Travel is about the gorgeous feeling of teetering into the unknown.
-Anthony Bourdain
February 2023
I haven’t even left JFK yet and unspokenly, there seems to be a party in the lounge by the gate. Travelers bounce back and forth between groups and chat with each other in a way that makes it difficult to tell who is traveling with who. Three different people play fast-tempo music in Spanish on their phones, the noise layered so you can’t tell what any of the lyrics are, only hearing similar beats. The woman sitting behind me listens to a loud gospel message on her phone and the older gentleman across from me bobs his head and sways in his seat to the music, as I surreptitiously sneak glances while I sip pure decadence from Shake Shack.
It’s a loud, happy, chaos, that continues towards further disarray once we board the plane. Everyone lines up at once, disregarding any order such as boarding groups or seat numbers. I walk down the aisle of the plane to the cacophony of conversation, while family members pass babies across the aisle, and no one appears to be in the assigned seats, to the dismay of the flight attendant who helps me get situated with mine when I find someone occupying it. The flight crew announces several times, bilingually, that passengers need to take their seats and stay to their assigned spots, yet no one seems to heed this message, shouting across the plane and juggling spots, until long after expected takeoff time, the pilot chimes in over the speakers and everyone settles down. Hours later, the plane’s wheels touch down in Santo Domingo. Everyone onboard claps upon landing and the mad rush to baggage begins. I step outside to a rush of heat and humidity, ready for this adventure in the Dominican Republic to begin.
I’m nervous about the moto. It’s the main mode of transportation here, in all forms, with mopeds, scooters and motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic around cars, busses and trucks. I decide there’s no better way out than through, and I throw my leg up as high as I can and launch myself up. No one rides with helmets here, and that’s an added moment of worry in my head, as I try to find and keep my balance. After a while I find it and let my grip loosen, letting my body’s natural instincts for balance take over and allowing myself to enjoy the ride. I sightsee as we zigzag through the streets towards the grocery store where I’ll be able to exchange money. I take in the view as if I’m watching a movie, one that I’m now a part of – the street is a tangled mess of people, animals, cars, trucks, busses – a symphony of sound and color and smell. I close my eyes and focus in on each individual sensation – the wind in my hair, the hum of the engine, the sun on my face, and I feel so incredibly alive.
I sip a piña colada and listen to the waves rushing the shore. I walk into the water and the chill is refreshing in the heat. I scrunch my bare feet into the sand and rocks beneath. The beach is pretty much deserted besides a couple other people, and my friends and I. It’s peaceful and feels truly like paradise, even though it’s only miles from the packed chaos of tourist resorts further down the water’s edge. This spot is a place locals come and spend the day, and we do just that, soaking up the serenity of the ocean and the sun. I notice the weight I’ve been holding in my chest loosen and let go.
We walk down the street carefully, avoiding the debris on what goes for a sidewalk. Between a construction site, traffic whizzing past us, and the debris underfoot, I pick and choose each step carefully. My senses are overwhelmed with the pressing heat, the mixed scents of garbage and sizzling meat, and the sound and sight of every man or boy we pass eyeing me up and down and cat calling me, telling me how beautiful I am, asking if I’m single, shouting “Manga mi visa!” or simply calling me mami or bebe. All eyes on us wherever we go, as we walk to the bus stop to catch a ride. My concept of ‘bus stop’ and ‘bus’ are quickly challenged as my friend leads me to a large passenger van parked next to a fruit stand. There’s no sign anywhere but somehow everyone knows, and they give the location they’re headed to as they board. We snag seats in the cramped rows and once we start moving, I ogle in amazement as the man we handed our money to hangs out the side, shouting out to possible passengers where the bus is headed, and people daringly hop on without the wheels ever fully coming to a stop, cramming in until the idea of personal space is a long forgotten memory. Men openly stare at my friend and I, two white girls who stick out and don’t seem to belong, while women and kids shyly make sideways eye contact with friendly smiles. I’m reminded of the plane terminal on my journey here, and now have an understanding of why assigned seats seemed optional when this is someone’s cultural frame of reference. There’s no sense of personal space, or luxury, or even comfort here on this sweaty, packed ride; but to me there’s a comfort in our shared humanity, as the woman next to me shares a pointed look with me over our neighbor’s loud cellphone conversation, and an adorably chunky baby grins at me, and I notice many of us tapping a foot to the rhythm of the music playing in the background. My friend and I laugh over our missteps with Spanish from the night before when we both forgot the word for ‘fork’ and had to play charades with our waitress, and I gush to her over the new guy I’ve met who makes me smile everytime his name shows up on my phone.
It’s early morning, still dark and quiet, only the echo of barking dogs somewhere a street or two over. The air is still cool this early, and if I focus I feel like I can catch the smell of an ocean breeze off the roof balcony of my friend’s apartment, as I wheel my suitcase out. It feels like I’m the only one awake, until I hear the rusty groan and rumble of a van with a broken muffler. Making my way down the stairs to the street, I chuckle with disbelief as it rolls to a stop in front of me and my friend’s husband warmly greets the driver – it’s his friend who’s going to drive me to the airport to catch my flight back home. The van appears to be held together by duct tape and a prayer, while some bachata plays, not quietly at all, from the fuzzy stereo system. There’s a Dominican flag and a disco ball hanging from the rear view mirror, and like most everyone else here, the driver friend only speaks Spanish.
My friend’s husband, who I just met for the first time this week, hugs me tight and tells me we’re family now, and it takes every ounce of self restraint I have not to cry as we say goodbye, unsure of exactly when we’ll all see each other again. In the van, I wave goodbye, and make small talk in Spanish with the guy driving. He asks me how I liked his country, and it’s not because of my insecurities speaking in another language that make me feel like I can’t quite fully describe my love for this place, this time, this experience here. It’s that feeling of a heart so full that there’s no words that can truly capture it. The vibrancy of DR and its people is something that evades description because there’s a gorgeous riot of messy, crowded, colorful, unapologetic humanness here that isn’t tourist or picture perfect, yet is rewardingly alive in a way that pristine luxury can’t ever give you. I am speechless with the pure goodness of it, how it makes you feel wrapped in a hug of your own existence within the sights and smells and tastes of this beautiful island. Life is so good and there’s so much beauty on this earth. My chest aches with joy in how lucky I am to be here, a speck on the face of the planet, with time to discover and explore it.
Jill Came Tumbling After 