The next morning, after a night of much needed sleep, I woke up to this amazing view outside my window.
This picture sums up my vacation quite nicely: I spent most of my days going to the beach, going to the pool, and reading which is not my typical vacation style (I prefer fast-past urban vacations to lounge around getting sand in your shoes vacations) but I have to admit that it did feel nice having absolutely nothing to do for once. Plus, I was in good company. :)Then all hell broke loose the last full day I was there. Arnaud was leaving a day earlier than me because of work. He and his fellow coworkers were planning on eating lunch at the hotel, then leaving for Fort de France. This plan was ruined by the kitchen staff striking in a sign of solidarity because the hotel was closing down soon. Would striking save their jobs? -- Of course not, but I feel like it's more of a reflex action. I found the whole situation bemusing particularity to do guests comments like "Did they announced this in advanced? Une grève sauvage, ça se fait pas!" To me strikes seem inherently "sauvage" but I guess there is a proper, civilized way to go about refusing to work.
Waking up the next morning at 5am I am unaware of the chaos that awaited me. Arnaud had arranged for a car to pick me up at 5:30am and by 5:15am I was waiting in the reception area, reading to kill time. Minutes go by and still no car -- I begin to get a little nervous. A little voice inside my head is telling me "This guy isn't going to show up." By 5:40am, there is still no car. I start to panic a little. My flight is at 7:35 and the airport is about 30 minutes away. My cell phone won't make calls but I notice the phone on the reception desk. No one was at the reception so I go and start dialing. When the phone starts ringing I feel a little relieved, but then curiously the hotel phone on the other side of the desk starts ringing as well. I tell myself it could just be a coincidence. The security guard enters the room and answers the phone and I hear his voice in my ear "Hotel de Baie Galion." I explain the situation in French, my checks flushed red with embarrassment, "Sorry, it's me. I'm trying to make a call." Fortunately he was very sympathetic, though not very helpful. I explain how my taxi is late, I'm worried I'm going to miss my flight, and my boyfriend is the one who has the driver's number." "Your boyfriend in England?" he asked. How to I always end up British in these situations? "No, my boyfriend's in Martinique. Are you sure there is no possible way to dial a cell phone from the hotel phone?" "No, I'm sorry. It doesn't work for cell phones. Is your boyfriend Martiniquais?" I wasn't really in the mood to make small talk about where my boyfriend was from. At this point I was almost in tears. I had no idea what to do if I couldn't get in touch with Arnaud.
Luckily, a hotel worker drove up. She and the security guard make small talk for several minutes, then she notices me sitting nervously and helplessly in the lobby. After explaining my situation, she kindly offers her cell phone. I call Arnaud who said he'd call the driver then get back to me. His call back isn't great news. He got the driver's voicemail, so he called his friend, an English women named Suzy, who agreed to come to my rescue. She pulls up around 6am, and I jump in. Just as she is making a u-turn to exit the hotel, who other arrives than my driver. Suzy rolls down her window, yells at him, then speeds off. At this point, I have a dreaded feeling that I am going to miss my flight. When I rush up to the ticket counter, there is still a long line waiting and I feel relieved. As I try to enter the line, a man stops me and asks for my name. Fortunately he lets me in, and not even a minute later hands me a sheet of paper with my name written on it, stating "Give this to the last passenger at 6:30am". The poor guy who arrived after me was denied access to the plane. One minute later and that would have been me as well.
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