One of the most memorable lectures in med school was learning that sleep deprivation affects people as much as alcohol intoxication when it comes to complex tasks like driving. Obviously, that’s pretty jarring to a room full of chronically sleep deprived med students who still had to get home that day.
That story comes to me as I sit on a plane to Belize that we very nearly missed. Like, very nearly. Like, I’ve never been closer nearly. I’m still processing how the son of “two hours to the airport is late” Bill Stone could have let things get that close.
It started with an announcement from the pilot on our approach into Dallas that “We’ve entered a fifteen minute holding pattern. The weather in Dallas is deteriorating.” Never reassuring when you’re within viewing distance of the airstrip. But 14 minutes later, the pilot told us that we were released from the hold and were going to land about 20 minutes late. That would have made our already tight connection impossibly tight. But the flight attendants reminded everyone that our connecting flights were also going to be about 20 minutes late. So that turned into, “Great! We have time to go to the Admirals Club!” Breakfast had been at 3 am that day, so I was famished.
We rushed off to the lounge after landing and made a beeline to the breakfast counter. And then had a seat. And then ate some more. Only then did I think it would be a good time to look at my watch.
Oh God. We depart in 15 minutes. The gate is 12 minutes away.
So I tossed our stuff back into our bags, piled up our snack bowls, and found Aimee at the coffee bar. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but we need to go.” She immediately picked up on the subtext of, “AAAHHHH!!!!!”
The kids turned into windsails behind us as we ran through the terminal. When we finally rounded the turn to our gate, I saw “FLIGHT CLOSED” on the giant screen out front. Good God. I missed a flight to Belize. This is the most low-stakes, easy travel I’ve been on in years, and I totally blew it. Of all the ways that this trip could have fallen to pieces, “second English muffin” wasn’t even on the BINGO card.
But I completed our sprint to the gate, feeling my phone buzz. By the time I wrestled it free of my pocket mid-stride, I had just barely missed the call from a Dallas phone number undoubtedly trying to ask us if we were still coming on the flight.
Ugh. So sorry, Helen. Maybe we can try again for your 76th birthday?
As I made it to the counter, the agent saw me waving and said, “Belize?” “Yes! Stone!” I called back. I saw the other gate agent turn to the four people also gathered at the counter and tell them, “Sorry. Standby for this flight is now closed.” Holy crap. We were one keystroke away from losing our seats.
I gave the gate agent our boarding passes, or so I thought. She said, “These are Phoenix to Dallas.” Which was the exact opposite of what the Phoenix gate agent told me. For crying out loud. It was like I had never been on an airplane before. One more strike and they’re going to take my AAdvantage status away.
I tried to play it off with an, “It’s been a morning!” As if the gate agent couldn’t see the stack of four snack bowls in my hand that clearly said “Admirals Club” right on the side. The customer service training that this woman must have gone through to allow her to not roll her eyes right out of her head is beyond impressive. She’s truly a professional.
The gate agent wordlessly scanned our correct boarding passes this time, and we rushed to our seats. I tried to make sense of what had just happened, and attributed it to the four hours of low-quality, travel-excited sleep I got the night before. It’s a good thing I didn’t need to drive home that day.
The rest of the flight was otherwise uneventful, courtesy of the movies our kids were absolutely lost in. Before we knew it, the plane was descending. The view from our windows as we approached Belize City was predictably stunning. Lush tropical forests interspersed with meandering rivers, with only the slightest impression of human occupation. Belize City (and really the entire country) is admirably restrained in its development. In fact, not only is the tallest building in the country a thousand year old Mayan Temple, the second tallest one is, too.
Also predictable was how excited the kids were. Like, bouncing out of their seat excited. They’ve definitely inherited Aimee and my fascination with coming into an unfamiliar airport. And as far as unfamiliar airports go, Central America’s are in a league of their own. There’s a timeless charm mixed with just the right amount of danger that really sets them apart. From the just-long-enough runways that make landing a seat-clutching, airbrake-deploying adrenaline rush to the customs line that could just as easily make you wonder why it was even there as it could deprive you of all your earthly possessions. I love every bit of it.
But that’s a bit unfair. Belize has such a strong tourism sector that they’ve made the arrival process a breeze. Aside from the crush of people gathered around the comically tiny counter available to complete our customs form at, the process was pretty painless. In fact, as we stood in the customs line, ready to get called up to the counter, a supervisor came over to us and asked if we had ever been to Belize before. We told him we hadn’t, and he gave us and our forms a cursory glance-over. Not seeing anything that raised his suspicions, he signed off and directed us past the inspection station. We apparently got the tourists-with-small-kids fast-pass. I thought we outgrew that a couple of years ago, but I wasn’t going to turn down the one-day emeritus membership.
The next step was another Central American classic. The crush of taxi drivers and shuttle vans waiting for fresh tourists (and their cash) exiting the airport. But even that was charmingly subdued. Maybe 20 or so people holding name signs behind a rope line. I was approached directly maybe two times, and even then it was in the most innocuous way possible. As if the drivers were already heading to our hotel and we could tag along if we wanted.
But there was no need for any of that. We had a transfer already arranged by our hotel. If there’s a single splurge that I’ve become dependent on in my parenthood travel era, it’s the prearranged airport pickup. I mean, I love getting on the wrong bus as much as anyone. But after 12 hours navigating airports with curious children (or in our case, almost not navigating), it’s such a relief to know that we’re going to finish out the last leg of our journey with almost zero effort.
As I was looking around for our name on the van signs, I heard, “Uncle Jason!!” in stereo as both of our kids saw Aimee’s brother at the exact same time. He and Aimee’s parents had arrived from Atlanta about 45 minutes before we did and were hanging out at the airport until we landed. After a big round of hugs and “I’m so glad you got your passport,” “I’m so glad you got your passport,” we loaded our bags in the van and were on our way
The jungle lodge we were staying at was about 90 minutes away from the airport. The drive took us through the familiar scenes of roadside fruit stands and rolling hills covered in palm and banana trees. But everything was also just a hair different. Most signs were in English and there was a clear Caribbean flair. Most surprisingly, the residual evidence of being a former bit player in the Cold War so prevalent throughout the rest of the region was nowhere to be seen. Belize was fully a part of the British Empire throughout most of the Cold War (and remains part of the Commonwealth these days), so it was never the site of proxy wars like all of its neighbors were. Belize really is its own little gem of amalgamated Mayan, Caribbean, and post-colonial cultures. I was already fascinated.
I further fell in love as we pulled up to our “lodge.” The stunning views (and pool bar) quickly established that this wasn’t the kind of place I would have backpacked through in my 20s. I wasn’t complaining. Our host, Fermin, showed us around the property, pointing out the usual amenities. But Caves Branch, where we were staying, adamantly pushes back against the sanitized EcoResort label that might otherwise be slapped on a very comfortable collection of tree houses in the Central American highlands. That part became immediately obvious when Fermin took us to our rooms, advising us to always carry a flashlight while walking up to them. When Quinn asked why, Fermin listed all nine types of venomous snakes on the grounds.
This was the first hotel orientation I’ve ever been on that discussed how many types of highly venomous snakes are on the property. At least one, the fer-de-lance, can be fatal. “But don’t worry,” Fermin told us. “The odds of a snake bite are less than 1%.” Yay? But exhausted after the previous 24 hours, I didn’t spend much time laying in bed worrying about it. Any snakes that managed to get past the thin screen walls or two-inch gap below the door wouldn’t be getting much resistance from us that night.
