Sam's Letter Misfortune Bad Bajans! Transportation Housing Fauna Submarine Trip Croton Inn Not-so-good Tour Good Tour		Some Initial Misfortune I arrived in Barbados on Thursday with decidedly mixed results. The trip is about 16 hours from start to finish so I anticipated it would something of a strain. But at the end when I had the same flight number from Dallas to Miami and then from Miami to Barbados, I thought it would be an easy one-hour layover, no plane change, get off, have a bite to eat, get back on. Not to be. First of all the Miami Airport has got to be the worst airport of its size in the world. Why the rich people put up with it I'll never know. Private jets perhaps. I gotta tell you the President and the Governor and even the royal parents ought to be ashamed. (For you indifferent Central Americans, Europeans and others on the list, this is a whole Bush family of politicians.) And even though we had the same flight number and crew, including pilot and co-pilot, we had a MAJOR gate change. The airport admitted (in writing, on a sign on the wall) it would be a 35 minute walk. And we were already late for international check-in when we landed. They resolved this problem by setting departure back 45 minutes. Didn't tell us, though, don't know if they told the crew. This 35 minute walk (for a 20-year-old with no luggage), wound up and down and around Dade County, through back corridors, where you expected to come across the laundry room, or perhaps a torture chamber any second, and included an elevator ride with no indication of whether you should go up or down and in which, my intrepid partners and I finally discovered, only one of the 2 dozen or so buttons would work. So, no airport dinner. Peanut M & Ms and celery sticks made a small dent and then they served us a ham sandwich and potato chips on the plane, so that was better. Even better, this plane had gin and the movie was "Pride and Prejudice" (quite lovely, hard to watch on these weinie screens, need to rent it when I get back). So I was feeling reasonably chipper until we landed and they announced that I and two other passengers should check with attendants at the bottom of the stairs. You guessed it, no luggage. Got in line for Immigration (dead last by now), wait, wait, wait. Finally get to the head of the line, turn in the forms, whoops, can't be in pencil, go back and start over. Eventually got through that and went to have my round with lost luggage, then shuffle the forms back and forth to customs for signatures and stamps (lied about the raisins I still had left). Finally came out of the terminal looking for my ride--not there. (It turned out the driver had asked the customs man if there was anyone left and he said no, so…) Got a taxi, woke up two sets of guest house owners trying to figure out where to go. But I got here, a little weepy, a lot tired. Karma continued a little off today, but getting better. The other guest here, a nice young German named Hans, offered to show me the way to the beach, so I went. Then Hans left to get ready for his plane and I read my book and people-watched and had lunch. I'll tell a little about that because it was really nice. The beach is called Miami Beach (perhaps not a good omen). It has gorgeous white sand, clear turquoise water and beach plum, a few almond trees and whole row of tall, whispy pine-looking casuarina trees (from Australia) so there's lots of nice shade. You can rent a lounge chair and the people-watching is excellent. Mostly white people, lots of Germans, Brits and US citizens, in varying shades of tanning and burning and many folks in bikinis (both male and female) who should know better. And probably do, but don't care. Lunch was fried fish, salad and corn and apple juice, $4 US from a nice woman who cooks at home and then brings everything in ice chests. The trouble began when I thought I was about half-way back to the Guest House (called Fairview BTW, but it didn't have one). Although much of this area still looks pretty much the same to me, I was certain I hadn't walked past that burned out house on the way down. So I headed for the nearest rum shop to ask questions. Although it said Open, any fool knows they don't really open until dark (here's a nice-looking rum shop, more about its architecture later). So I sat there a while panting and looking around for a taxi. God knows what I was going to tell them since I knew very little about where I was staying, having expected to walk back home with Hans. Eventually a nice young couple came and took me in hand. What is the name of the Guest House? Don't know. What street? Don't know. Could you find it if in a vehicle? No. Name of the proprietors? Carolyn and her husband. What else do you know? Um, it's on a hill, she's German, he's Barbadian, it was his childhood home, was rented out and burned, so they came back from Germany to fix it up and live in it. They consulted an old woman weeding her yard. Nope, not this neighborhood. Okay, nothing for it but to go to the Police Station. Egad! I haven't even been here 24 hours. Answer all the questions with stupidity again for several levels of officials, on top of which I didn't have my passport with me. But this time, we were in luck. A handsome Lt. (I think) knew exactly the house and so drove me home. Whew. I didn't get his picture, but here is the police station (and library toward the front). And THEN, while I was napping to recover, this handsome Lt. appeared at the door again. Seems I had left my key/whistle/flashlight keychain in the cop car! "Don't worry, " I said, "I'll get better after I've had some rest." "No, no, don't YOU worry. I'll look after you." So now I have my very own police guardian. Don't know his name, but I know the name of the precinct. This wasn't even the end of my first day, but that was the end of the karma problems. No, wait, when my bag finally arrived after a lot more confusion and phone calls, the screen to my laptop was splintered. Still useable, but it the damned baggage inspectors had put it back where it was, it was well-protected. Oh, well. Next