Lattice Entertain You - The Coconut Chronicles: Two Guys, One Caribbean Dream House - page 281

“Holding pattern,” said the lady.
“Holding patterns are circular,” I replied.
“The fries at Bili's aren't bad either,” continued the teenager, obviously determined to
divest himself, at this supremely inopportune moment, of all the inane thoughts he'd stored
up in his brain during the previous four hours of dead silence.
Just then, the plane banked sharply to the right and began flying south again.
“Looks like we're headed back to San Juan,” said the lady, gurgling with delight. “Now
that was a short vacation.”
Just as I was pondering the fact that no jury in the world would convict me if I strangled
her then and there, I turned and looked out the left-hand window and was greeted with a
sight that quelled all thoughts, murderous and otherwise.
Yes, dear reader, it was a double rainbow.
Sigh.
☼ ☼ ☼
We didn't perish in an unseemly fireball on the Isla Grande Airport runway.
In fact, we landed smoothly and were herded back into the airport, which looked de-
pressingly familiar, most likely because we'd spent the previous four hours languishing in
its narrow confines.
The tiny bar was still open, and it was there that we headed, despite the fact that we
were ninety-nine percent sure we'd drunk the place as dry as the Kalahari on our previous
visit.
The proprietor, not exactly a paragon of hospitality under the best of circumstances,
barely glanced up from his newspaper when we stumbled back in, damp and disgruntled. I
fished yet another twenty out of my pocket and eased it across the counter.
“Anything left to drink?”
He kept reading.
“ ¿Por favor? ”
“All gone,” he mumbled.
“ Tengo sed .” (I'm thirsty.)
He lowered his paper marginally and scowled.
“ Lo siento .” (Sorry.)
At least we were arguing in the same language.
I fished out another twenty.
Michael looked marginally alarmed but held his tongue—he knew better than to get
between me and a bottle of Tanqueray . Flutterings of interest registered on the proprietor's
face.
“ Quizà …” (perhaps) he muttered vaguely, putting aside his paper and drifting towards
the back room.