Hell’s Bells has grown to be my main partner in crime since her move to London 4 years ago.
Whether it’s having wine in our chimpanzee pyjamas from Primark whilst watching Bridget Jones, having highly inappropriate conversations about our men of the month at fancy brunch venue, scaring the posh people at the next table or partying to the sound of the 85 year old reggae DJ at Barrio East (whilst it was still cool) – we always have a blast together and there are few people that can make me laugh that hard at the most ridiculous things.
After 13 years of friendship, we have never been on a proper trip together. Not counting the school trips to Athens and Berlin aged 16 and 17 (all we recall is an old lady shouting Agamemnon at us midst Ouzo hangovers), the road trip to our friend’s birthday party in the small town three hours away from our small town or the long weekend to Mallorca (the posh end, not Magaluf). So on a mojito fuelled night out in the cold boring London winter of 2013, it was decided; we were going to Jamaica!
Actually, Cuba would do too. The Maldives? The Seychelles?
We ended up going with Dominican Republic, booking a lovely hotel where we could tan, eat, drink and be merry for a wonderful week away from gloomy London.
Not getting off to the best start, I was two hours late meeting Helen at London Bridge to take the train to good old Gatwick. It obviously didn’t help that her phone didn’t work and the last location I managed to get out of her was a friend messaging me saying that Helen is waiting for you at ‘the Narrow’. Like the pub the Narrow? Is Gordon Ramsay now also represented at London Bridge train station? After running around, trying to find the Narrow at London Bridge I find Hell’s Bells outside of Nero. So, no, Gordon Ramsay is not represented at London Bridge.
After a night at Sofitel Gatwick (where I fell asleep with wine glass in one hand and a cheese pretzel in the other like the classy lady I am), we were ready to start our holiday.
Being very tired we kept ourselves entertained by performing a duet of Macklemore’s Thrift Shop. Fellow passengers, not as entertained. Now I will leave it unsaid if this was due to our lack of talent or the fact that our version went something like ‘I’m gonna pop some… jazz? Only got 20 dollars in my pocket, la la la la-la, la la la la-la, this is fucking AWESOME’. Rest assure, we will not be applying for the X Factor this year either.
I have a long history of landing myself in the most screwed up travelling situations there has ever been. We’re talking me having to get my knee stitched up passing through security after having cut it right open, fires on the plane, various psychotic travel companions and US Marshalls arresting the guy next to me right before take-off. This time someone died.
I should probably stop travelling altogether. I realise that this isn’t funny. But seriously – why is it always my flights?
Clearly not off to the best start, we finally got on the plane, 90 minutes late and we could finally get going. Being exhausted beyond reason and having copious amounts of red wine at 11 AM promises one hell of an entertaining flight. Again, more for me and Hell’s Bells than our fellow passengers… Although I think the man next to me grew to like my impersonation of Sheldon from the Big Bang theory.
During a very speedy stop over at Antigua I and Hell’s Bells decided to get out on Antiguan soil to tick it off our bucket list as well. Apparently when the staff tells you to stay in your seat as they are literally just letting new passengers on the plane they actually mean that literally. They also have very little tolerance to ‘the air is free’ jokes.
Finally arriving in Punta Cana, we are greeted by a reggae band at what is the second smallest airport I have ever seen and ushered to the transfer area where we have to try and recall what little Spanish we did learn in high school. Somehow we felt that ordering strawberry ice cream and correctly identifying the colour of our grandfather’s bicycle wasn’t going to cut it.
Once in the car, we could only hope that we had managed to
get the driver the correct address and also that he wasn’t going to kill us and
sell us for spares. Driving through a jungle with oddly shaped fires on the
ground did not put us at ease. In fact, by the time we arrived at the hotel I
was convinced we’d be part of a ritual killing and that someone would be having
my recently manicured foot for dinner. Maybe this is why people accuse me of
being judgemental.
So, after 11 hours on a plane, no ritual killings and only
the one death – this show was finally on the road!
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| Getting close! |
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| First steps at Dominican Republic and first glance at a Caribbean sunset. |
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