A la recherche de temps perdu

I left Santa Marta in a bit of a rush. Bursting at the seams and praying for a generous baggage allowance on the numerous planes I needed to catch. The bright morning was bleeding into my back to basics hostel dorm room. Flight day, destination the Caribbean. I really liked Martinique for all it's idiosyncrecies and I have always wanted to go back. Hate being regretful, don't want to spend my whole life thinking what if, but maybe there is always a what if...? I think there coud always be a what if, but I just didn't want this one. So, after years of thinking I wanted to go back, and never closing the door, I was finally realising some long and longed for lost dreams. Horrible hangovers in grey, bleak London, waking up on a sofa alone, my comfort would often be a Caribbean island that I felt connected to, and a boy.

In less that 48 hours we were to be re-united. No pressure.

But not before a lot of layovers in airports on other Caribbean islands.

One night in Curacao - somehow managed to make a friend at the airport and avoid paying an extortionate night in a hotel, which seemed to be the only option. Sudden and unwelcome change from the backpacker, cheap hostel, traveler delight that is South America.

One night in St Lucia.

Not much sleep and a night out in Gros Islets. I guess that's a whole other story.

I got to Martinique and had no idea where I was going to be sleeping that night or what really to do. French, dead and buried, I used to be able to speak this language. Everything was familiar but in a very distant sense. Almost dreamlike. Some details were as clear as day the same as before and others weren't. It was hard to tell the difference between what I had misremembered, what I had forgotten and what had actually changed.