Keep Left, Keep Left.

Today Hether and I took the island by auto. Her on scooter and me in what is the equivalent to a smart car. Barbadians, since they are a British nation and all, drive on the left side of the road. Being a passenger and sitting in the “driver’s seat” sufficiently freaked me out for the first week of being here, but today we wanted to get out and see the East coast of the island that borders the Atlantic. I had no choice.

Anderson, our cab driver, gave me the best advice: “Just keep repeating ‘Keep Left, Keep Left’ to yourself and you’ll be fine.”

I cannot count the number of times I said this to myself today.

It did help that the Bajans are by far the nicest drivers I’ve ever witnessed in the entire world. Or at least the “world” I’ve traveled in. When a driver has the right-of-way, they will actually STOP and let drivers from side roads into the flow of traffic on the regular. Mind blowing.

They also use their horns as an actual communication device; mostly to say hi to their passing friends and to let you into traffic if you are waiting on a side road. Unlike us Americans who usually use it when a douchebag cuts us off in traffic and sometimes we even accompany said horn with a visual emblem of one of our ten-digits to really illustrate our affection. Not the Barbadians. I actually cut someone off today (by accident) and they waved me on. No blast of the horn or inappropriate finger waving.

What the what? I can’t possibly get used to this or I’ll never get anywhere when I get home. And I’m also sure I’ll be telling myself “Keep Right, Keep Right.”

It was all worth it when we got to see this:

And this:

SEA > MIA > BGI

In theory, I love airports. I love airports because when I find myself in one, I am usually heading out into the world.

In reality, most airports disgust me. Their hard cold linoleum or concrete floors with infected children carrying millions of germs, wiping their snotty noses then touching the people mover rail that I will inevitably touch 10 minutes later.

It’s just a cess pool for bacteria.

Except PDX. It’s carpeted and clean. And I like to think of Oregonians as being clean individuals. [Although a trip to Hawthorne or Old Town would prove that the unwashed lurk here as well.]

I did not receive the warm fuzzy feelings I usually do at PDX walking into Sea-Tac. No Turquoise carpet; no large skylighted windows letting in the sun under its thick cloud cover. It just seemed stale with its concrete floors.

I knew my trip would be interesting when I fell into line at the Alaska ticket counter behind a woman who exhibited some very questionable behavior. She scratched her nails underneath her neck, her arms, and her hat. She wore a mysterious wrap over her wrist area which I refuse to believe was for arthritis and was probably concealing track marks.

A confused clerk answered Jitter’s questions while a security guard looked on. Apparently he shared my similar intuition and I guess has the authority to approach individuals who look like they are undergoing crack withdrawals. As I walked by them, I heard Jitters tell the security guard that she was suffering from asthma and hadn’t taken her meds.

For the record, she was breathing fine. And correct me if I’m wrong, but itching is not a side effect if you forget your inhaler. I think it’s more along the lines of wheezing and your breathing subsiding.

With Jitters out of the way and with the great line luck I was having, a very large family (in members, not in weight) had just beat me to the security line. They seemed to be saying goodbye, but all members of the family entered the line. One of the daughters of the clan asked if I would take a picture. I do. We move another 20 feet and I’m preparing for the usual security rundown. My passport is in my mouth, quart size bag full of liquids in my right hand, my purse is slung over my shoulder as I dig into it with my free hand to find my ticket when a voice asks me, “will you take another picture?”

Really? This isn’t Disneyland and it would appear that I am busy.

I don't say anything, take the smart phone, and snap another picture. This time, I didn't bother to give them a countdown.

It isn’t until about 2 minutes later that I realize they are saying goodbye to their dad. They have gifted him a homemade fun-size candy bar necklace that he is now wearing in public to show that he really does love his kids. It was probably for Father’s Day. He is wearing sunglasses to hide his tears from his 4 children but the telltale mouth quiver gives him away.

I want to offer to take another picture.

I make it through security and am awaiting my bags on the other side of the X-Ray. I see my first container come into view that holds my laptop and as I go to reach for it, a man throws his tattered Van’s shoe on top of it.

Did you really just throw your shoe on my MacBookPro?

I turn to find the owner of the tired shoe standing beside me. He looks up at me, realizing that he has no laptop and there was no reason for him to throw his shoe into any container post-X-ray screening. He feigns any understanding for the English language and giggles at me upon seeing his mistake. This is not an appropriate response for throwing your shoe on my laptop, buddy.

I post up in the Alaska lounge (brewery, not airline) to await my friend Hether's arrival from Portland. While sitting in the restaurant, I see two very familiar, although burnt faces, walking down the terminal. It’s the best friend and her fiancée and shortly after, her sis and her boyfriend. This sighting elates me as seeing anyone in an airport is exciting. They leave shortly after and almost without a lull, I hear Hether shout "You are literally right here!" Apparently her gate was closer than she had thought and this pleases her greatly.

She is anything but subtle.

And we're off. Next stop Miami.

The Gateway.

I feel like a cliche.

According to me, and debatable by others, 27 is officially the gateway age to your late twenties. "Gateways" are never good. Marijuana is the gateway drug and apparently if you smoke that, before you know it, you'll find yourself in a trailer cooking meth wondering what happened to your bicuspids and why your face has potholes in it.

Needless to say, I've always been told to stay away from gateways. Apparently, time and I have a little dilemma on our hands.

[I've never been here, but it is the gateway of the west. Maybe the exception?]

I've never had a birthday before where I was thinking, wow, 30 is in your very real future. Not that 30 is that old (this statement is simply made out of courtesy to my 30+ friends; 30 is indeed "old" to the twenty-something). But luckily, when I reach 30, I'll think that they are my best years. And the same for 40. And apparently 50. We progressively either get better at life or we say life gets better in order to cope with our mortality.

Not sure if the chicken or the egg comes first here. I'll get back to you in 3 years.

So what does this non-mainstream milestone mean? I'm not sure.

Last year on the eve of my twenty-sixth, I got inked. This was something I contemplated over for a long while as it'd be on my body, well, forever. What could I possibly want on me FOR-EV-ER? Most people don't know and do it anyway only to be reminded on their 70th birthday when they're married to Lucy that they love Mary, thanks to the heart with her name inked on it on their not-so-raging bicep. Think twice about names, folks. Unless it's your own or kin you can't divorce.

Instead of permanently burning my skin with someone's name, my sign (apparently these change too?), or chinese symbol for "peace," I decided to get a reminder.

There's only one thing I feel really strongly about and that is simply, to do everything.

Going to the places that fascinate me, eating the food that makes my mouth water and doing it all with the fantastic people I am lucky enough to have as a part of my story. So I appropriately tattooed the phrase "Experience the World" on my leg/ankle region. In Greek. Because Greece kind of changed my life. (Yes, I've been there and this cannot and shall not be compared to the Chinese symbol comment I previously made).

So to get me out of my twenties-are-going-by-incredibly-too-fast-funk, I decided to recap the year and see what I did. Did I experience the world this last year?

I did Cabo. Vegas round 6? Road tripped to Crater Lake on a whim. Participated in Sundance the sequel. Annual Newport Seafood & Wine Fest. Then I relocated to Seattle.

As long as I can look down on every passing birthday and know that I indeed have not become b-o-r-i-n-g and that I haven't fallen out of love with life, I guess I'm okay and 30 isn't so scary.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow I leave for Barbados to see my mom.