ROATAN, Honduras A Very Determined Man edges his suitcase in front of mine at the Roatan airport.
Amigo, I think not. After years in Italy, I elbow with the best of 'em.
He inches forward. I flip my shawl, adjust my hair and shift, casually outflanking his front foot. He angles his baggage aggressively. I sigh so aggrieved, a lone gringa and kick the Delsey well in front. It rockets forward on four wheels: good investment, that.
As in many endeavors, my concentration and malice flag. Determined Man beats me to the pip.
"You're a big man. You're in a BIG hurry. Go on ahead," I patronize.
He catches my meaning, I hope. Nevertheless, he smirks and swaggers to the counter. I try to stare down my nose, which isn't long enough and flips into, well, into what might be kindly called a "retroussé" style (think young Jane Fonda ... if you can weather the queasiness).
And then, boarding passes in hand, we proceed to wait. And wait and wait and wait. Flights are delayed. The loudspeaker is inscrutable. I appear to be the only sober foreigner in the room, so all the rest rush up for translations.
"Is this my call?"
"I have no idea. I don't speak Spanish."
They persist. Must be that travel writer sense of authority. Si, certo.
Like all stranded foreigners, we work out a system. A reluctant spokesmodel, I communicate in English or pigeon Italo-Spanish with someone who understands the announcements. Then the info ripples outward. All this makes me weary, far beyond the boost of caffeine.
Finally, I'm shoveled onto what appears to be a Soviet plane of my vintage. Nah, wait, box-nosed and blunt-winged, it might be a contemporary of my parents... At any rate, the mosquito fleet lacks air conditioning. I sweat to La Ceiba, then stumble to the tarmac, glance up and BAM.
My dive buddy Nathan told me about this wolf-fang peak, but it was shrouded in clouds last time I transferred through.
Pico Bonito: pretty peak.