Page 6 of To Feel Like This Again
Lisa
“Reached safely. XOXO” I text in the family group chat, as the captain switches off the seatbelt sign. “Great. Have fun Auntie Lisa! Love you!” Emily is the first to respond — even before I unfasten my seatbelt.
“I thought we agreed for you to call me Lisa :) … Miss Chief Information Officer,” I swiftly type.
“Sorry, Lisa. I’m still getting used to it :)”
It’s around midnight in Italy, so I probably won’t hear from James for a few hours. At some point, Alex may send a thumbs up emoji.
“I’m not a phone person” is his excuse for not participating in the group. He’s, however, constantly on the DraftKings and ESPN apps, just to name a few. Plus, a notification revealed his daily average screen time as 3h 22m.Hmm,I wonder.
Getting up, I reach into the overhead bin of the first-class cabin and pull out my carry-on. Despite being the first off the plane, it takes me three hours to clear immigration — tourism season is in full swing — before reaching customs to collect my suitcase from the baggage carousel. My itinerary prepared by the team in Jamaica has nothing touristy on it, which is a pity.
I am booked at a seven-hundred-dollar-per-night-hotel — where the conference is being held or I would have opted for a more economical place — and I’m certain that most of what’s in my suitcase, I will not wear. But one can never be too prepared. Or so I tell myself.
And before you jump to conclusions about me being overly ridiculous for travelling with a carry-on and a suitcase for a three-night stay, I had also packed gifts for my colleagues which I picked out myself. This is not to say that I’m not a tad-bit ridiculous though, because, ok the suitcase may be a bit much.
Exiting the building, I feel self-conscious for wearing a sweater. It’s 84°F and I smile to myself thinking how awesome it is to be warm in January even as the dress I have on begins to stick to parts of my skin. Taking the sweater off, I tie it around my waist, hoping to look effortlessly stylish instead of frumpy and trying too hard.
A short guy in maybe his early fifties approaches. He looks down at an image on his phone, then back up at me. “Good evening, Mrs Davis. I’m here to take you to your hotel,” he says in a deep Jamaican accent (love it!), while tucking away his phone in the top left pocket of his pristine white shirt. From the quick glance I get of the screen it appears he was given a very unflattering picture of me; the one I had asked to be retaken for our new website. The one I will demand to be retaken when I get back.Ugh.
He takes my suitcase and turns towards the car parked at the curb.
“Come with me please, Mrs Davis,” signalling with his hand while also using his head to point in the direction of the car.
“Good evening. Thank you. What’s your name?” I smile and ask.
“It’s Gavin… Mrs Davis.”
“Nice to meet you, Gavin.”
As we drive away from the airport and on to the palisades strip, I am blown away by the colour of the water on the southern side (Or is it the northern? My bearings invariably get thrown off when I travel).
My thoughts wander as I see a catamaran cruising in the harbour, thinking how nice it would be to lie on one of the beaches the locals visit on the weekend in the bikini I bought seven years ago but never had a chance to wear.
As we drive past a vendor preparing (jerking?) chicken on a cylindrical metal pan —sign me up for that, please —I imagine what it would be like to dine in a restaurant the typical Jamaican enjoys.
“That’s the famous Blue Mountains over there,” Gavin points to the mountain in the distance. “If you have time, you should try and go there before you leave on Sunday.” I know that the area is famous for its coffee and dream of visiting, knowing that I will not have the time. The story of my life. But still, I picture myself having the finest coffee somewhere up there in the mountains.
Sadly, as the CEO of a large company, whenever I visit the various territories for work, the local executives never fail to go above and beyond to make a good impression. Or rather, what they think is making a good impression… spoiling me with fine dining, Greek food when I’m not in Greece.
As if on cue, my phone chimes. A message from Andre Grant pops up.
Welcome to Jamaica, Mrs Davis. Hope you had a good flight. We have made dinner reservations at a newly opened Italian restaurant for 8:00pm. See you then.
Hardly surprising. On my first night in Jamaica. Ever. The local executives invite me to dinner at an Italian restaurant. C’mon, why would they think I’d want Italian food in Jamaica?The cycle continues.
Not particularly keen about having Italian food, I shower and change into my go-to wrap dress. Admittedly, in terms of the ambience, the Italian restaurant matched up to the Italian restaurants I have visited in Italy. As for the food, it’smeh, on the same level as any regular Italian restaurant in New York.
Fine-dining or not, I was a little irritated to be eating Italian in Jamaica. And to make matters worse, the entire night was spent discussing banking, stock markets, real estate, the financial performance of the company, artificial intelligence… and for the life of me, they even discussed IFRS.They did not go there.
The ass-kissing was palpable. I could feel it on my butt cheeks.
I wake at 4:58am in my five-star hotel the following morning, go downstairs to the gym and jog on the treadmill. It feels strange to jog on a treadmill when it is 75°F outside and perfect for running.Bummer. But I was advised not to go out on the streets on my own. Once again, confined in another beautiful country like a budgie in a cage.
I go back to my room, take a very long shower and spend longer than usual applying my makeup. There are days I just want to feel pretty and be told I’m pretty (which never happens outside of Instagram comments from strangers on the company’s page.If you can count that. Or from older men in their 80s who think every younger woman is beautiful.If you can count that). Most men my age are intimidated by my success, plus with sexual harassment being a real thing, theywould never dare to compliment me on my appearance, lest it be misconstrued.
There are days too when I want to feel sexy. For no reason at all. And today is one of those days. Over the years I’ve sacrificed a great deal to maintain my weight and keep my body fit and strong, and occasionally I like it when people other than my girlfriends notice. I’m not going to lie, sometimes it’s a nice ego boost when the male thirty-somethings give you the unspoken nod of approval (you know the one).
