spite of the reason for her change of destination, it was rather exciting--and a little frightening--to be headed to a foreign country. Other than a brief foray into Mexico in her college days, she'd never set foot on foreign soil.
She'd read the newsletter that the American missionaries who ran the orphanage sent her church twice a year, and of course, once her trip was confirmed, she'd visited Haiti via the library and the Internet. But she really had no idea what to expect of this trip.
The flight attendants moved through the aisles making sure seat belts were fastened and collecting the last of the trash. Valerie turned in her seat, stretching and discreetly taking in the other passengers. Most of the faces she saw were Haitian--neatly dressed businessmen, several families with well-behaved children, Haitian Americans, she guessed, returning to visit relatives. As the plane ate away the miles, their broken English became rapidly chattered Creole. Valerie didn't recognize one word of the lilting language from the Learn Creole Now! tapes she'd checked out from the library.
The two dozen or so white faces she saw held the same mix of excitement and apprehension she supposed her own face reflected. She felt an unexpected affinity with the other U.S. citizens on this foreign flight.
A nice-looking man made his way between the rows and slipped back into his seat across the aisle from Valerie. From hearing him speak to the flight attendant earlier, she thought he was an American, too. He nodded briefly in her direction, but turned away before she could respond with even a smile.
She readjusted her seat belt and looked out the window again. A metallic bell tone sounded over the PA system and the captain's voice came on to welcome the passengers to Port-au-Prince. Her heart beat noticeably faster and she clutched the wilted fabric of her skirt.
Help me, Lord.
The plane taxied slowly before it finally came to a stop several hundred yards from the airport terminal. Valerie followed her fellow travelers as they descended the portable steps into the sultry Haitian air.
I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, she thought wryly, as she made her way across the tarmac to the outdated terminal building.
Just outside the entrance, a trio of native musicians wearing brightly colored shirts strummed guitars and an old-fashioned washboard, serenading passengers as they made their way into the terminal. The lively music reminded Valerie of the zydeco she'd heard at Mardi Gras many years ago.
When the carry-on bags had been cleared, they moved in a herd toward the baggage-claim area, located in a section of the airport that looked almost archaic.
After a long wait, the baggage conveyor finally started to move, slowly filling with a jumble of bags. Valerie had knotted bright purple ribbons on the handles of her luggage to make it easier to spot, and, she hoped, harder to steal. She kept her eyes trained in one spot on the long belt, but as bag after bag was claimed, her anxiety began to escalate. What if her luggage hadn't made it from Miami?
She walked around to the opposite side of the carousel. The dark-haired man who'd been across the aisle from her on the plane balanced a large suitcase against one leg, eagerly eyeing each new piece as it came through the flaps. He looked up as Valerie approached. "This is a zoo, huh?" he said, shaking his head. She was relieved to hear his distinctly American accent.
"Yes." She glanced at the bulging suitcase at his side. "You got your luggage already?"
"One of them," he said. "Of course the one with all the important stuff is the one that's not here."
She shot him a commiserating smile. "Murphy's Law, I guess."
"I guess." He rolled his eyes, and turned to watch as the few remaining bags circulated again.
Valerie glanced at her watch. Another minute passed and a few new bags began to appear, raising her hopes.
"Is this your first trip to Haiti?" the American asked, glancing at
She'd read the newsletter that the American missionaries who ran the orphanage sent her church twice a year, and of course, once her trip was confirmed, she'd visited Haiti via the library and the Internet. But she really had no idea what to expect of this trip.
The flight attendants moved through the aisles making sure seat belts were fastened and collecting the last of the trash. Valerie turned in her seat, stretching and discreetly taking in the other passengers. Most of the faces she saw were Haitian--neatly dressed businessmen, several families with well-behaved children, Haitian Americans, she guessed, returning to visit relatives. As the plane ate away the miles, their broken English became rapidly chattered Creole. Valerie didn't recognize one word of the lilting language from the Learn Creole Now! tapes she'd checked out from the library.
The two dozen or so white faces she saw held the same mix of excitement and apprehension she supposed her own face reflected. She felt an unexpected affinity with the other U.S. citizens on this foreign flight.
A nice-looking man made his way between the rows and slipped back into his seat across the aisle from Valerie. From hearing him speak to the flight attendant earlier, she thought he was an American, too. He nodded briefly in her direction, but turned away before she could respond with even a smile.
She readjusted her seat belt and looked out the window again. A metallic bell tone sounded over the PA system and the captain's voice came on to welcome the passengers to Port-au-Prince. Her heart beat noticeably faster and she clutched the wilted fabric of her skirt.
Help me, Lord.
The plane taxied slowly before it finally came to a stop several hundred yards from the airport terminal. Valerie followed her fellow travelers as they descended the portable steps into the sultry Haitian air.
I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto, she thought wryly, as she made her way across the tarmac to the outdated terminal building.
Just outside the entrance, a trio of native musicians wearing brightly colored shirts strummed guitars and an old-fashioned washboard, serenading passengers as they made their way into the terminal. The lively music reminded Valerie of the zydeco she'd heard at Mardi Gras many years ago.
When the carry-on bags had been cleared, they moved in a herd toward the baggage-claim area, located in a section of the airport that looked almost archaic.
After a long wait, the baggage conveyor finally started to move, slowly filling with a jumble of bags. Valerie had knotted bright purple ribbons on the handles of her luggage to make it easier to spot, and, she hoped, harder to steal. She kept her eyes trained in one spot on the long belt, but as bag after bag was claimed, her anxiety began to escalate. What if her luggage hadn't made it from Miami?
She walked around to the opposite side of the carousel. The dark-haired man who'd been across the aisle from her on the plane balanced a large suitcase against one leg, eagerly eyeing each new piece as it came through the flaps. He looked up as Valerie approached. "This is a zoo, huh?" he said, shaking his head. She was relieved to hear his distinctly American accent.
"Yes." She glanced at the bulging suitcase at his side. "You got your luggage already?"
"One of them," he said. "Of course the one with all the important stuff is the one that's not here."
She shot him a commiserating smile. "Murphy's Law, I guess."
"I guess." He rolled his eyes, and turned to watch as the few remaining bags circulated again.
Valerie glanced at her watch. Another minute passed and a few new bags began to appear, raising her hopes.
"Is this your first trip to Haiti?" the American asked, glancing at
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