Escaping Irma

It’s a stormy morning in Zadar, Croatia. Everyone is sleeping in, most likely exhausted from a week of stress and recuperating from the jet lag. We managed to fly out of the Dominican Republic from the Punta Cana airport on Wednesday at 6:50pm, with the earliest Hurricane Irma winds expected to arrive at 8pm that night.

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This is the map we were looking at on Tuesday, when making our plans for Hurricane Irma. 

What follows is an account of our personal experience.

On Tuesday, the day before we were scheduled to leave, we came to realize that there was no evacuation plan for Americans in the Dominican Republic. Canada sent 10 planes to evacuate  Canadian nationals from the island. Luckily, we had purchased tickets to Croatia months ago and they happened to be for Wednesday September 6th, 6:35pm. It was a stressful night, making sure everything was packed and also making sure that we were ready to stay, with enough food and water to make it through; we didn’t know if our flight would be cancelled. The airport in San Juan, Puerto Rico had already been shut  down, so it seemed it was just a matter of time until they cancelled all flights leaving the Dominican Republic. With a storm that big, the effects could be felt long before the eye of the storm approached the island. It was certain, at that point, that if the storm continued its expected path, Punta Cana could be wiped off the map.

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Punta Cana is in the east coast of the Dominican Republic, in this map it fell in the pink Hurricane Watch Zone. 

When we arrived to the neighborhood of El Cortecito in Punta Cana over a month ago, I admired the tidy apartment on the first floor with a view of  the pool, but I also worried. One of the first things I told my husband was that I felt like I was in a condo in Florida. The apartment had all glass windows and 2 large sliding doors. I knew the hurricane season had started, and thought about the unsuitability of this type of construction in the Caribbean. We had conversations about it. Now I was feeling particularly concerned, because in the month we were there it only rained a handful of times, and  never for very long, but the streets flooded EVERY TIME it rained.

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Grainy photo of our apartment complex

 

Knowing that El Cortecito flooded added to the eerie feeling that no one around us was truly preparing for hurricane Irma. I come from Puerto Rico, an island that has vast experience with hurricanes. As soon as our expert meteorologists* tell us to prepare for a hurricane, we PREPARE. Supermarkets are swarmed, people start hauling large pieces of plywood to protect their doors and windows, and everyone begins planning how they will spend the hurricane. There is a sense of anticipation that allows us Puerto Ricans to prioritize: we need food, water, batteries, but we also need alcohol, dominoes and a radio. We must have some fun after all.

I understand that this level of preparedness is only possible because of privilege. Puerto Ricans, with a median household income of about 19,500 dollars a year, are still much better off than their neighboring islands. You can’t go buy a bunch of stuff at the supermarket if you don’t really have the money to do so. However, the level of indifference that we experienced in Punta Cana was pervasive at different socio-economical levels, from the people in the markets, all the way up to the people managing the airport. There was a sense that there was no reason to prepare, and that is what scared us the most.

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Markets in El Cortecito neighborhood

In the end, the hurricane did not hit Punta Cana as it was expected and there wasn’t much damage to the region, but we didn’t know that on Tuesday. I had called the airport early on the day before our flight and they said that they had no plans on closing, that the airlines would be the ones to decide if they were cancelling their flights or not. Our international friends in the area were starting to worry. They were feeling the locals calm disinterest in the storm as well. They were talking of fleeing to the capital if things on Wednesday looked bad; that was our plan B as well. If we couldn’t leave the airport on Wednesday, we would do everything we could to make it to the capital, which wouldn’t get hit as bad, and would have the resources (food, water, safety) to house us until we could leave the island. Our plan C was to return to our apartment. We had already made arrangements to stay through the storm in case we were stuck. We were lucky that the apartment manager was very flexible and allowed us to make an open agreement to stay, if needed. On Wednesday, as we were ready to leave for the airport he told us that if we had decided to stay he was ready to give us an apartment on a higher floor, because he expected the first floor of the apartment complex we were staying in to completely flood. We asked him if he was going to do anything to prepare the apartment and he explained that there wasn’t really a point to it. It would all be under water regardless.  

On Wednesday morning, I called the airport and no one was answering. Life in the town of Cortecito was pretty chill. Some people were buying water and provisions, but no one seemed particularly stressed. Gardeners were still beautifying the properties, restaurants were still open and food delivery motorcycles were still running.  

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Map on Wednesday. El Cortecito upgraded to Hurricane Warning

The woman who was to clean our apartment upon our departure arrived before we left for the airport, and was surprised to see that I had already done most of the laundry. My intention was to wash all towels and bedding, because that’s what some AirBnB hosts expect, and also because I didn’t want to leave much of a mess; but she got to our apartment well before our check-out time. My husband was almost done cleaning the kitchen, which made her teary eyed with gratitude. She explained that she had 3 properties to clean that day, and her daughter and granddaughter were alone in their metal-roofed house. She said most people in these apartments leave a huge mess so she was thinking she would be cleaning it for hours. She also said she was anxious because she needed to find someone to help her tie her roof down.  She was happy to see that I had some extra food in the cupboards that she could take home. After her workday, she wouldn’t have time to shop for food before the hurricane; I wondered if she had money to shop. I was overwhelmed with emotions. She was cleaning an apartment that might just flood the next day. She should have been going home to prepare, but I wasn’t her boss. The precariousness of the whole situation sunk in with a rawness I couldn’t explain.  How many people were in her situation, stuck working on the day that they should be preparing?

Our transportation to the airport was late. My husband and I left the kids in the apartment, watching a movie, and went to see if we could find the drivers in the parking lot. We went together because we both needed some fresh air. As most of you know, it is really hard to deal with a crisis in front of your kids. I was worried sick about my family in Puerto Rico. I was concerned we would be stuck in the Dominican Republic and at the same time I was sad to leave people behind. With all of this going on,  I had to stay calm and seem like I was in control. I needed to vent. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t.  Then we heard a loud boom and saw a flash. A palm tree frond had fallen on an electrical cable in front of our building. My husband ran back to the apartment to be with the kids. The hurricane hadn’t arrived and our apartment complex was already without power. A small fire sizzled, the palm tree frond burned, and I stood in the parking lot realizing that nothing could prepare anyone in this area for Irma. Preparing was just an illusion. Leaving was the only option.

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And just like that… we didn’t have electricity.

Our drivers came, they said the airport was not crowded with people. We were still nervous. When we got to the airport it was business as usual. I was a little shaky. I felt bad for the cleaning lady, bad for our drivers, bad for the people in the neighborhood we had left, bad for the owner of the apartment we stayed in. I felt like I was running off, fleeing, getting out because I had the option to leave; they were staying behind because they didn’t have that option. I thought of my international friends, stuck in the confusion of spending a hurricane -something they hadn’t experienced ever before in their lives- surrounded by people that were eerily calm. Not that I am saying it would be better to be surrounded by people who are freaking out, but at least it would be nice to feel like people are concerned.

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Punta Cana International Airport, Wednesday September 6.

As I sat waiting for our flight I thought of my earlier interaction at the local market. I went for 2 large bottles of water and some beer early Wednesday morning. The guys hanging out there started joking about how I was preparing for the hurricane. It was lighthearted banter, and I went along with it without much thought. As I walked home I wondered why weren’t they at home, securing their belongings, gathering provisions, making plans with their family members, figuring out where to go if they had to evacuate?

We checked into our flight and went through security. The airport was preparing for the hurricane in ways that baffled us. The airport in Punta Cana is very open. Strong winds could tear it apart easily. The employees were putting plastic bags over monitors and removing some advertisements. The wind was picking up, and in our opinion they should’ve been working on evacuating the airport. There were no signs of the airport closing anytime soon. I heard employees talk about working straight until Saturday. We were glad so many flights were able to leave, and happy our plane was allowed to take us to Europe, but at the same time we were worried about how strong the winds were. Turbulence on the flight was nerve-wrecking.  I worried not only about our safety, but about the safety of those working the tarmac. I later read that the safest place for an airplane during a hurricane is in the air flying. Pilots can navigate hurricanes, like that one that flew between the bands of hurricane Irma to evacuate people from Puerto Rico .  The dangerous thing is to be on the ground. How much were the employees in the Punta Cana airport risking to get us out? The guilt laid in. These people had families to take care of, they had children at home.

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Sandbags, preparations at the Punta Cana airport.

We landed in Brussels and everyone started clapping. This is something Puerto Ricans do when landing, so it took me off guard on a plane mostly full of Europeans. I clapped too… and that’s when I started crying. We were safe.

Falling in love

Sometimes it’s gradual (poquito a poquito), sometimes it’s instantaneous, but falling in love with a city is one of the things I enjoy most about traveling. Cities are so unique and full of potential that we should take our time, give them chances, explore them patiently… with that said, we only had a weekend in Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic.

We took a bus from Punta Cana, arriving Friday mid-day to what the bus attendant told us was the terminal closest to the Colonial Zone. Yes, we had maps, and we planned, but sometimes you just have to get out of the bus when the bus attendant tells you to.

The Colonial Zone is the historic central neighborhood of Santo Domingo, and the oldest permanent European settlement of the New World. It’s been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, so our expectations were high.  A bit disoriented, and very hungry, we started walking towards Chinatown. Wait: Chinatown? Yes, I was also surprised. The thing is my husband is always thinking of food, and planning accordingly. He had a list of potential Chinese restaurant options and we were determined to make it happen. It’s been months since we’ve had real Asian food, so we were energized with anticipation. The walk wasn’t long (only about 8 minutes), but we were tired. The kids managed to keep up even though there were challenges. The amount of garbage in the streets was discouraging, everything seemed dirty and dilapidated, but the people we encountered were nice which gave us hope. We came to a main road (the road where we should’ve been on to begin with) and then things looked a bit better. We popped into a good-looking restaurant (Asadero Chino) and it was airy and clean. The employees were ready to serve us cold beers and there was a fish tank with happy looking fish. We had found our place. The food was amazing. We could’ve been eating in Chinatown in San Francisco or New York, only that here, we were drinking cold Presidentes.

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Asadero Chino, Chinatown, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

After that, we got our bearings. The guys at the restaurant told us the best way to do our trek to the Colonial Zone. On our way there, we stopped at a Walmart-type store called Sirena. They had EVERYTHING at great prices. We’ve been a bit limited in our school supply options in Punta Cana, so I stocked up on pencils, markers, play dough, sharpies, workbooks… If you are in the capital and need to stock up on anything from Tupperware to nail polishes, this is your spot.

From there we walked about 10 minutes to the Colonial Zone. When we arrived, I had a pang of recognition; I’ve felt this way before.  It was a mix of busy Mexican plaza life, with vendors and music, and Puerto Rican Old San Juan vibes, with the beautiful colonial buildings. We sat at the outdoor café in front of our hotel (Hotel Conde de Peñalba) and ordered lemonades, ice tea and beers to take it all in. There we felt some European influences and started reminiscing past plaza experiences… we knew this would be a good weekend.

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Zona Colonial, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

We went out walking in the late afternoon, after some much needed relaxation time in the room. With every turn, we discovered galleries, restaurants with courtyards, amazing colonial architecture, historical sites and beautiful plazas. It was only Friday night and I felt like I didn’t want to leave. The weekend went on with more of the same. Walking, eating, taking pictures, looking at galleries, watching the kids run around in plazas; I had missed this life so much. It brought me so many memories of my youth in Old San Juan and it also made us remember so many wonderful cities we’ve fell in love with.

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Conde de Peñalba, Zona Colonial, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

The Colonial Zone in Santo Domingo might not be a love at first-site city Like Antigua Guatemala, where you are so impressed when you arrive that you have to catch your breath (is that, a volcano?). But it is worth taking the time to explore.  We only scratched the surface, but we loved what we experienced. I left inspired, feeling blissful and airy, most definitely: in love.

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Convento de los Dominicos, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.

 

 

 

Honesty

I was talking with a friend about some photos on my Instagram feed and she asked me: How do you do it?

My short answer was: I don’t.

This is one of the reasons I wanted to blog. Facebook and Instagram often show us snippets of people’s lives. Single shots into the realities of traveling and parenting.

We see beautiful sunsets, amazing food and smiling children and we think it must all be perfect for someone else, or EVERYONE else except us.

I’ve been guilty of omitting the hardships in the past. In a forum like Instagram it’s hard to offer context and give long winded explanations of how hard it was to make it to that one perfect point to get that awesome shot. In Facebook I feel guilty of complaining too much, I tell myself my friends don’t want to hear me whine about our airport troubles, traffic woes or days without running water; I imagine them saying: “oh, boo-hoo, at least you get to GO on a trip!”. I am very selective of what I share in both forums, because I’m always afraid of being misinterpreted and judged.

The bottom line is that: I want people to like me.

For some reason, at this particular point in life I’ve stopped caring. I specify “at this particular point in life” because I’m not sure if I will wake up in a year, feel all paranoid and take this site down. But for now, I’m okay sharing, and it’s quite liberating.

We’ve been on the road since June 18. That’s 39 days. 39 days without our pillows and our beds. 39 days that our kids have spent without their toys. 39 days without the food that we are used to. Has it been amazing, inspiring and fun? of course it has! But there are also days that I want to lock myself in the bathroom just to be alone. There are days when I feel that I most definitely can’t do it all. I can’t meet a deadline, keep the kids from fighting and have a clean kitchen in the same 24 hours. The truth is that some days I couldn’t manage that at home, so I am not sure what I was to expect during this year. I left hoping that things would work out, hoping we would get something out of this experience, learn to be more flexible, be better as a family. After a rough week with not much sleep (more on that later) all I can hope is to not lose my mind.

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A blurry photo of me literally trying to relax while traveling in 2015. Nothing has changed.