You know how your phone is always reminding you of emotional photos from your past? Really angsty compilations of your cat staring out the window, or “sunsets over the years”?
Well we were reminded of one of those memories from two years ago.
Two years ago, Paul and I were leaving home on the first leg of this journey. We packed what we were bringing, which included a surprising amount of loose ground chicory coffee spread evenly over my undergarments, and set out on a two day, 4000 mile journey to Martinique.
Day one included getting to LAX before sunrise and being told we couldn’t check in because we didn’t have our COVID tests, a requirement we had misunderstood and were planning on doing in Miami. Luckily, they allowed us to board and to pinkie swear to getting our noses swabbed in Florida. We went to the lounge (closed) tried to browse duty free shops (closed) and and then tried to stay awake for our flight to Miami.
We made our first leg. We took our 150 lbs of luggage with us to our airport COVID tests, which seemed like overpriced versions of the free tests they had sent us in the mail, and then took an Uber to what was essentially a hostel with bedrooms the size of European boardrooms. We had a free drink at the bar, and after I panicked about finding dinner, Paul finally believed me and realized that Miami- in the off season- consisted of restaurants that close early when there are no tourists. We got late night tacos (decent) and I accidentally hit on our waiter by writing a love note to Paul on our receipt that he then dropped in the bathroom and was picked up by said interested waiter.
The next morning we returned to Miami International and caught a flight to Martinique, where we discovered we did not have a ride lined up, or a hotel to stay in. It turned out my french was much rustier than I had realized, but it was decent enough to find us a hotel in Le Marin, and a taxi. We were still a day away from seeing the future BlueBelle at dock (she was the Tintas then) but it was the end of a very long day, March 2nd, 2022. We had 150 lbs of bags to move and we needed a place to regroup- a place to discover the discolored stain of chicory. We had come so far, but had so much more distance to cover.
I would entitle this chapter of our adventure: Perdu is Lost, the start of our multicultural lives. “Perdu,” written in large bold font across a missing cat sign we passed every day while we walked to the marina from our “hotel”; was not something Paul could walk past 3 times without commenting on. Paul was greatly aggrieved by this sign, but still an American unable to comprendre that Perdu…was lost. He felt this, if not the whole boat buying experience, was something he could solve. You may remember how difficult buying a French boat during Covid was for us. He floated the idea of a search party. Maybe asking passing strangers if they had see this cat named Perdu, and if they questioned him, informing them that Perdu was lost. We were both a bit lost at the time, so it didn’t seem my place to correct him. Perdu was lost and so were we. Would some fate possibly allow us to buy this boat and sail the seas? It seemed improbable. But not impossible. Maybe even more likely than finding the beloved Perdu.
To be continued—-
Lindsay
TIBURON MARINO 