax, for after all, “the moving walkway was ending”. I closed my eyes and tried to shut out all of the noise, finding some inner peace in reflecting on the morning.
As our journey had begun that morning, the sun had already begun to rise, shedding its first light on the light haze that lay over the valley. Ritsuko and I had made our last check of the house, and said our good-byes to our cats, Eeper and Smoochi, who would no doubt have an adventure of their own, being alone in the house for the next ten days except for the occasional visit from a neighbor. We then pulled out of the driveway and into the early morning haze, headed for Chicago.
The patchy haze obscured our view of the newly risen sun that had begun to flood the Mississippi valley with light as we crossed the I-80 bridge. The river was coming to life with early morning barge traffic, with a tug pushing a long line of barges downstream under the bridge as we glided overhead in our perpendicular path, leaving Iowa and entering Illinois.
In the many times that we have flown into or out of Chicago, we had always gone through O'Hare. This was to be our first trip out of Midway. From our home the drive to Midway is a completely different route than the one to O'Hare. To get to O'Hare, we cross northern Illinois and enter the Chicago area on I-88, the east west tollway, through the western suburbs to I-294 into the northwest, never really getting close to the gritty heart of the city of Chicago. The route is almost sterile in comparison to our journey that day. Going to Midway, we cross Illinois on I-80, becoming a part of the massive daily transcontinental flow of humanity, until transitioning onto I-55, which takes us up into Chicago’s near west inner city. While O'Hare has expressway access all the way into the airport, in order to get to Midway, one must drive on the surface streets for several blocks between I-55 and the airport. This takes one right into the Chicago town of Cicero, driving on streets upon which many people with no connection to the airport live, work, and play. When going to O'Hare, I feel as though it could be anywhere, but going to Midway, I know that I'm in Chicago -- I can feel the city holding me in its hands as I pass through it.
Just like in many other big cities where the majority of the air traffic has shifted in the past 40 or so years to a bigger more remote airport, the older, smaller, close-in airport still serves a vital function; such is the case with Midway. With the airport being so small it has a different atmosphere. The people who work there seemed to be friendlier than at O'Hare, perhaps it is because they are less bewildered by the relatively smaller volume of the sea of humanity who’s flow they must guide. Whatever the reason, we seemed to be less harried by the time that we finally reached the point where “CAUTION! THE MOVING WALKWAY IS ENDING!” The recorded voice once again pierced through my consciousness, bringing me back to reality. Ritsuko was nudging me, as the first boarding call was given for our flight.
As we settled into our seats on the crowded 737, a young couple with three children, who had been sitting behind us in the terminal, crowded into the seats in front of us, with the husband sitting in the aisle seat across from me. He definitely got the better part of the seating arrangement in that his wife, who was sitting directly in front of me had the 18 month old little girl in her lap, with the other two children of eight and of three years old, in the adjacent seats. I quietly shared this observation with him, and he smiled sheepishly. It became blatantly obvious to me that I would not be able to sleep on this flight as the little girl screamed on and on. Even though she was to keep me awake for the entire flight, the little girl was just so adorable that I couldn't be upset. I have always felt that cuteness is the major defense mechanism of small children, and that most females of the human species become so adept at using this defense mechanism as children that they tend to carry it with them well into adulthood. Little Samantha charmed the entire first six rows of the airplane, including the male flight attendant who had charge of the forward part of the cabin. In between bouts of screaming, she would walk about, looking at everyone, smiling, and just being cute. I had struck up a conversation with her father, and I think that this gave me some degree of credibility with Sam, for she would trust me to hold her blanket momentarily in order to give her more freedom when walking up and down a very short section of the aisle, checking out the passengers in neighboring rows.
The flight attendant deserved a medal for his work on this flight. He became Sam’s buddy, bringing her whatever she wanted including extra cookies , and even opening the plastic packages for her, and I think that he did his best to make the parents feel less self conscious about the fact that their daughter had the dubious distinction of being the center of attention of the passengers in the forward part of the plane.
This trip to Cancun was the family’s first big trip, and they had been planning it for a long time. Although I would have really loved to sleep on that flight, it was heartwarming to see this thoughtful young couple who did not want to take a vacation without taking the whole family. As we arrived in Cancun, we said our good-byes to them all, and I told Sam’s dad that I would love to see her reaction the first time the surf hits her little feet. “Maybe”, he said laughingly, “you will be able to hear her all the way across the bay.”
Cancun -- another airport, more lines, more hassles, and for us that day, the moving walkway had not yet ended. Fortunately, we were able to get through the airport with minimum delay. There was no line at immigration, and after wait of only a couple of minutes in the customs line, we got the green light. Before long, and after only having to shake off a couple of airport leeches, we were in a taxi headed to Puerto Juarez. The taxi stank pretty badly, and making it worse, was some kind of perfumed air freshener. The driver was a really nice guy, who was very proud of the fact that his air conditioner worked so well. I didn't have the heart to tell him that we wanted to open the windows because his car stank. Also, I was rather concerned about the mechanical condition of the car, and did not want to distract him. This is probably a time when being a car guy is detrimental to the pleasure of the trip. He had some serious front suspension problems, and his check engine light and ABS light were on. I just hoped that the moving walkway wouldn't end before PJ. We were really glad when we finally arrived at PJ, and could walk on solid ground and breathe fresh air again.
The ferry was waiting, and we were among the first people to board. It was one of the smaller boats, so we put our bags in the floor up front, and sat in the second row next to the window, jubilant in our the realization that we were almost there as we watched the other passengers board the ferry. The passengers seemed to be the usual mix of locals and tourists, some happy, some tired, some of whom were arriving with bags, some without luggage apparently returning from a trip to the mainland. A mid 20ish couple with a lot of luggage sat down in the row in front of us, looking quite tired. I said hello, and they seemed cordial, but looked like they really didn't want to talk, in fact the woman looked as though she didn't feel well, so I left them alone. Ritsuko and I sat next to one another, smiling, giggling like little kids, as the ferry cut across the bay to Isla.
Walking from the ferry dock, everything looked so familiar now, this being our third visit. When we left Iowa, the temperature was about 50 degrees F; now we were in 90 degree heat and high humidity as we walked, sweating, behind the tricycle man on our way to Maria del Mar. The trike man smiled as when I asked him to stop while I went into a tienda to buy some water and cerveza, and upon arriving at the hotel, I tipped him well for being so patient. I love the fact that the trike men don't charge a tariff, but instead trust you to tip them fairly. I am quite sure that I pay way more than they would ask if it were a tariff system, simply because I appreciate the mutual trust of the system of working solely for tips.
Being Sunday afternoon, it seemed to take forever to get checked into our room, but once we were finally there, we dumped our bags on the extra bed, opened a couple of the bottles of Cerveza Superior, walked outside, sat out on the front porch of our room, looked out at the white sand that extended from our porch to the turquoise water, listened to the palm trees rustle in the gentle breeze, smelled the moist, rich sea air, and best of all, we realized that “the moving walkway had finally ended”.
