Hasta luego, D.R.

You can really tell a lot about a country by its airport. The Reykjavik airport is sterile and cold and the seats are hard as shit. But isn't that what all of Iceland is like? Chicago's hub is sprawling and somehow unnerving in its gigantic danger. Just like that damn city. In Philly, you can expect to get in / pick / defend yourself from a fight at any and all times. Rome, nobody gives a shit about you because everyone is busy looking awesome while doing nothing. Cusco, I fully expected to see a line of chickens board the plane alongside of me, which would have been fine because everyone is so damn quiet and nice there.

Then there's Punta Cana. What the fuck, Dominican Republic?

This airport defies all logic, order, common sense, safety, and really fails on the bunching. When you arrive, you're greeted by giant fans blowing your airplane-swept hair in all directions. This will distract you from the lack of signage on the tarmac, in the airport, pretty much everywhere. Get in line with the hordes to approach some sort of desk where I gave some lady $10 and got a fortune (?). At least that was the size of the receipt. Someone mentioned it was a tourist fee. You're paying me to enter? Get your shit together, D.R.

Someone should really open a sign business in the D.R.
They'd make a fucking killing. 

Luckily getting into this country is relatively quick. No one seems to really give a fuck that you're there. In fact, when I tried to ask someone a question, they looked right through me. See here, I know I'm pale but that's just rude. Can you not see me or do you just not care? Make up your mind, D.R.

I'm going to skip the actual vacation part because that's my business and not yours. I will tell you that it has made me reconsider my feelings about the "all-inclusive." Normally, I'd think "no" when the subject of all-inclusive comes up. Nothing all-inclusive can end well: buffets, booze, polyamory. 

Anyway, it was a good time. A good time was not in the cards for the return trip to the airport. Never go to the Punta Cana airport hungover and sleep deprived. You will need every sense to A) find the ticket counter and B) make it to the right gate and C) not strangle everyone in strangling distance.

Bose should also open up shop for those noise-canceling headphones.
They'd make a fucking killing too. 

In case it's not clear, this airport defines shit show. Two ladies in some kind of costume forced me to take a picture with them and then jammed another fortune-like piece of paper in my hand. I still have no idea what that was for.

People are in snake lines everywhere you go and since there's no signage, you should avoid the instinct to just get behind them.

Security was an exercise in futility. I brought three plastic water bottles through security without thinking and all the "security guy" said to me was "Hey lady, don't forget your water."

Don't think about sleeping in this airport. Two ladies will alternate yelling incoherently through microphones while crowds of people mill around confused. I can't even emphasize enough what kinds of feelings the yelling will unearth in you.

The NRA should never open a shop here. 

Once your flight seems ready to board, you'll stand in a long line; then get split into two lines; then walk over to your plane on the runway in a giant mess of a line; then some lady will scrupulously check your passport. Really? Now you're going to take a close look to determine whether I'm who I say I am. Shit, girl, I'm getting on this plane and out of this batshit-crazy airport.

I'd post this shit on Travel Advisor but those jerks can't handle the truth. Consider yourself afortunado. Paz.