From China to the Dominican Republic

The wedding was simple, all except for getting there. Barefoot and flip-flop simple. Pant-legs billowed and Ana’s dress swirled—with the small gathering of Brazilians and US-Americans squinting against blowing sand, straining to hear the thoughtfully chosen words of the marrying-man, Nick.  A groom’s forgotten line here, a bride’s wink there, a happy tear down the groom’s cheek. This was a joyous occasion. Brazilian nieces let the wind empty their baskets when they’d forgotten to drop more than a petal or two. Good food, good dancing (well, I admittedly don’t qualify as a judge, but we were all out there), good mingling of people, most from somewhere in the Americas. Here comes the sun. (Yep, Chris chose the Beatles over Mendelssohn.)

 Words fail to describe my joy reuniting with Chris, Ben, Nick and those few family members who could make this special occasion, knowing it was impossible for most to even consider it. (And, in my book, all who were there were family.) Chris, Ben, and Nick—I won’t see them again until late 2014. I wouldn’t have missed this wedding for anything, even if it wasn’t exactly simple getting there from China. 

March 30, 2013

 Getting there from China meant watching an orange moon rise in an Arctic night sky, meant experiencing the New York skyline zoom in closer and closer until it turned into an asphalt runway, and meant standing on one foot and then the other in immigration lines under the spacious thatched roof pavilions in the Punta Cana airport in the Dominican Republic.

That, of course, was the easy part. Getting there from China also meant following rules, ranging from the incredibly important to the marginally so. Absolutely supportive as my Peace Corps and university colleagues were, the paperwork for permissions started almost a year ago and dwarfed my Peace Corps medical form (something that took my doctor 63 pages and half a year to complete). Then, thanks to the brilliant idea of a school secretary, my spring schedule was altered to accommodate the wedding—with classes compressed after my return so I technically would not violate any school rules by leaving the country.

Rules. Interesting what rules are on a trip that required waiting in so many lines with so many rubber stamps pounding paper--I counted over 300 people ahead of me in a customs line at JFK; rules where, over the Pacific, a very concerned pilot reported that someone had been caught smoking in the bathroom; rules on an aircraft where, just before touching down in Chongqing, half the passengers started rummaging through the overhead bins and had to be re-seated.

Most of these rules, including the Peace Corps and university ones, concern basic safety and must be taken seriously. However, I was given occasion to have my doubts about some rules, twice in Punta Cana, first when I was seated by Gate 8 reading Dreaming in Chinese. As I read on, a name that sounded vaguely familiar occasionally punctuated my consciousness. It certainly was not my name, but after the hundredth time I heard it, I thought I’d better make sure. Oh, were the officials relieved! They indeed thought they were calling my name and they were sorry to report that there was a problem in my suitcase. One TSA in a crisp white blouse marched me past a dozen thatched-roof buildings to a shed at the far end of the runway. She was sweating and said it was hot, even by Dominican Republic standards, which is all I understood because my Spanish is worse than my Chinese, which I kept absent-mindedly using. I was seated in a folding metal chair before a metal table, a single overhead light bulb, and two other uniformed people. My suitcase was crammed full because dear ones had brought me items from the US—Ann brought next year’s winter uniform (a coat I intend to move into in about November and move out of sometime in early March), various CDs my sister-in-law brought, many bars of chocolate that Nick surprised me with, and so on. I barely got it zipped close in the first place, and I had no idea how I, usually a light traveler, was going to do so again. They rummaged and rummaged with all the non-clothes items spilling onto the floor. Ah! In a mailing package on the bottom was the mysterious object that had flummoxed the security personnel. Index cards! A friend who met me at JFK brought something I can use in my TEFL classes—index cards. Ten or so minutes later, the TSA had escorted me back to Gate 8 and we were told to march out onto the runway, where scores of us proceeded to stand waiting for another twenty minutes under the high sun while the TSA looked for something else.

But the rules the TSA dreams up are nothing compared to those that airlines insist upon when they have to reschedule flights they really don’t want to reschedule.  Bad weather in Hong Kong led to hundreds of flights needing to be rescheduled, and I was just one of thousands of stranded passengers on Easter weekend. Personnel for Cathay Pacific and China Air played badminton with me in Hong Kong, while personnel for Cathay Pacific and JetBlue continued the game in New York City. All were constrained by various rules—and “problems” their databases had logging in this and that new flight information. Right?

I discovered, though, that stranded passengers help each other (sharing ways to recharge tech toys, extending bits of chocolate, going out of their way to show what can’t be translated); I discovered that it’s possible to endure drills grinding through airport walls all night here and loudspeakers blaring taxi information all night there; and I discovered that some “rules” that impede rescheduling can be dealt with. Among my airport heroes are the Air China woman in Hong Kong who suddenly appeared out of the shadows at 5:00 in the morning next to me when I got in line at Cathay Pacific and Coral, the Spaniard at JFK who got off work and then spent another two hours haggling with Dominique at Jet Blue. Okay, these two may have just been doing their jobs, but they seemed to be getting me to the wedding. They summarily ended squabbles about “because of this I can’t do that. . . .” Fifty-eight hours after Xiao Kairong picked me up at Ban Zhu Cun in Beibei, I saw the palm trees giving Punta Cana its name and sighted a member of the wedding.

Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

Having nothing to do with rules, there were other delights, including the handsome young Chinese couple seated next to me on the return flight to China. They listened and giggled each time one of three nearby babies burst out crying again—the man lifting his finger, seemingly orchestrating what would evolve from solo to duet to trio. He laughed each time he took it upon himself to conduct some more.  That’s the spirit—a spirit I sorely lacked at certain moments coming and going.

Like many adventures, getting to the wedding from China was part of the story, but the very best part without a doubt was being with Chris, Ana, Ben, and Nick on March 30^th and 31^st.

Students wanted Chris and Ana to have this traditional Chinese wedding image -
the phoenix and the dragon